Conchinita Pibil

Moving his fork like a rake, he scrapes through the pork
and shovels the marinated meat into his mouth.
Mouth still full, he squeezes a straw through his lips
and takes a large sip of diet Pepsi, rinsing out the flavor
of the barely chewed bite before swallowing.

His face puckers, pale skin constricting and gathering into folds,
like the wound banana leaves cradling the meal he is abandoning.
He tosses his fork to the table and reaches into the pockets of
his tailored trousers to fumble through a wad of cash.
He counts out four, pauses, and subtracts one,
shoving three brittle bills underneath the sweating drink glass.

“That’s the last time I trust the cook,” the man says,
pulling himself off the tired wooden bench table.
How do you consider that Mexican food?” he asks,
walking out the door without waiting for an answer.

Pushing her braid behind her back and tucking her bangs behind her ears,
she weaves past the kitchen counter and stands in front of the meal
she had prepared that the man had probed, dissected, and left behind.

Dipping her tired fingers into the red sauce, she plucks off
a piece of the Conchinita Pibil and places it on her tongue.

The subtle taste of achiote whispers to her, reminding her of
the stories her father used to tell her about
her abuela and the market in Mérida.

Oregano, peppercorn, cumin, and allspice
twirl in her mouth, circling around the achiote,
amplifying its telling taste.

As she chews again, the smooth taste of Ceylon cinnamon
appears and latches on to the achiote,
forcing her body to feel rather than remember.

With eyes closed and arms wrapped around herself,
she travels through the tastes of her father’s home.

Right before swallowing, she becomes aware
of a taste sliding down the back of her mouth,
drowning out the voice of the spices.

Opening her eyes to rays of the Los Angeles sun
sneaking through the window and saturating her face,
she remembers the oranges she used in her cooking.

Thinking sweet nectar would work
just as well as the sharp bitterness of the
Neville oranges in Yucatán,
she squeezed California oranges into her
Abuela’s recipe for Conchinita Pibil.

With tears rushing down her cheeks,
she grabs the man's napkin on the table
and spits out her chewed up pork.




I mourn the spirit whose body is still here.

It lays on the bed with a rising and falling chest.

He’s not here, nor heaven, nor hell. But somewhere

Between the wind and the skyscrapers with working men in their fifties.

In the line of the horizon where the sky meets the sea.

He’s floating with the hawks above the suburban homes and children’s soccer fields.

He’s flying under the cars that move like molasses on the 405 laughing at the drivers damning

lane 3. I don’t know what he’s waiting for, but his spirit seems like it’s already home. 



Become the proudest version of yourself


Become louder than your work


The world has to know

Who you are

Success never comes if nobody knows

Who am I?


I minimize myself for arts sake.


I make something amazing but you might hate.


This society has me feeling everything is fake.


America Tropical

Forced to conceal their darkness,
the man and the mural
dwell in the shadows.

Trying to hide
but never able to escape,
the California sun exposes
the man and the mural.

His leathered skin blisters,
as the paint used to hide
the mural on the wall cracks.

Shedding in the shadows
of the city of Angels,
the man and the mural
peel off layers to bare truths
saturated in pigment
that cannot be
concealed by a layer
of white wash.



the asphalt river of the world


through the fog toward the glass
and a new growth is growing –
“terminal, probably, that tumor”

and the tiny tv squawks anyway
resuming after every inconvenience
as though I know the story well enough
to break it

we are slithering

toward the end of the line
and back behind me, a child cries
and I envy it through my soundproof
earphones and third ginger ale
in my illegal repose mid-fall


for an open window/door/air vent
before I settle in again –
waiting to approach the new-formed terminal,
what a shiny tumor, I know we are all


Eodem die

bacteria invades and
infects Los Angeles,
leaving it with a thick
congestion of the chest.

silenced by coughing fits,
the city opens its mouth
but phlegm distorts the
history it tries to tell.

only ears forced to concrete
can make out the steady
heartbeat of the city.

knees scrape against the sidewalk,
blood dripping in synchronization
to the sound of screeching metal

some pray,
others beg,
but all live out

their nightmares -
real or

The Zone of Orphaned Humanity

Sliced open by his overgrown toenails,
the corroded canvas slip-ons
cling to his calloused soles.

Stumbling down 1st Street,
he whispers to every lamppost he passes.

Don’t forget who your children are.

Stopping to catch his breath,
he squints one eye closed
as his body sways
to the sound of silence.

Lifting his head,
he places a crooked finger
in the stale air and
traces the pattern of the steel
lattice towers that stand proud in front of
the distanced Los Angeles skyline,
as if he were an artist painting
the city’s visual pollution into existence.

Draping his body over the bridge,
he looks down into the city’s river
that he no longer
can baptize himself in.











The woman writing in the window is no longer there

She doesn’t walk through the farmer’s market on Saturday

To buy her tulip seeds

Nor does her long skirt get blown up from the

Subway steam


No, she doesn’t sing in the garden

With dirt making residence under her nails

She doesn’t sit with her left leg tucked under her right

Birthing poems to elevate her burdened words


She doesn’t wrap her fingers around your neck

And press her forehead to yours

To look into the shadows of your eyes to tell you

“It’s gonna be alright.”


City Sin

A madness arises slowly,

Like the skyscrapers off the 110

My bones don’t really know me

As I settle into the city’s sin

My mind numbs gently

As the smog creeps in