Maybe it's because 

My skin's the color of the 

beach floors their ancestors conquered

So familiar to be taken

I don’t delete those numbers although

they’re dead, I’ve been told,

those persons, not numbers.  

they said the good girl knows how to close her mouth


she always pretends to ignore seeing revolutions in the north


or in the south


the good girl used to crawl


she must hide the bright side of her soul


Seria
Como buscar una parte de ti mismo.
Mirate en un espejo y vete a ti mismo

Mira las caracteristicas de tu rostro
Mira el ser detrás de esos ojos

Todas tus facciones
Presta atención
El tipo de nariz que tienes
El arqueado de tus cejas
El contorno de pómulos y boca.

Since you’ve  been gone...

I am left here all alone, with no one to talk to on the phone

With only the overcoat to keep me warm

In the mid-1990s, when I was a student of creative writing, there prevailed a quiet but firm admonition to avoid composing political poems. It was too dangerous an undertaking, one likely to result in didacticism and slackened craft. No, in American poetry, politics was the domain of the few and the fearless, poets like Adrienne Rich or Denise Levertov, whose outsize conscience justified such risky behavior. Even so, theirs weren’t the voices being discussed in workshops and craft seminars.

No matter what surrounded them and
what the blizzard wailed at the sand,
that their shepherd’s den was close, nor
that they had no place else anywhere:

If history repeats itself then the story of conquering Hernan Cortes is on the shelf while pol, Joe Crowley‘s hunkering down. She’d said she wouldn’t back the candidate if she should entertain defeat, but campaigned like a potentate, as capable as she seemed sweet.

7pm in April

and i hate everything

I remember when we woke together in the ancient streets of Spain

I remember I felt a strong shiver which could heal any pain

when the fantastic windows whispered in my ears  " hello "

I couldn't dare to reply

I thought that voice came from my fellow

so I began to spy

You can see/feel/experience this work by LaMont Hamilton at The Drawing Center in SoHo.

"Heylo hello hey hi hiya my love"

I had a Brother once

And maybe I lost him

In Hallways of your Soul

XYK repeating, replicating the shattered bits of his refracted nullity, the shadow of his elemental hatred sombresaulting up from the endless slurry of his hatchery, where he fluffs the nearly hairless balls of his projective fantasies, cross breeds a sickly effluent with it's cousins, lies and slander, takes the broken offspring of this noxious union and remates it

As an African child

I crawled on mama arm

Searching for an imaginary house

Which bear me with a fancy view

Of the coming clouds upon my head