revenge is a dead end
sleep is impossible
her lips have become a mirage of the dictatorship of capitalism,
I press myself into a void of coldness
My body has become a grave
where movements and monsters find comfort
MLK is still bleeding to death in Memphis
and my grandma still wakes me and Gilberto to tell us that she dreamed this would happen.
nothing matters really when you are a migrant
here today, there tomorrow,
the boss, the foreman, the police, the ngo’s, the activists, the teachers, the neighbors, the work, the camp, the journey, the laughter, the rain
they have the power to disappear you
to rob you of everything called dignity.
Justice bleeds to death every fourth,
irrigating the plants of my orgasms,
a bullet hole in the throat,
a moist furrow to shoot seeds into the stars:
I am bleeding to death
from a hole in my words.
my grandmother dreamt this too
a tiny open scar
that gushes mud for her pigs and flower beds:
my mom knifed my soul
my grandmother stitched it up and occasionally ripped it open
just to remind me that I had been abandoned and loved
I became adept at wounding myself
vulnerable to the wolves of hugs
easy to sleep with so that my eyes would not implode
i am a ghost already.
My land was stolen seven generations ago.
My future wounded seven hundred years into the future.
Nothing matters for the next fifty years.
after i become the glaze over your eyes
after i become a prank on the living
after I tire and everyone finds out I never gave up
since i am more spirit than bones and flesh
since i am more song than monogamy
since I am more mutiny than servant
since i am more than myself
my sadness will be forgotten
and my fists becoming laughter & betrayal
in a bible of liberation wars.
you can scratch your luck into my pigment
and nothing will change — except your luck.
every april 4
every fourth day of the month
every fourth day of the new year
every fourth hour of the new day
every fourth time we smile or talk with each other
every fourth lie that counts
You and I are tested, branded, crazed, separated.
A wound on space & time.
Does anyone, including ourselves, believe
we will make a difference
a blade to cut the umbilical guitars
a bomb to destroy the neighborhood thug
a conspiracy to overthrow the digital regime of loneliness?
except you to me
a quilt of tears, beatings & our arms around each other.