Barcelona, 1933

Dali is painting. I say, “Wow, that’s a good painting,”
However, in my head I’m thinking, “He’s odd, no, he’s intelligent.”

Picasso walks in from the patio. I say, “Picasso, where is Olga?”
He starts swinging. Picasso has a good jab and knocks me back,

Then I tackle him, because I’m Chicano. Dali gets upset.
He is like a demigod to us, so we stop. We start drinking coffee,

Mocking society, but loving society. Then Braque walks in,
We say, “Who the hell are you?”

Sad Clown

I like to bet on horses. Horses and boxing, mostly.
I smoke too many cigarettes. Mine will be a cold hell.

Cold and indifferent. When not mastering my craft,
I dream of being a professional racecar driver. Or a cellist.

Cellists are underrated. So is cash. I wear bright colors,
Because I’m afraid of the dark. No one seems to understand

My plight. What does it all mean? The void? In all seriousness,
I have an MFA in Pottery. A BA in Art Theory.

When it comes down to it, Pangea is a myth.
Religion our only light. These shoes weren’t meant

For walking. Drive safely, good night.

JOSE HERNANDEZ DIAZ

Jose Hernandez Diaz is a 2017 NEA Poetry Fellow. He is the author of The Fire Eater (Texas Review Press, 2020). His work appears in The American Poetry Review, Poetry, The Southern Review, The Yale Review, and The Best American Nonrequired Reading. A forthcoming collection, Bad Mexican, Bad American, will be published by Acre Books in 2024.