Poetry & Prose

Captive

Maybe we all have a bit of Stockholm syndrome
The culture that has kept us captive
Is the one we emulate
Aspire to
Protect
Bleach skin
Straighten hair
Adopt their ideology
Strip dialect from tongues
Made mild of spices
To appeal to their taste buds
Fell in line
Even the ones we think speak change are a tinge too light
The safe kind
The ones that appeal to the masses
Knowing well who “they” are
They’re the ones that own your information
Own your freedom
Own your history
That’s why many pages left unpublished of an ancestors truth and troubles
Hurts and triumphs
To protect the image of the image we protect
Cycles of protection
Leave room for no reflection
Staring into false mirrors
Of stories altered
From the grace they faltered
See we can be blended as they please
Ripe for the picking
Time after time
We have been walking in straight lines for centuries
Fell in line
To gas chambers
To guillotines
To unemployment lines
To cultural genocide
When a white teen can mock the song
Of an elder
Glimpses of the past made present
Same story
Same players.
See on paper,
My name wreaks of rice and beans
Of Boricua beaches
I know what they think upon eyes meeting
I know some must be thinking
Yea you’re white yourself
Only seeing European ancestors
Like them
Forgetting my name
Forgetting the mixed blood flowing in my hands 
Perhaps I’m using this platform
This perceived privilege at best
Just so I can attest
These lines are thin
The thin lines between explorer and native
I guess I’m a testament to just how thin
Just how thin that line is
Between ignorance and embrace
Between the past and future
Between love and hate

Dear Poem

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I want you to reach inside my chest, grab my heart

and squeeze it

until it shouts

so loudly, people turn to stare at me. I want you to dive

from the top ledge of my brain, somersaulting into the blue sea below

while Mozart

plays piano

and a million ballerinas dance and twirl under the crashing waves.

I want you to look me straight in the eyes and whisper the words

even a scarecrow

could believe.

I want you to lie to me in a calm voice and send me on a wild ride

through the heavens and forests, through the core of the earth,

into the third

ring of Saturn

until every known fact becomes a unique and colorful feather.

Sana'a Sunrise

unsolicited cocktails arrive by deliberate airmail

puffing new mushrooms in the landscape

 

little ones dead before they are dead

between the rock and the

            alluvial plain

 

fingers like tapas in random perch

            on granule and boulder

 

hair and face arched upward

mouths open for silence.

 

blood dotted, like painter’s pallet and

            sausage guts

offered to ant farms housed on desert pads

 

how many more will fall before

I die in dust

older than before there was an Arab

History Becomes Her Story (Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez wins Joe Crowley’s 14th district)

History Becomes Her Story  (Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez wins Joe Crowley’s 14th district)

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.