with a gardenia
in your laborer’s hand
you placed the flower
upon her feet
from way behind in the
cool church i went to
think about my
troubles with DMV
a broken AC
a splintered hair
you bowed your head
to reach into a
thread bare breast pocket
and in between your
crackled thumb and
arthritic finger
emerged a picture
of your bye-gone
grand daughter
the miracle of faith
leapt in my heart
Pershing Square wakes up
fading light but nothing new
i look down again
Chato wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d heard the legends almost every weekend. His fists curled into themselves, not quite tight, not ripe to make a punch. Through the sheet that separated him from the rest of the living room guests, he heard the women speaking. Some weeping, some whispering like the noise of ninja stars in mid air. Chato thought about Ernesto and his eyes watered a little. Glancing down to find a tee shirt to wipe his face, Ernesto’s acceptance letter to UCLA reproached him. Chato comforted his pain by scrolling through his phone to call Chino and the crew. No answer. Chato looked up the wall and smiled at Ernesto’s awards. The rage flooded him. In between blurred thoughts, he could not understand how he and Ernesto had survived so much and suddenly cancer took down the person who meant the world to him.
children this is your mother city Porciuncula
calling and wailing when i feel your fall
i anger i ponder cry in agony
i’ve watched you grow in my neighborwombs
i’ve watched you writhe in the pain of isolation
i’ve withstood you raising your hand in anger and murder
against your siblings my streetveins flow through
your souls and while your spirits are still in the hearts
of your flesh ancestors your ache and loneliness
emblazoned on flags of blue red and black
demarking ancestral bruising
how can i avenge you my children
when i simultaneously incubate the demise
perhaps the answer lies
in my children rising up and punching with their brains
honoring themselves with their mind
and claiming your royal given right to rise and be you
as a babe i was never the tender one in the infancy of the developing footsteps of the mind i was just a soldier trained and not raised for raising would mean a coup at some point i was rather just a little girl kid lost on the floor of Grand Central Market amongst the watch towers of produce foxholes of spices grenades of chow mein and old man coffee napalm Kurtz was at every corner and my bayonet still could never hook the salmon filets embalming in the smoky mist of downtown bus pollution of course not being an heir of Grant or Lee i fell back in the back of most everything but my duty was not to keep score but rather lead the budding anarchy of my Phoenixian heart
Leonard fly with me
beyond the gray skies above
with our torn blue coats
your voice coursing through my heart
let’s soar beyond the wire
in the drop my thought swirls about smaller than a worms breath the wetness of the dew in the spires of hell my brow sweats to know what’s coming knocking at the door tidal wave of destiny doomed to clear in agony all debt i’ve left behind in the oceans of mars where the fog of disbelief punishes the chiefs of the snowy altitudes dharma electricity pulses on the Nile and the Ganges will build factories in the tsunami states
i think you are
wrong to stand in my
way. you seek to
destroy all that
is left in my brain.
i did kill a man
with blows from my hand.
fiercely to his bones
i ploughed.
i
ripped out his
soul and threw it away
in a tin not too much
unlike you. i own this
nirvana of concrete and pain.
i
watch all the sinners and i watch
all the saints on my
circadian treks. i am not lonely
in spite of my face for look
to my right there is my race.
unbeknown to them yet though
here i stand. they are nearing
the end of the bind.
soon
i will
usher them to this abysmal entry.
where your soul goes
and
the killing continues with the will
of their hand.
gravel crunches underfoot
trees wave their lofty branches
a quiet rainy morning
winds talk through wild baby hairs
fingers reach to grasp the hand
of the teacher pall bearer
noting silence in the throat
lightning swiftness in the gait
knuckles bursting from the skin
betwixt right now and ever
the breeze states through woman locks
sorely peering through the glass
explicit emotions exploding through the tongue
knowing she is scarcely done
in walking through her wreckage
i am mad at God
for making me a fool
for using my stupidity
and evil deeds against
myself
i am mad at God
because He loves me
in a way that i can never
love all these creatures
around me
i am mad at God
for He laughs at me
in a loving way as He
kicks my ass when i
fuck up
i am mad at God
for keeping score
to a game that i will never
win
i am mad at God
and in spite of my
silly lip quivering
and monkey manipulations
He waits with hand
extended for me to
climb
words less spoken 