I want the dead to speak through my poems so that we can collectively remember those who built the roads we walk upon. In one poem, I refer to walking through the world, "soaking up the ghosts through the soles of my feet." The ghosts tell us stories, yes, but let's never forget that the ghosts--our ancestors, our compañeros--built those roads.
I pull out my tool chest and whatever is in it comes in sight. There’s a way in which that sounds easy. But I want to stress that I can do that partly because I keep that notebook. I keep a practice, I am regularly reading and writing and doing exercises that are my version of running scales if I were a musician.
Maybe that’s the “savage” part of Urrea’s statement. Or maybe it’s the subject matter of the novel. Maybe it’s that the book dares to criticize masculinity openly, the absurd codes of the street, the dismal conditions into which impoverished children are born and how futile the fight to extract oneself from this situation often is. Maybe it’s that the book critiques the Chicano community itself. I think it’s long overdue. But that’s just my take on things.
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