Walking Rodeo

Walking Rodeo

Saturday morning and it happens
that my mother and I are again walking
down Rodeo. My feet sound like pigs
inside stiff patent leather shoes.

It happens that I am here still in this fantasy
country and I am sad and hard to hold
like a peeled grape. My smile
is candleflame that shivers against walls
of night and begs to be blown out.

The smell of boutiques make me want to explode
into confetti so people can carry me
away in their hair and on their shoulders.
No more toupee shops. Fire
hydrants. Porcelain dolls with living eyes.
No more water fountains wet with wishes.

It happens that the sight of these limping
waves make me miss home and want to curl
my body up into a mighty fist and bruise the shoreline.

It would be delicious to frighten the minks
off the shoulders of white ladies
and have rose petals apologize
for my every step.

It would be so grand if mannequins were piñatas.
I would whack them to death with a lollipop stick
until they gush pineapple sweets and mood rings.

It would be so beautiful to watch a hyacinth
give birth or the President sweet the piss
lacquered stairs of the poor with a single Polaroid
of butterflies smelling poop with their feet.

It would be so perfect if I could spend the
afternoon whispering
all my secrets into the pleats
of my skirts, so that I too can walk
down the street wearing all my mysteries.

It happens that I’m tired of this place:
its hand-over-heart hymns
and the destroyed men in slow coats,
women the color of smoke,
parrots with iguanas for tongues
and revolving doors that burp
out humans
and Chihuahuas
with marbled eyes.


--after Neruda