Pilsen

Late-night sounds and smells entice

and we prowl like cats.

through Pilsen sidewalks and alleys.

The dank night breeze scatters paper.

and other debris like malignant leaves

through muddy gutters.

Tiny shards of glass glitter.

like cheap costume jewelry.

under the harsh sodium street light.

turning weedy vacant lots

into a pirate's treasure chest.

Families gather on their front porches.

cooling their hot, tired bodies.

in the night air, watching the children run

through the furious spray of the pumps.

Santana blasts from the car stereos.

belonging to dudes dancing

In place of the music,

embroidering colorful stories,

punctuating every other

Damm! shit! y que la Chingada

with a drag from a joint

and a gulp of cold beer,

coolly eyeing the traffic going by.

Mournful mariachi music drifts out.

of musty old bars wrapping their

ay-ay-aii-is down the side streets

in silken harmonies.

A longing beats itself against the ribs.

breaking free to cry out to you:

They say you're a slum, Pilsen.

Mexican barrio and a half-way house

for the upwardly mobile

a dumping ground for terminal souls

looking for oblivion in a fix or a bottle.

You are red, white, and blue-lined.

in the sleek polyester offices downtown, talking sh*t about high risks.

yet greedy landlords are busy making plans

to dress you up and sell you to the bored

tired of suburban living,

want excitement

without sacrificing convenience.

Your past crumbles into ruins.

along the tracks that twist

through your heart like steel veins.

Elevated trains echo the rest.

In the minds of the easily displaced,

Their anger and pride splashed

in violent colors, trying vainly to hide.

The decaying walls were long-dead.

painted heroes call silently

for revolution.

Night surrenders to the gold streaks.

washing the ancient buildings

in its pale corn-yellow light.

The blare of car horns

splinter the morning stillness;

The pulse of your life's blood quickens.

as the men in dark clothes.

and patient women huddle.

,

wizened flocks of blackbirds

waiting for the buses and vans

headed for the slaughterhouses

that will decide your future.

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