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The Holy Grail

Posted by arley sanchez on March 1, 2011 at 6:21 PM Comments comments (1)



In my solitary search

for the Holy Grail,

I believed I knew

what I would find,

but its discovery so unexpected,

so surprising, so much time lost

so much yet to gain.

not a gilded goblet

set in jewels,

nor a sheep's skin

suspended from tree

of life,

never stored on crusader's

route nor in Joseph's

captive prayer.

My solitary search

revealed in a sanctuary

deep and never far away. 

It's presence even now

I feel, in darkness or in light,

I open the door and turn

the key, the Holy Grail

resides in Love,

for you and for me,

so near

and never far away.




Willing Dead Presidents

Posted by arley sanchez on February 15, 2011 at 3:05 PM Comments comments (0)


Oscillating lights spill electric paint,

techno touches

vanilla scented dancers


willing dead presidents

cling to red satin

and black lace,

techno pulses,

thigh high leather

and black stiletto heels.


Wild frenetic strokes

tapped on a hardwood floor,

oblivious to crack of guns,

a figure outlined in chalk

on the sidewalk,

grasping bloodied

dead presidents,

legs akimbo

and hands clasped,

his final prayer unanswered.


In the shadows,

willing dead presidents

change hands

to the clash of war drums,

pressed by sweaty palms

stuffed away with a wink

and a knowing smile.


Syncopation prattles

like a machine gun,

pleasures of willing

dead presidents

sought by kings and thieves,

makers of dreams

and broken promises,

pasted side by side

on starry, starry nights.


Steamy techno dancers

in black satin

and red lace,

kicking to long cool speakers,

a sea of undulating bodies

peppered by strobes,

oblivious to inferno fire


Orgasmic laughter fills

desert air

from a sultry temptress

pulsating in her smoky

neon ecstasy,

sirens howl

through the streets,

dangerous songs bristle

with tension

fraught with fear.


Willing dead presidents

skitter like scorpions

over sand.

Techno spiders dance,

terror glares from behind

a black hood,

ears shut

to the anguish of mothers,


deafening growl of metal dogs

grind through the valley

of the shadow of death,

repeat again and again

there is nothing to fear,

there is nothing to fear.






Posted by arley sanchez on February 6, 2011 at 9:08 AM Comments comments (0)


Strawberries on bread pudding

like the ones of your lips,

this wintry afternoon belied

by a warm sun,

filtering through the window,

you were like the strawberries

glistening with an aura

sweet and firm, and I

bent forward, both dipped

in sugar, strawberries and you

sweet like the kiss

we left in the air.







Posted by arley sanchez on February 3, 2011 at 2:25 PM Comments comments (0)


You call yourself an American,

a Mexican-American.

Hyphens divide

and so does a leaky border.

Every time there's a crime,

it's by black or brown grime.

Don't believe me,

just watch the TV.

I pay good taxes to keep you

where you belong,

safely behind bars. safe for you

and for me.


Brown's not a crime,

 you call me mojado,

but my back is dry,

 born here before pilgrims,

my children fight for barrios

and band in gangs of blood angry red

or brutal bruised blue,

in zoot suits and baggy pantalones,

dangling chains that bind them for life.

No such place as Aztlan,

it died at the Alamo

with Davie and Bowie,

 but your tacos are cheap

and spicy, like your women.

I love a fiesta,

 festive and fun

but you must help me pay

to dream the American Dream,

to be like US,

like the rest of US, an American.

I love America,

but you steal my tomorrows,

why are my children pushed

 out of school,

allowed to sleep with no dreams,

called borderline,

stored away in vo-ed or special-ed,

perdidos sin confianza,

and I can't believe

it's a destiny que mi tata Dios

ever made manifest.


We are built on unity and conformity,

diversity unnecessary,

nor individuality, just loyalty.

To keep you in prison,

my taxes are high,

so high I can't buy a new SUV;

and that's just plain UN-American,

pray and work and play

like the rest of US

 in the melting pot.


No entiendes, I don't want to be you,

I want to be free to be me,

to speak en mi lengua,

to teach my own history,

de mi cultura, de mi gente,

and I want to honor los ancianos

who refused to melt in the pot.

Cesar Chavez said to respect

one's culture does not mean

to hold another in contempt.


Tempting visions of Aztlan,

mi casa es su casa,

Alamo is the heart

 of a powerful America,

pero tambien el corazon de Aztlan,

diversity breeds strength

 and beauty,

all of our hearts beating as one

for in all our hearts

beats the same love,

the same hope.

A Yearning

Posted by arley sanchez on February 3, 2011 at 2:19 PM Comments comments (0)


Look in my eyes, deeply,

I have control now.

I love you like myself,

but I have come close to extinction

so many times, and now again.


She calls and I am here,

where the air is frozen,

and I am afraid, paralyzed,

and so is she.


I could have solved this with courage

a word, but I am watching her die,

someone I grew to love,

someone who knew she was dying

by the look on my face.


And why should she lie,

when she says she’s not afraid.

Why lie, Beware, she says,

but I am guilty of nothing,

except of being afraid.


I can feel her tremble.

Is there anything I can do for you?

She shakes her head no,

and yet I know she doesn’t hear me,

my voice makes scratches in the air,

lightning in the summer sky.


God is metal, after all, strong and silent,

immovable, inanimate, unfeeling.

we offer grace and beauty,

grasping at things that don’t matter,

blind to the only thing that does matter,

and when I offer you my dream, my life,

you smile and turn away


When we walked

in the mountains that day,

a big horn sheep came around the rock,

froze for an instant,

and then it bounded away,

It’s gone, you said, it’s gone.

But it will be back,

like love, hope, a yearning.





Little White Boots

Posted by arley sanchez on February 3, 2011 at 2:11 PM Comments comments (0)


Ten years after you packed up

and moved away,

they say you've found

the floor again,

your feet kicking up

in little white boots,

found your rhythm,

found your rhyme.


So long ago, yet your scent still

lingers like incense,

your eyes once so adoring

frost on a sultry summer night,

captured lies

chased in circles

flame and flicker,

then go dark.


I remember summer nights

 stoked  by a full moon and a fast car,

riding roughshod

like unbridled ponies,

our hearts silvery

moonlight on a mountain lake,

telling secrets

 breathlessly told, unbound

and flung loose to the wind.


We are our memories, we dream

under tender moons

pooling in mirrors.

Memories escape like ashes

 from a fire,


until today when I heard the music,

and I paused at the rim

of the last blue mountain,

at the edge of a deep blue world,

and I wandered

toward the sound.


So many years after you packed up

 and moved away,

they tell me

you've found the floor again,

your feet kicking up

 in little white boots,

found your rhythm,

 found your rhyme.







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