https://soundcloud.com/loverevolutionpoetry

Love Revolution presents a collection of poems by Robert Tinajero. Divided into five sections (three major and two minor), Tinajero's verses explore a wide range of topics, situations, and emotions, particularly focusing on various types of love.

My poem "Tacos" was chosen to be played on NPR as part of their Tweet-length poems series.

https://www.npr.org/2013/03/13/174127353/muses-and-metaphor-2013-tweet-us-your-poetry

i’ve been under many ceilings

seen, stared, glimpsed

the first

a new womb hospital room ceiling

sleeping somewhere in my memory

of bright lights

infused with life and new smells

the one above my first bed

tall strong

aged with scuffs, scrapes

and ant-size holes

remnants of pencil throwing

ice-cream fights

and tacks

my first dorm room

off-white peeling paint

possibly pregnant with asbestos

my first apartment

that mayonnaise, goose-bumply

mother to a rattling ceiling fan

cold unfamiliar ceilings

of hotel rooms

in just-here-for-the-weekend cities

ceilings of houses

not quite home

random ceilings

above random houses

of random people

dentist’s office and

one night stands

with floral prints that don’t

ease the uneasiness

but tonight

i slip off my socks

lay in bed

and remember

wood, tile, paint

vents, bugs, webs

and think

i have seen and slept under many ceilings

today i have decided

i want to see the rest

with you at my side

i’m tired of soft poems today

i want my words to

jump up and stab a racist cop

put on gloves

sweat and bruise and bleed

help a migrant pick a thorny crop

i want my words

to grab a brick and throw it strong

rearrange themselves

into a Nirvana song

i want my words

to make the black graves of

mississippi hum

grab a stick

and rape that drum

grab that gun

load it

cock it

sit in the hands of Che Guevara’s sons

i want no less

than stress

than a mess of muddy poems

feeding the minds of muddy homes

i want my words…

i want my words to be keys

to minds, to chests

to cells in jails

want them printed

on the rags in Molotov cocktails

i want my words

to flow and be off rhyme

i’m tired of soft poems today

i want my words to change the time

i want my words to change the time

what street

will be the last one

my casket rolls through

will it be long

and winding

or short—

a quick bump

here and there

who will drive my hearse

will they know my name

maybe it will be Alameda

or Montana

or a street that is dirt at this moment

like the home i’m headed to

will the sun be out

or clouds

will someone on the street

stop and point

stop and think

i wonder who’s in there

i wonder if they loved life

and lived it

i wonder too

[this poem was included as part of the art piece Inscription by Shinpei Takeda]

when i was young

tacos were seen as poor food

people al pastor

forced to hide

between the flour of “civilized” american culture

Hear me read my Tweeted poem, “Tacos”, on NPR

[I read my Tweet/Poem about 30 seconds into the audio clip]

http://www.npr.org/2013/04/29/179829149/listeners-muse-about-flowers-and-tacos

she had a little table

in her quaint apartment

in the corner

by the window

by the window

with the escape ladder

on it

a telescope

a microscope

and a crucifix

the telescope reminds me to look

beyond myself

and

to realize the minuteness

of my existence

the microscope

my grandness

the simplicity of life

and

to realize how fragile

both are

the crucifix

for purpose

and hope

…whether he is God or not

i know somebody

was willing

to die for love

she will

think it’s weird

that i noticed

that small

brown birthmark

on her back

after that

black dress

came off

but as we lay

there

unsure and

not wanting more

than this

i thought that

that imperfection

is perfect

and we are all

beautiful

i’m trying to create with ink

what God created with flesh

i’m trying to put into words

the poetry that drips from your body

El Paso

If you look at a map of the United States

And look specifically at Texas

It looks like a person standing

With their arm extended

And their hand pointing towards the West

El Paso isn’t where the sun sets

It’s where we send the sun off

Towards the west

To the rest of the world

Out of the dirt of the desert

We send our light

Our warmth

Our culture

Our love

All wrapped up in that sun

We are people of the dirt

We are people of the sun

In El Paso

Under the stars

People gather

For music

For laughter

For conversation

For community

In El Paso

Grandmothers hold us tight

Like cornhusks hug masa

In a warm tamal

In El Paso

Sometimes two languages intermingle

Espanol y Ingles

Drips off our tongues

Like sweet honey

Into the ears of those that appreciate both

In El Paso

We are people of the dirt

And people of the sun

And we dance in the rain

In El Paso

We all have memories

Of Western Playland

And Juarez

And Wet N’ Wild

And White Sands

And Ruidoso

We have memories

Of the Thanksgiving Parade

And Chicos

And UTEP games

And Scenic Drive

We are a community

We are connected

We also have a vivid memory

Of those that try to cast shadows on your city

And put out our sun

On August 3rd, 2019

At a Wal Mart

23 of our people were killed by hate

But guess what?

Today

Somewhere in El Paso a baby was born

Because like cicadas

El Pasoans keep coming

We always return to sing our song

We are people of the dirt

And people of the sun

And tonight we are here

And we

Are

Fucking

Beautiful!

another call

another

short conversation

my heart crumbled

not like

vast empires

historic walls

or majestic towers

but more quietly

subtle

a more parochial fall

a crumble

that i played a part in

like a smokestack

imploding

on the streets

of my home town

what if that was it

what if that was all

what if my life ended

at the end of this poem?

maybe right now

some exotic spider is weaving

its way through

some papers some books

some trash on the floor

headed for my right, bare ankle

ready to inject the dew of its fangs

ready to stop my heart

leaving me there dying

with no one to call

no one holding my hand

no one speaking strongly to my soul

hang on hang on

or to whisper me sweets

what if this is all

what if it’s all over

who have i loved

who have i hated

who did i call

where did i visit

what have i smelled

what have i seen

what have i read

what have i written

what have i done

and failed to do?

Two of my poems were highlighted in this article:

https://thewilddetectives.com/robert/articles/tinajero_papers/soft-poems-ive-been-under-many-ceilings/

My poem “Last Street” was included in the art piece “Inscription” – Shinpei Takeda, New American Museum

last street
 

what street

will be the last one

my casket rolls through

will it be long

and winding

or short—

a quick bump

here and there

who will drive my hearse

will they know my name

maybe it will be Alameda

or Montana

or a street that is dirt at this moment

like the home i’m headed to

will the sun be out

or clouds

will someone on the street

stop and point

stop and think

i wonder who’s in there

i wonder if they loved life

and lived it

i wonder too