"Stupid America" - Abelardo Delgado

Stupid America

Stupid American, see that Chicano with a big knife in his steady hand
He doesn't want to knife you
He wants to sit on a bench and carve Christ figures
but you won't let him.

Stupid America, hear that Chicano shouting curses on the street
He is a poet without paper and pencil and since he cannot write
He will explode.

Stupid America, remember that Chicanito flunking math and English
He is a Picasso of your western states
but he will die with one thousand masterpieces
hanging only from his mind.

Strangers in the Night

Do you remember how we met? It was exactly like Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night". I was out for an evening walk to clear my mind and you happened to be doing the same. I always thought of what would have become of us if we never met. If I never occupied the other end of the bench and if you never offered me a bedtime story. If you never invited me for a glass of gin and tonic and if I have never passed out on your couch. Things would have been desolate without you, just like this battlefield. This may be a foolish question, but have you ever had a chance to go out and see the stars? Have you had the chance to forget about me and this War and all the warnings? Have you had the chance to take those nightly walks again? It's silly to ask, I know. After all The Orderlies would not permit such a crime. I miss the times before The War. Before the poison of The War seeped into the minds of everyone. I hope to hear from you soon.

Stay safe my love,

           Anonymous

Suburban Nightmares

We're the kids your mother warned you about. We're the neighborhood boys who flirted with dangerous thoughts and the neighborhood girls who mingled with perilous dresses. Our battle scars are in the form of tattoos and piercings and our killer smiles. We're the kids whose fathers' beat us daily. We're the rascals whose mothers' are alcoholics. We're the survivors. Our art can be seen in the streets, our music in the depths of underground parties, our literature in the hands of Bradbury, Orwell, and Plath. Our struggle unites us and is projected in our actions. We fight against ignorance, we spread truth, we live. So please continue to immortalize us in your warnings. Speak of our names in hushed tones. And hate us because you will never understand our lifestyles. Our pain, tears, and motivation. But secretly love us because you admire our work.

Bang.

She reached for the gun in the bureau and with the slightest movement, the trigger was released. Before she could even realize the damage she has done, a burst of colors presented themselves. Dancing with the smoke. Lingering with the stench of burnt hope. The ringing in her ears settled as the pounding of her heart rested its weary contractions. The distinct odor of gunpowder and fear has gotten too strong to bear. Stinging her eyes and singeing her tear ducts. Never again she thought. Never again. Her body jolted and her surroundings faded into blackness. Then rebuilding itself blur by blur. The gun was still in the bureau, as she had left it, and the warm companion still tangled in the sheets next to her, as she had left him.

This is what I do all the time!!! I don't call it ice cream soup though, I think of it as a milkshake or an ice cream smoothie.