Vallejo: The Ultimate Icon

Vallejo is a sex symbol.

Che Guevara wanted to be like Vallejo,

Marilyn Monroe wanted to be like Vallejo,

and I wanted to be like Vallejo.

Vallejo is the peak, the absolute most.

He had acne at fifteen,

he had a weakness for manjarblanco,

he got flustered by commas,

and he lived sat up, sick and solitary,

muttering his poems like a madman

on the jagged edge of sanity.

Nobody understood Vallejo.

He was expressive, depressive, and vital;

if you stared him straight in the eye,

you’d weep with shame

for ever daring to write a poem.

We’re on your wavelength, Vallejo,

you divine, misunderstood martyr,

idol of the masses.

There are schools and universities

profiting off your “sweet face”

smashed against the clock of time—

a time that has gnawed you down to the bone.

Vallejo danced on the Saturday night show

to the delight of his fans:

We adore you, Vallejo;

we love you more than our wives,

more than our children,

more than our careers,

because we’ve seen our own agony

within your lines

and we have recognized ourselves—

vital and bleeding,

violent and animal.

You were the greatest poet in the universe.

We fought against you killing us,

but you killed us whenever you damn well pleased.

Oh Vallejo, father my child.

Vallejo is delicious;

with three beers and a few candles,

you nailed it.

Vallejo and his tacu-tacu

for the hangover of all we’ve suffered.

Come back, please, Vallejo—

and come back to die again, too,

sick and alone in some dark corner

so that we never forget

your greatest hit,

the ultimate chart-topper

of the very best poets:

To die sick, alone, and forgotten…

…"

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