Incessant: The beauty that cannot be stopped

My people are beautiful

their bones are made of stone

their blood, vines that tear walls apart

their skin a gift from the sun that binds our wounds to our words

My heroes never said they were going to give their life

for the people,

for the land,

for the infinite horizon of our communities

They just gave their lives,

some in prison for life,

some in known and unknown graves,

others living in poverty,

some homeless

all of them never surrendering in life or death to capitalism

This is not a metaphor:

My people are beautiful because

we carry the sky on our backs

we hold all the seeds in our hands

Our bodies are the land herself,

gestating and self-gestating the future

because the past is

more than half freedom and struggle

more than utopia

tilting the earth in a bow of gratitude

No bullets and walls

and their black-and-white presidents

can destroy us.

Our martyrs can die

shopping for groceries

celebrating garlic-y pleasures

dancing the night away

crossing the desert under a canopy of north stars and constellations

shot or run over by racists

shot in the back or in the front, choked, beaten, tased and left to bleed to death by the police

Our martyrs are unarmed,

sometimes not even with an inkling of defiance,

not a bone of discontent,

because we have food, a place, lovers and loved ones,

a job, and we think we are the world

Our martyrs-to-be do not forget the fallen

and carry the wounded to the safety of their hearts.

We inherit the martyrs

their rage

their dreams

their unfinished life

There are no random bullets under capitalism

There are not random shootings

There are no random drive-bys

There are no random prisoners

Our colors make us its targets

The state has paved over the natural world with violence

There is a bullet for everyone

There is a bomb to bring humanity down to its western civilization knees

Who feeds the U.S., who feeds the world?

Whose land upholds the roots?

Whose land continues being enslaved?

Who makes war, who sucks the oil out,

who poisons the water and then bottles it for a price?

Who makes the world long for a different world?

Who longs for a past without this future?

Who longs for a future without the having to relive the violent past?

I still want to sleep with you

cuddle, hug, kiss, comfort me

before i go out into the world

protected by

the tenderness of my family

the self-determination of my people

the colors of our skin

the awe of our babies and ancestors-to-be

My people are beautiful

They make the land flower

They make the clouds and the rain sing

They tend to our wounds with the colors and the songs that only they hear

My people are invisible to the neoliberal eye

My people’s words are muddy, tasting of big bangs and communal circles

What do you see when you see yourself and me?

Who do you hear when you talk, think, sing or walk upon dusty paths?

My people are beautiful because we caress our wounds

and carry our dead the way they want to be carried:

newborn martyrs.

[August 5, 2019 | Oakland]