Self-Portrait

At one-and-a-half I rolled down the stairs
to the second floor.
At six I almost drowned in a pool.
At seven a current swept me down a river.
They hit me with a stick, with a rifle-butt,
with a two-by-four. They rammed an elbow into my face,
my stomach too; they kneed me, whipped me, slashed me with machetes.
The neighbor’s dog bit my arm.
I went to get a trim and they cut my ear.
I’ve been knocked cold. Slapped. Slandered.
Booed. Stoned.
Chased by sergeants on motorbikes.
By two bill-collectors.
By three Mormons on bikes.
By girls from Herrera and El Trece.
I’ve been mugged thirty times.
In shared cabs. Private taxis. On scooters. On foot.
A guy gave me a ride and told me I am gay.
They’ve stolen my TV set, my mattress,
six pairs of sneakers, four billfolds,
a watch, half my books.
They’ve filched several manuscripts, and committed plagiary.
(With what they’ve robbed from me
they could open a pawnshop in Los Prados.)
I’ve broken my right arm, my ring finger,
my hip, my thighbone, and I’ve lost four teeth.
Brother Abelardo gave me a bump on the noggin that still hurts.
At my graduation bash they lit into me with bottles.
Then I published a book of poems and a neighbor read it.
Skeptically, she told me she could write
better poems in half an hour, and she did.
An accident with a donkey on the highway.
Attempted suicide in Cabarete.
Tachycardia. Hepatitis. Fucked-up liver.
Satanized in Eastern Europe. Kicked by Mexicans in Chicago.
In Montecristi, a waitress threatened to kill me
(right now she’s sticking pins in a doll that looks like me).
The neighbors dream of shooting me.
The poets dream of writing me elegies.
Other guys want to douse my head with gas,
flip a match, and see my curls on fire.
Girls want to jump in bed with me.
A few weeks ago a policeman stopped me
and asked if I was the poet who’d read poetry
that night and I said yes and the policeman
said those poems were good
and made a bow, sort of.