IX Love Poem

The ones who widened the Panama Canal
(and were put on the silver roll and not on the gold roll),
the ones who repaired the Pacific fleet
at the military bases in California,
the ones who rotted in jail in Guatemala,
Mexico, Honduras, Nicaragua
for being thieves, smugglers, scammers,
for being hungry,
the ever-suspicious ones
(‘I bring forth this individual
arrested for being a suspicious bystander
with the aggravation of being Salvadorian’),
the ones who filled the bars and brothels
of all the ports and capitals in the region
(The blue cave, The panty, Happyland),
the ones who grew corn in foreign jungles,
the kings of the crime section,
the ones who no-one ever knows where they’re from,
the best craftsmen in the world,
the ones who were mowed down with bullets while crossing
      the border,
the ones who died from malaria
or scorpion or snake bites
in banana plantation hell,
the ones who cried drunk for the national anthem
under cyclones in the Pacific or snow in the north,
the freeloaders, the beggars, the potheads,
Salvadorian sons of bitches,
the ones who barely made it back,
the ones who were a bit luckier,
the eternal illegals, 
make-all, sell-all, eat-all,
the first to pull out a knife,
the saddest sad people in the world,
my countrymen,
my brothers.




XVI Poem

Laws are created to be followed
by the poor.
Laws are made by the rich
to bring some order to exploitation.
The poor are the only law abiders in history. 
When the poor make laws
the rich will be no more.




I’m Telling You

Homeland identical to yourself
the years go by and you don’t rejuvenate
there should be an endurance award for being Salvadorian
Beethoven was deaf and had syphilis 
but the world has the Ninth Symphony 
however your blindness is caused by fire
and your muteness from screaming.

I will return I will return
not to bring peace but the lynx’s eyesight
the hound’s sense of smell
ravenous love with national anthem
you’ve already eaten the body of Francisco Morazán from
      Honduras
and now you want to eat Honduras
you need to be slapped
given electric shocks
psychoanalysed
to return to your true self
you’re not Don Rafael Meza Ayau or Colonel Medrano
we’ll have to put you in bed
on a diet of dynamite bread and water
Molotov cocktail washes every fifteen minutes
and then we’ll have a real war
all together
to see if you sleep like you snore
as Pedro Infante used to say
furious bride
terrified mother.