Night Feeds On Itself

Night feeds on itself.

It is tired of the bouquets 

of flowers, fish, and fruit.

It wants mud, leaves, and

the dreams of trees. It

wants to feed on shriveled

skin, chomp down on

weeds, and on the stained 

fingers of cigarette smokers.

It caresses darkness and

then spits it out like blood.

A Poem About Racism

It has always been 

a thing, as far back

as I came to this

country, not knowing 

the language, having

to study it to get by,

to fit in, to live here

with my family. For

years I have heard

the word wetback,

having fights and

arguments since I 

was in first grade in 

Los Angeles. Last year

in San Diego when

talking to a drunken 

white woman about

music, she said, you

got an accent, and

walked away. I laughed,

but knew there was

something cold and

cruel behind that

comment. For more

than 50 years in this

country, I have worked

hard, helped people

in my line of work,

earned a Master’s 

Degree in Public

Administration. Last

week, I received a

phone call from a caller

trying to get her son

back from another state

back to Los Angeles 

for mental health care.

When I tried to explain 

the process to her, she

asked me what was

my name. I gave her

my name, my first and

last. The woman yelled

at the top of her voice,

“Fuck you, you fucking

wetback,” and hung up

the phone. It has always 

been a thing, especially 

now, as these people

are emboldened to

speak their racist minds,

even while looking for 

help for their children.

Sometimes

Sometimes I peek in on the musings

of Lorca, Hernandez, and Mayakovsky.

I wonder how much more they would

have shared from their souls if they had

not died so young? I wonder the same

thing about Lennon, Morrison, and

Cobain. Here I am nearing sixty, and

I think about how life is so unfair. How

can fascists, dictators, and killers live

such long lives when much of what they 

do is to destroy and be cruel? I have no

interest in mentioning their names. They

do not deserve to be mentioned at all.

Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles.

His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, The Literary Underground, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories.