"st. valentine" / "san valentín" (poems)

rolled rolled his head bursting red red
petals of blood

y rodó y rodó su cabeza derramando pétalos rojos rojísimos
de sangre

"Welcome to the City of Valladolid" / "Bienvenido a la Ciudad de Valladolid"

Where dogs don’t bark and children don’t smile
Where ears point straight up like a German shepherd under attack
Where people say “Good Bye” instead of “Hello”
Where dirty cigarette butts and white crumpled napkins decorate every Café Bar floor
Where gypsies understand the Art of the human stare
Where there are no fences but instead invisible trenches
Where vallisoletanos push their way through without a pardon me or an excuse me

Farewell Valladolid, with me I take your piercing Tongue, Evil Eye, and Judas Kiss


Bienvenido a la Ciudad de Valladolid (Spanish Translation)

Donde los perros no ladran y los niños no sonríen
Donde las orejas están paradas como las de un pastor alemán bajo ataque
Donde la gente dice “Hasta Luego” en vez de un “Hola”
Donde las colillas y servilletas sucias blancas decoran todos los suelos Café Bar
Donde los gitanos entienden el arte de la mirada humana
Donde no hay muros pero sí trincheras invisibles
Donde los vallisoletanos abren camino empujando a la gente sin un “Con permiso” o un “Dispense Usted”

Adiós Valladolid: Me llevo tu Lengua penetrante, tu Mal de Ojo, y tu Beso de Judas
Welcome to the Ancient Capital City of Valladolid

"Stray Dog"

". . . There comes a time when the endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable patience."
– Martin Luther King, Jr., “Letter from Birmingham Jail”

He might as well been a stray dog lying on the side of the road with an open gash with entrails exposed with no name with no one to call and no one to claim. He might as well been a stray dog without a nametag because no one even knew his name. Black man worries about the owner's son, the manager, who is currently upstairs. They insist that only his friends help when strangers attempt to help. This black security forgets he has just dropped this little Mexican man's head on the metal bar stool's foot. White boy comes down and lets me know I have no say. "This has already been taken care of. This is none of your business! Stay out of it!" is his response in my face as he turns his back on me. They forget there are more Mexican people around and see the evidence carried out in the rain by other Mexicans—refuse to call 911. One altercation after another mixed with rancor and humiliation. What shall I do when I am wearing high heels, bleeding red lipstick and brown for skin? Because now, they have turned a constructed femininity against me. The owner's son says I have a reputation for causing trouble at this place. He does not even know my name! The officer replies, "What ever you two have going on, should stay out." How is this so, I ask myself, "Did not Frederick Douglass side with women in the suffrage movement?" A century later, I am full of emptiness of anger of distress. Are my words inaudible? At the scene, the police officer, also a white man reminds these two victims of racism that this man could lose his life. Blood slowly oozes from his mouth. Clinically unconscious and must be flown away in emergency life flight.

"Air of Complicity"

“Desculpa é só uma pergunta. Vocè acredita no Amor?”

I fell in love with the violin, with the cigarette smoke, and the vinho Porto that inebriated that place of enormous rocks; fortress that trapped my thought. Of the dim light that lit small pieces of paper, allowing letters to appear upon their surface. On the reverse of my bill, Martini 1,50 / Martini 1,50 / Martini. . .

With his fingers that played like big-bellied, crazed bees on top of frigid strings at dawn. With the yellow Portuguese Suave cigarette boxes on top of the blue fluorescent mantle piece. With a distant and solitary candle whose flare did not cease illuminating.

With the bent nape of his neck and of cheek that held the violin. Of the thin and wooden stick that hardened against strings that cried out their touch. With the fully erected cigarettes in between fingers in an air of complicity.

With his arm that embraced the violin that not once refrained from rising and falling on top of those volatile strings. With the crystal clear tubes of Martini. Enamored with a swig from a beer bottle, the serpentine shaped couch and the splendorous spider webs against the ceiling.

I fell in love with its sonorous honeyed cantata full of Beethoven and Mozart. In love with the stupor, with their lost gaze and endless claps. With his humble and silent adieu that grew with crescendo and fomented in the coração.

“Desculpa. Seus dedos são como abelhas porque produzem Mel.”
“Muito obrigado.”

Valentinos (Café Bar, Esplanda)
Porto, Portugal