This week, we are honored to have Luis J. Rodriguez back on the Poetic Resurrection Podcast. Luis reads his poem, Always Running. This poem describes the hardships of poverty, love loss, and how Luis dealt with his experiences. We discuss the difficulties of growing up in the hood, living in tenements full of roaches, rats, and despair.
My two-and-a-half-year-old boy
and his 10-month-old sister
They looked soft, peaceful,
bundled there in strands of blankets.
I brushed away roaches that meandered
but not even that could wake them.
Outside, the dark cover of night tore
as daybreak bloomed like a rose
I sat down on the backsteps,
gazing across the yellowed yard.
A 1954 Chevy Bel-Air stared back.
It was my favorite possession.
It didn’t start when I tried to get it going
earlier that night. It had a bad solenoid.
I held a 12-gauge shotgun across my lap.
I expected trouble from the Paragons gang
of the west Lynwood barrio.
Somebody said I dove the car
that dudes from Colonia Watts used
to shoot up the Paragons’ neighborhood.
But I got more than trouble that night.
My wife had left around 10 p.m.
to take a friend of mine home.
I wanted to kill somebody.
At moments, it had nothing to do
It had to do with a woman I loved.
But who to kill? Not her–
sweet allure wrapped in a black skirt.
But she was the one who quit!
Kill her? No, think man! I was hurt, angry. . .
but to kill her? To kill a Paragon?
Later that morning, my wife came for her things:
some clothes, the babies. . . their toys.
A radio, broken TV, and some dishes remained.
There was nothing to say that my face
Nothing to do. . . but run.
So I drove the long haul to Downey
and parked near an enclosed area
alongside the Los Angeles River.
and stumbled down the slopes.
A small line of water rippled in the middle.
On rainy days this place flooded and flowed,
but most of the time it was dry
with dumped garbage and dismembered furniture.
Since a child, the river and its veins of canals
were places for me to think. Places to heal.
Once on the river’s bed, I began to cleanse.
I ran into the mist of morning,
carrying the heat of emotion
that lay smack in the middle
I ran past alleys with overturned trashcans
Debris lay underfoot. Overgrown weeds
scraped my legs as I streamed past;
recalling the song of bullets
that whirred in the wind.
I ran across bridges, beneath overhead passes,
and then back alongside the infested walls
splashing rainwater as I threaded,
my heels colliding against the pavement.
So much energy propelled my legs
and, just like the river,
Luis Rodriguez, “Always Running” from “The Concrete River,” 1991 Curbstone Books
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