☀ Today's Poem: "My Tata, My Li Po" Brandon Som

            The poems, then, are those of a man who in the eyes of a society
            largely dominated by bureaucratic values had completely failed in
            his career or rather had failed to have a career at all.
          —ARTHUR WALEY

Li Po of loppers, extension cords & carpenter's pants—
hammer's claw snug in its loop. Li Po of roach clips,
porno mags, his Ziplock of batteries. Li Po licking each

nipple to test its charge. Li Po of Thunderbird,
of Night Train—winito stash—in the piñon's knothole
for his night sips. Li Po of Korean War—I joined

to see the world, he once said, but they sent me
to Albuquerque. He learned his drink in basic training,
Nana says. Li Po of government checks, of Hohokam

acequias instead of any Yangtze. Li Po of swollen
knuckles from nuns' rulers for speaking his Spanish.
Li Po of turn around & net snap. Li Po of s-hooks,

where crescent wrenches hung like caught fish.
Li Po of cuidados & chingados. The rascuache Li Po
of cochinero, of makeshift. Li Po of Saltillo tiles,

terracotta—tierra mía—awaiting square feet.
Li Po, who quizzed me, call & response, Do you know
your times? I know my times, Li Po. Li Po of the x

the unknown, the adopted, the indio, the crossing
& extension of dimensions. X the Spanish borrowed
from the Greeks when translating the Arabic integer

of Al Jebr, that system "reconciling the disparate parts,"
that calculus of Mexica in Xicano. Li Po of loose
timing belts & palomas in bougainvillea. Li Po, claro,

of moons, the one bitten to the quick, or slightly
bigger—a potter's rib scraping something from nothing.
Li Po of aloe & layups. Li Po of scrap metal, miscut

lumber saved for the day when you needed them—
his futurism. Li Po in that army photo with his best Jorge
Negrete moustache. Though I can't see his wrist,

the watch is wound & I still hear the second hand
sucking its teeth. Li Po of VFW all-touch bank shots.
Li Po of Pachuco & morning knuckle pushups.