Wednesday, September 24, 2025

Dean Okamura


Returning to El Tepeyac to fill the soul

 

Some people say it’s too loud, 

but don’t you like hearing laughter 

spill from another booth? 


You ever try to converse over joy? 


You ever wipe cheese off your chin 

and not care who’s watching? 


That’s what this place is for, right? 

Not silence. 

Never silence. 


You notice how we always ask for napkins? 

Extra, just in case. 

Salsa spill. 

Sudden sneeze. 

tears from a dumb joke. 


The servers. 

How long have they worked here? 

Decades, maybe. 

You probably forgot their names. 


Do you say, "thank you"? 

Or just nod 

with your mouth full? 


I always say, "thank you". 


Sometimes they call me "boss". 

You know how that goes. 


There’s art on the walls, 

faded, barely holding on. 


Doesn’t that mean something to us? 

Like, we’ve all aged here. 


And the music, 

or no music, 

it doesn’t matter, right? 


The coffee machine hums enough. 


You see the mirror? 

It doubles the room, 

but what I like is 

how it shows everyone at once. 


You ever notice the altars? 

Little saints watching us chew, 

maybe blessing the chiles 

or our cheeseburgers. 


Yeah, cheeseburgers. 

You come to a spot like this 

and order one anyway. 


Why not? 


Ever hear the forks drop? 

Yeah, me neither. 


Plates crash, 

but who cares? 


It’s just part of the rhythm. 


They wash the dishes right there. 

You okay with that? 


It’s honest, isn’t it? 

No secrets behind swinging doors. 


It’s not a holy place, 

but it’s named after one. 


You think that matters? 

I think maybe it does. 


Pepsi in Coca-Cola cups. 

Isn’t that just life? 


Any brand. 

Any cup. 


Plenty of room for both. 


In every bite, 

with every sound, 

at every table, 

there is room for everyone. 



– Written at El Tepeyac Café, East Los Angeles. The restaurant is named after Tepeyac, a Mexican site of faith.





unordered corridors

 

          My own brain is to me 

          the most unaccountable of machinery — 

          always buzzing, humming, soaring, roaring, diving, 

          and then buried in mud. 

          And why? What's this passion for?

          —Virginia Woolf in letter to Ethel Smyth (1930) 


a window down 

   beyond which 

   exists a World 

a manicured 

   Garden of 

   Corridors 

      winding Maze 


Confusion requires 

   a Chaotic 

   Approach 

to Create 

   to Organize 

   to Complete 

      a Dream 


would you 

   be lost 

if I let you in 

   my Mind? 


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