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Columnist:
Stacey Tolbert
Tomás
Riley
Tomás
Riley
is a poet, writer, educator and a veteran of the influential Chicano
spoken-word collective The Taco Shop Poets (TSP). With TSP he has appeared
in the HBO documentary Americanos: Latino Life in the
United States
, Gregory Nava's PBS dramatic series American Family (2002), and is
profiled in Hector Galán's ITVS documentary series on Latina/o arts:
Visiones(2004). He holds an MA in American Literature with an emphasis in
contemporary ethnic-American discourse, has taught from the elementary to
the collegiate level, and is a founding member of the
San Diego
visual and performing arts space The Voz Alta Project. Currently he works
as the Deputy Director of Programs at Streetside Stories a literacy
based arts organization for young writers in
San Francisco
. As both a soloist and a
member of TSP Tomás has performed his unique blend of Chicano
bilingualism, cultural politics and lyricism at more than 200 venues
across the country. His written work has been anthologized in Bum Rush the
Page: A Def Poetry Jam, Chorizo Tonguefire: The Taco Shop Poets Anthology,
Pacific Review and various journals and literary publications. Most
recently his first solo collection of poetry, Mahcic, was published by
Calaca Press in December 2005.
to
help a young brother remember
i.
someday
when you find yourself against it
with the winter and hard windows on your shoulders
say your name right
be it bold
or stand up treacherous
bind myth back to the bone
take shape again
drive cedar through the crevice of your accent
call your father's mother's name
and if you know it
ask the sun to find its place
in all your questions
disappearing man
so fabled
rocking urban camouflage
to fade into the abscess infinitum
so desensitized
derided
with your hands outstretched
and yes brother
i feel you
touch deprived so tough derived
your story's told by viacom
remote against technology's advance
call it division
call it border leap of faith
but you call someone in your midst
and brother
conjure
ii.
boy this world has so much power
and you find yourself caught in it
can you find yourself without it
find yourself alone
in dimly lit half afternoons
half gallon hits drop sunday
seventh days become no sabbath
making lanterns from the fingers of dead ancestors
you call them
make the masses in the masa
recognize your hell on earth
year old absurd absentia
odd dementia
holding down a corner of our discontent
discounted
mounted up like bric a brac
around a fat tribal tattoo
yes you are in there too
and when you find yourself not warranting clichés
so many myths about menudo
or the power of your mother's table
these we while away on porch stoops folsom deep
and if time is time again
we're frozen as the mural on a balmy alley wall
holds fading history
so high
so almost unintelligible
the soot and rain
so all up in it
call this meditation on a mural
this bloodletting race across hot pages
trying to purge old phrases
as the listening subsides
know you've been heard
iii.
and when find you yourself one breath away
from stopping
from demanding recounts
from recoiling in disgust
from sullen homey's house arrest
from doorways hanging off the hinges
excellent in their repose
sartorially lopsided fit
from a hand that swings too quickly
maybe brutal
open palm and eyes outstretched
you see too much
you see too closely
homeless victim set afire
dragon lady crack smoking neighbor
falling down a shotwell stairwell
with her leopard skin coat
in august
these are in your frame of reference
these are yours to disavow
to push and pull
the net effect of getting over getting under
brother
conjure
find protection from the meeting place of moments
meant to curl the skin right off you
see the dew drops off your skin
mix with oil
trace that line
iv.
four cholos walk to the foot of the bridge
their bald heads glisten in the sun
with eyes ablaze
the music of the waves
breaks at their feet
like an unrepentant marching song
of doves locked in a row
the aggregate of old regret
the cypress wind becoming unbecoming
cypress bent
break beats
break beach
and send sand sliding down the hillside
master of fact all sliding now
on crows feet
(drop that beat one time)
this beachscape exodus familiar
(if these sands could talk)
we body rocked this spot ancestrally
freestyled on this horizon
with a flow so hot
it sparked the rising sun
(the dawn becomes you)
and though nothing remains
we have been
here before
we must be
here
again
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