Post the Ninety-First or Tombs

Fancy ass houses

Sprout up like weeds

Among the desiccated shells

Of homes past

&

The street corner is still

A battleground

Full of ill-forgotten

dead

–

DEVELOPMENT

DEVELOPMENT

DEVELOPMENT

He cries

Come one

Cum all

To Free Market

Circus

Where all your dreams will come

True

Where the only person that matters

Is you

Where all your cares can be laid

To rest

(If you are white, rich and exploit the already exploited)

Nevermind

The broken communities

The displaced people

The alienation you feel in your soul

–

The Crier Cried

Are you tired of your

Perfectly manicured lawns

Your neighborhood associations

Your serene and “safe” home?

Why not

Spice it up!

By moving to this

Low-Income Neighborhood!

(The Natives call it the “Hood”)

For the low low price

Of fucked up racial dynamics

You too can be that edgy white dude

Or that free spirited hipster girl

You can be the face of post-racial Amerikkka!

And for a limited time we will throw in a Black Friend^TM

To prove you aren’t

A racist!

(And if the Natives bother you just call the cops!)

–

Do you

Enjoy flaunting your wealth

In front of the folks

You stole it from?

Do you

Have a burning need

To assuage your guilt

By saving the black and brown children?

Than step right up

I dare you

–

Come closer

Take a hard

Look

At what you have

Wrought

Upon yourself

–

Nothing

But a putrid emaciated corpse

Croaking feebly

“I hunger.”

&

Those fancy ass houses

with windows turned

Inward

Are

nothing

but

Tombs

Post the Fifty-Ninth or Mi Madre

I wonder what it must’ve been like

For her tongue to wrap itself around

Foreign sounds

white sounds.

Calling her sisters

And telling them she was going to a home

That wasn’t surrounded by mountains

And trees of

Aguacate y Mangos

Tomate de árbol y Plátanos

A home that wasn’t encircled by

Fields of caña de azúcar y café

A home that wasn’t blooming with

Orchids and Magnolias.

But was instead surrounded by

Trees full of bare branches and heartache,

Soil barren with concrete and frustrated dreams,

Kitchen tables ringed with coffee stains and memories.

I wonder what it must have been like

To be chased out of a country

Only to steal into a nation that hated you

For being a victim

Of circumstances set up by that same state.

I wonder what it must have been like to try and

assimilate into the fabric of Middle America

Where barriers of language and skin make

assimilation impossible.

 To swear to never have kids

Never go to america

And then eat your words.

I wonder what it must have been like

To give birth to a boy

And have her grow up a girl

To watch her change

Like an artist perfecting their work

Seeing her manifest more fully

Into her body

In ways that might frighten

Her for the realness of it.

I wonder it must be like

To live in ameríca

Having all the comforts that the West can offer

And only want to go back

And eat from the tree

That fed her when she was young.

Life is full of contradictions and

My mother is a strong woman.

Post the Forty-Third or Home

I feel him here

Thump da dump thump da dump

In that space where my heart is

Filling up my chest cavity

With Inspiration

Desire

Passion

Love

Like a Furnace

It keeps me warm

When I’m so far away

I feel him here

In the beating of my heart

Thump da dump thump da dump

Ticking away the moments

Before I can see him again