Jack Agüeros

Puerto Rico was created when the pumpkin on top of The turtle burst and its teeming waters poured out With all mankind and beastkind riding on the waves Until the water drained leaving a tropical paradise. Puerto Rico was stumbled on by lost vampires bearing Crucifix in one hand, arquebus in the other, sucking The veins of land and men, tossing the pulp into the Compost heap which they used as the foundation for Their fortifications and other vainglorious temples. Puerto Rico was arrested just as it broke out of the Spanish jail and, renamed a trusty, it was put in an American cell. When the prisoner hollered, "Yankee, Go Home," Puerto Rico was referred to the United Nations. Puerto Rico, to get to paradise now, you have to ride blood.

Monterosa, your body is dead on Avenue A. Angelo, They found you eyes open staring at the beer Soaked floorboards. Did you want that? Did You mind them filling your back with buckshot? Angelo, I am angry with them all, and you Monterosa Killed and killers, killing and dealing dope. No good You were, no good they are. Still, I wish their fate To be bodies stacking under the same blue smoke. Monterosa, there is blood on your song, blood on the juke Box. The cowbell, the conga, and your corpse form the trio That is the rhinestone pin of my failure, your failure, Our failure, who loved, but did not rescue Angelo. Angel, hold him, while I bury him in these clean words, And pray to see the resurrection of the rose mountain.

All the kids came rumbling down the wood tenement Shaky stairs, sneakers slapping against the worn Tin tread edges, downhall came Pepo, Chino, Cojo, Curly bursting from the door like shells exploding Singing "I'm a Rican Doodle Dandy" and "What shall We be today, Doctors or Junkies, Soldiers or Winos?" Pepo put a milk crate on a Spanish Harlem johnny pump And drops opened like paratroopers carrying war news. Then Urban Renewal attacked the pump, cleared the slums Blamed Puerto Rico and dispersed the Spies, blasting Them into the Army or Anywhere Avenue in the Bronx. And nobody, but nobody, came back from that summer. Just as Korea was death in service to the warring Nation The Bronx was death in service to the negligent Nation

Lord, it’s not true That my faith is cooling. It’s just that people Are saying that candle smoke Has caused cancer in church mice. And I also worry that candle light Is too weak to reach your cloud. Do I need a hydrogen candle? Are the Angels into lasers? Lord, as I think about it, Lately I haven’t had much to thank you for. Are you on vacation?

Alan drives a cab at night, Has cab driver’s elbow In his left arm, Sells real estate by day. Alan dreams of a big deal, Of opening a classy poolhall. Has a four million dollar deal Which will probably fall through, Has a big land deal with the Post Office But it will take 20 years to deliver Because they are so slow. Alan collects baseball cards and comic books Hates condos and townhouses Though he lives in one. Was a trader for nineteen and one-half years Then fired when the market melted. Alan, even if he was rich, Would not let his stepdaughter By his second wife Have her own phone and private line Like her rich friend Rebecca has Because after all she is only twelve. Alan, half Jewish, has three tattoos. “I got them recently because I wanted them. My Jewish aunt nearly had a stroke When she saw them.” Alan admits he is a pack rat saving Everything, loves wood, restoration, and antiques. Alan admires the people who buy old houses And fix them up. Hates the development of Staten Island Blaming it on the people from Brooklyn. Alan was cooking sausages and onions (His other half is Italian) In his back yard When a woman knocked his parked car Into the next block, Totaled it; he got $1,200 more Than it was worth. Alan found a turtle and put It in a safe stream, Stopped a dog from killing a cock In historic Richmondtown. Alan hates the dump— ninety-four percent of the garbage there Is dropped by the other boroughs— Likes the idea of secession, Staten Island free and independent. Alan apologetically asks If he didn’t talk too much As he brings me to my destination. He leaves me a great silence And I wish I had one million American bucks To tip the exuberant Alan. Alan, take this million bucks Strip the paint off the good wood of your dreams And tattoo the tedious days.