Greasy Bitch

You must see me as a blow-

up doll.  I wonder if you even heard

 

the way you spoke.  So fucking

disrespectful for no good

 

reason, it seems you just wanted

to pick a fight.  But you don’t know me

 

any farther than the cock

you are, and I don’t play those games.

Good-Gawd-Damn

Chica—if nothing else—is
a charming little creature. Under

the soil of the garage, past her marble
façade, her face is the song

of a Siren. Glances are a sunbeam
peeking through black rumbling clouds

crashing hail the size of softballs
destroying every car city-wide. Fully

endowed with the skill of expression— amidst
the heat of Latin sounds, grinding

wheels, and blow torches—he looks
her in the eye triggering a mesmerizing

cyclone in the wake of her own
scan of his smudged face.

You Don’t Know Shit

It’s terribly hard to exist

in a world that gives zero fucks

about your suffering, Chica rubs her shoulder

after she pulls down an aggressive all-

terrain, ten-ply truck tire

from the shelf above her

head.   At times, Chica feels

like there isn’t a god

damned man in the world

who really cares about her,

because they just sort of like

some shit they made up in their heads

about her, and none of that is remotely accurate.

Skies Walking Away in the Shadows of Mirrors

Such a strange creature, she meets

her eyes in the mirror

as she thinks.  It doesn’t matter

how far she pushes that

tiny frame of hers, it will never be

enough.  Chica pounds her joints

with rubber compounds made

to make half ton pickups keep rolling,

every single day without complaint.  Acting

as if she’s a man, she’s learned the male

definition of things.  It surprises her

how the deconstruction of roles makes language

behave differently.  The elderly man

at the shop, who just learned how to speak

English a few short years ago, is the only man

she truly trusts, and she doesn’t even

know what he’s saying

most of the time.  That’s why she keeps

the Spanish to English dictionary

in her pocket. She calls him

Papi.  He calls her

sweetie and tells her she’s preciosa.

A Day in Hell—That Cynical Paradise

During slow times at the shop, she likes
to read books and scribble

in her notebook. Chica is reading The Book
of Nightmares, but no one is interested in

what book she’s reading. It’s just odd to see
a tiny beautiful woman—in that space working—

let alone reading a book. They don’t read
books anyhow, unless they’re about sparkling

bloodsuckers in sports cars. She read those too. People

never say anything. It’s not like she has

her face sucked into the screen of some
handheld device
which glows. Shadows are where she stores her

slim volume of poetry, when a customer enters
the building. Everyone who walks in the door

must be greeted enthusiastically, with a warm smile,
within 30 seconds (you never know if it’s a secret

shopper). Some days there is no time for food
much less food for thought. After long days of no

time to do anything right she goes home. She’s never right
there. That’s a place where she’s never noticed,

no matter how hard she tries. Men are undressing her
all day with their eyes, yet she can stand

naked in front of her husband without him
so much as looking. Her home is breaking all

around her and has not time nor energy

to fix it. She looks at the man who owns
her. Indeed it is ownership,

her feelings are dictated to her, so she’s not even
allowed to be hurt that he doesn’t see.

Possibilities of Deal Breakers

Leading lives of secrets kept from one

another, Chica doesn’t know

 

the rules of the game.  Her eyes are

focused on the dirty garage

 

floor when she walks past the heat

of Spanish music.  She has to keep herself

secret from Latin passion.  There are few who know

 

her who don’t love her, even the ones who betray her

love loved her so much

 

that they had to destroy her.  It’s strange for her

to not be natural.  She knows the more

 

he knows, the more the world as she knows it

will blow up, and no one could possibly know

 

what that landscape would look like.    

La Mujer

Tell me what your swollen eyes have

to say.  In them you can see

 

areas of delirium, passion, areas

 of death.  What worlds collide in

 

the harmony of song?  They see you:

 a body of a shadow dancer, a burglar

in their brains.  You are the chiseled

form of a woman who works

tirelessly as a man in the biggest

race of rats.  Some of the men

surrounding you tend not to understand

friendship.  Tell me before it rains

again, and no sunset could

shimmer in your burning eyes.

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