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Bronx Poems

Bronx Poems

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Published by Louis Cepeda
Poems about living in the South Bronx.
Poems about living in the South Bronx.

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Published by: Louis Cepeda on Dec 27, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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By: Louis CepedaOn the street garbage cansline either side like tombstones,their ripe stench hoveringin the air like an unending fart.On the steps Dona Amparo
talks about Juanita‟s baby
 who was bitten by a ratand needed to be hospitalized.On the corner skinny Cheito
claims he‟s off of drugs
because they‟re ruining his life
 while he puffs on a Pall Mall.From her window Diana staresin fear at the movement below,the memory of her rape stilllingering in her teenage mind.On the fire escape Eddie sitslooking through iron barsat aging, abandoned buildingswith graffiti written epitaphs.
In Carlito‟s Bar, Senor Vargas
 drinks his third morning beerwatching reports that water was
found on the moon‟s surface,
 a discovery of great significance,the anchorman proudly declares,for it might be possible for peopleto live and survive on the moon.
By: Louis CepedaI write of lovebecause in dreams I seethe bullets rip apartmisguided young men,their bodies face downin the mudin their bloodremind me of prehistoric Man;eye to eyeclub on clubblow for blow.Only when I kiss
your softest partsor take your carnal offeringsdo I feel contentment
and forget that I‟m
 part of the same tribe.
I Wanted To Look Lighter Than Darker
By: Louis CepedaI wanted to look lighter than darkerbecause often my boss looked pass meto wide-eyed, golden-haired mannequinswith perfect teeth and Listerine smiles,who echoed conventional wisdom they acquiredat ivy-laced institutions of whiter learning.I wanted to look lighter than darkerbecause in my formative years at Lincoln High,our suburban staff preached equality for allin rooms lined with photographic shrinesto men who owned slaves and advocatedthe hostile takeover of Indian nations.I wanted to look lighter than darkerbecause in movies I saw people of colorturned into clowns, pimps and lustful women;delivering the bleached out words of hack writers,who drove fancy cars and scripted their versionof being dark and blue in our concrete jungles.
By: Louis CepedaFor twenty-five years of his lifehe woke up winter mornings,long before the night turned light,before the warmth of the sunentered his heatless apartmentto touch his sleeping children.For twenty-five years of his lifehe rode cold, desolate trainson a stomach consisting oftoast and a cup of
,still tired from too little sleeptoo many things to worry about.
For twenty-five years of his lifehe washed dried egg yolk andgrease from lackluster platesuntil his aging hands ached badly,turning a hideous, ruddy tonefrom steaming, soapy waters.For twenty-five years of his life,he heard American voices cruellymocking his own native tongue:"
Mira hombre
Oye, tu, Jose
 Always demeaning, always demanding,always with a sense of ridicule.For twenty-five years of his lifehe watched his children lose hope,his wife become sickly and old;and he often thought it quite oddthat those who believe in Godshould have to suffer the most.For twenty-five years of his lifehe worked hard for
,accommodating his every demand;until one cold day he was toldthat he was getting too old,abruptly replaced by a much younger face.For twenty-five dollars he bought a gun,then drunk with despair shot
;and laughed at his own trial,and cried when his wife cried,and went to
‟s jail
 accused of being the criminal.
By: Louis CepedaI love you, I wishthere was more to say.
But it‟s that simple,
it‟s that strange.
 I wish I could describe it,I know a woman needs that.But I just love you,that alluring mouth,those soulful eyes,your delicate touch.

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