Two Poems by Jose Hernandez Diaz

Ode to the Pollo Asado Burritos from Alberto’s Tacos

I am faithful to you. Faithful, like the sun and moon. I howl like a Mexican Ranchera singer when I’m hangry for you. Just enough guacamole, pico de gallo, pollo asado to satisfy my existential crisis about the Lakers, but never over-the-top spicy. Not trying to prove a point. Just right, like the weather in southern California. Just right, like the temperature of the ocean at dawn in the summertime, before a surf session. I used to prefer the Carne Asada or California Burrito, but I’m getting older now and must consider things like health, weight, and not dying of a heart attack. Mis saludos to the Mexican chef at Alberto’s who always balances the burrito with just the right amount of duende into the homemade tortillas de harina. Also, let me get a can of Coca-Cola with that, not diet, for once, regular. I’ll live a little, today, with a classic can of cola, reminiscent of childhood summertime visits to Mexico to see the familia. Only once per week, though, like attending to the rising pile of laundry, like Rams games, like going to the library on Sunday afternoon, in La Habra, to the only library that’s open, to read a cozy book or write a jazzy prose poem. Perhaps a prose poem about the Pollo Asado burritos from Alberto’s Tacos, where they never disappoint and never-ever close, not even holidays.

Portrait of a Jogger with a Toucan in Southeast Los Angeles

I was in the middle of my Sunday morning jog at the local park when suddenly a majestic, colorful toucan made an appearance by the rusty water fountain. I was shocked. Was I suddenly in South America? Better yet, was I suddenly in a South American rainforest? Of course not. I was in the southeast suburbs of Los Angeles. I began to wonder if a toucan had escaped from the local zoo or maybe someone had stashed it as an illegal pet and it got away? Regardless, I needed my phone to take a photo. As I fumbled through my pockets for the phone, the toucan somehow disappeared, perhaps flying back home. Disappointed I didn’t get the photo I wanted, I decided to stop everything, rush to Michael’s for a canvas, and paint the toucan in a Los Angeles park in order to preserve its pure memory. I painted the ancient toucan with a bright blue and neon-yellow beak, perched onto a seedy water fountain, next to a graffiti-laced handball court. I then painted the bright sun and a palatero with a sombrero in the background beneath lush palm trees. Lastly, I drew myself jogging at the park in my Dodgers hat, next to the toucan. I titled the painting, “Portrait of a Jogger with a Toucan in Southeast Los Angeles.”

Jose Hernandez Diaz is a 2017 NEA Fellow. He is the author of The Fire Eater (Texas Review Press, 2020) and the forthcoming, Bad Mexican, Bad American (Acre Books, 2024). His work appears in The American Poetry Review, Poetry, The Southern Review, Yale Review, and in The Best American Nonrequired Reading. He writes, edits, and teaches in Southeast Los Angeles.

24 April 2023