A Rite of Burrying the Gun in Los Angeles

(Another Mexicano from Jalisco dead, five shots to his

his body and head, Nov. 20, 2004, in Los Angels)



1.

You get them all, these images.

They are like migrants and economic exiles

Coming to your head, forcing their way

Into your wayward will, take residence there

And force you to cry out loud

Like the dry stones in Capistrano,

In the old mission churches

In the counters of restaurants on Santa Monica.

There in these places of pleasure for the palate

You washed the grime of plates

You cleared the grim in people's faces

And for six years, short for a long calvary of relief

For your folks back home in Jalisco or some campesino

Of centuries and centuries of social injustice,

You sent the checks in that rite of a promise fulfilled.

For six years, exilo, six years of eking out a life

From pots and pans and chilly caresses

With chilly mornings that come in late evenings

You came by and went by

And sang songs of going home to roost

And sang songs of returning home to preside

in the rite of healing of your parents

in the rite of healing of your memories

in the rite of healing of your tired hands

Those hands that knew suffering and sacrifice

The exilo as migrante knows

The exilo as migrante fears

The exilo as migrante accepts

The exilo as migrante must learn to love

The way you have loved so your days

The way you have loved so your

six years in the Los Angeles of our boldness

The way you have loved so each hour of your exilic life

Except this hour, this destined hour,

And in quick succession of five ratatattattats

Your courage and daring are now in the past tenses,

Irredeemably a part of the vagaries of various loves.



2.

Tonite I watch your memory go

With the wooden casket

They parade on TV for all to see,

Their chant ripping open

The azul cielo your pilgrim soul knew:

Stop the killling now, now!

Stop the hatred now, now!

Bury the gun now, now!





Aurelio S. Agcaoili

Los Angeles, CA

Nov. 20, 2004