With an introduction by Los Angeles Poet Laureate, Luis J. Rodriguez, this anthology by Mark Lipman also includes 2 poems of mine, as well as poems by two other Santa Cruz poets – Adela Najarro & Doren Robbins. It’s a diverse and compelling collection:
http://www.vagabondbooks.net/p/blog-page_13.html
You can read my two contributions here:
While Listening to Nelson Mandela’s Memorial
At the stop light, I idle
behind a cheery yellow Volkswagen Bug,
two University students inside and
at first I think they, too, are listening,
or singing to the radio’s riotous music,
bouncing in their seats wildly,
hands waving in the air—but then
the passenger’s face turns toward the driver
in rage and he is not singing but yelling,
face distorted like a demon. He spits
at the man, or woman, behind the wheel
who explodes as the car becomes a bizarre
mixed martial arts scene of flying elbows,
fists, saliva. Stunned, I honk loudly,
momentarily interrupt their rave
as the light turns green and the yellow car
speeds ahead. I return to the radio again,
listen to Mandela’s memorial in South Africa,
think of his years in that prison cell,
the violence of it all. Still
how he rose, fitted one bruised arm
then another into the sleeves of
his multi-colored shirts, lifted
a country from its dark trance,
each morning, every midnight,
the yellow sun rising,
the moon rising, disappearing—
how small I feel in the face of it
obsessed with my own grievances.
How I want Nelson to rise from the cold
concrete floor of my amygdala,
lay a hand on this reptile brain
like he must have those long years
when instinctual rage, the logical response,
would only kill you more. So
wherever you are, whoever you are
in that little VW Bug—or Texas,
Moscow, Oval office—
let us take the little fist of the soul,
pry open each finger, the thumb,
wave our hands in the air
like the fools we are,
sing.
The Dying Sun Beneath My Ribs
I.
Reading the news by my window,
the dogs bark and bark, the black olives hang
in their branches like black holes
at the heart of dead suns, and in Colombia
a father of three has sewn shut his mouth,
enclosing his head in an iron mask
to demand the government help his family.
The man says he bought shoes for his children,
but cannot pay the rent—will soon walk the streets.
I am doing this because people have a heart of iron
and also a face of iron.
Outside my window, small sparrows peck and peck
at one black globe after another.
ii.
In Colombia the guard-dogs bark and bark
while villagers crush coca leaves that will explode
like white nova suns in the nostrils of Wall Street zealots
who hover like black holes in corporate buildings
sucking the light from our bodies.
There is an evil in this world. There is no
other way to say it. This morning
the dogs of two countries barking as if to warn
I am an iron mask, a face
that does not speak,
skin that does not wound,
the heart a dying sun beneath my ribs.