Copihue Poetry

I was walking to the public library in Downtown Los Angeles for a generative poetry workshop
with Jose Hernandez Diaz when a car pulled up and the window rolled down. “Hey you!” the
driver called. It was none other than Jose Hernandez Diaz. “Yes?” I replied. “Are you heading
into that library for a poetry workshop?” he asked. “Yes, actually. I am.” I said. “And is this
poem the one you’re going to generate in the workshop?” “Could be.” I answered. “And do you
really think in a hypothetical fight between Calzaghe and Álvarez, the Welshman could actually
win?” “Yes, I do.” “Well, your zipper’s down. Just thought you ought to know,” he said but
when I checked, he laughed and sped away, shouting “Sucker!” out the window, a black cloud
from the exhaust carrying me to Mexico City where Diego Rivera was waiting to tell me what an
idiot Trotsky was for getting mixed up with Frida and Stalin. “Oye!” I said, “Entiendo lo que
dices, pero sólo cuando hablas despacio.” “Oh really?” he replied. “And why do you need me to
slow down? This is a poem. You can stop and check Google Translate whenever you want.” He
rolled his eyes, went inside and slammed the door.