It became
monopoly—this ghetto melee, this cocaine enterprise: mothers pregnant, an
un-given reality, something sewn into little Victoria: disposed to pain, at
livers and tests, so cold to existence: deprived of normality, born against
sands, eating through tubes: such shivers, such nonchalance, so tugged, even
devastated, and squirming. I look to
child-mares—convinced of due destinies, so removed, so enthralled, like madness
is normal: at condemning souls, at destructive indifference, so different, so
concerned, so exposed: those prostitute sensations, this father feeling lost, at
mother convinced of due processes: our torn mentalities, our moist hatred, so
confused but asking—those walls crumbling, this sight ensuing, but too captive
to exhume this night-sword: those dregs breathing, this society impassive,
while souls are disoriented: our sons to warfare, our daughters to smear-fare,
while so awesome that first blessing: hungry-work, so expensive, while
receiving twenty five percent: raving through alleys, remorse those ghetto
canyons, or rafting through back streets: encouraged to die, yielding and
waning, such deference to deaths: our midday fix, our detached bodies, moving
but unrealized: if but to release, or but to rebuild, but avenues plague our
ribs: our mothers aching, our fathers absent, while stepfather is feeling heavy:
to give riches, to probe insanity, while love is influenced by learned lessons:
at Xavier’s grave, at Jenny’s needles, so twisted for silent: our scalps
belittled, our culture infiltrated, our reality plain incomprehensible: alas,
more rain, alas, more death, alas, so confused twitching through cultures: our
bread diamonds, our semi-religiosity, our rituals come freebase: our marijuana
tears, at rapid sensation, so close, so unwrapped, or unraveled giving
something emoted: this fool’s presence, yelling out obscenities, where Love
adores his writhing guts: so normal to hate, such normal anger, or too
irrational for Welfare: those ruby red lips, this ruby red jewel, or so
captured normality looks like salad: those affections sinned, this ruler cold,
at police, at vice, or something too grievous to mention: such citrus,
turned-out, remarkable queens: such fallen angels, so intricate, so determined,
our Nation’s Anakim(s)—so cool, so calm, so convoluted—at sheer distrusts, so
involved with losing, so deeper a passionate mistake—our rich lenience, our
needs to fix, or something said, so smoothly, we almost missed it: those
excuses, for something indelible, at rivers mid our gates: so infused,
rereading personalities, at wonder concerning broken in two. …a set of pills, swallowed without water,
chased by tyranny and guts: fleeing into traffic, bugged, redeemed, soon to
perish: so indebted, so concerned, so lost, at blue haven sins: those prints,
those cries, our deaf eyes: vibrating, thrust’d through, at lance, at terrors:
so ghetto, so alive, as such to vomit looking at trickles of veins: under
surveillance, running through backyards, if but to pray at this neighborhood
parish: our first confession, searching for psychiatry, as told to pray: so
quick to fix, so last in line, so confused nourishing a quick ideal: blaring
Blues, debating Jazz, so crazed seeping into Chicano territories: our last
sequence, our first cuffs, so ablaze, so frightening, staring at sea green
antennas: it comes this light, it shifts this corner, so pulled from that and acting with that: so silenced, given eternity, but
yearning for streets: while never confused, this number one rule, we die and
live according to orientation: this hard change, this personality
investigation, at something too real to accept: all those dreams, to arrive
this vex, staring at something too personal: those fire lit eyes, that
lascivious gaze, or something quick to perform…. “Jesus is coming,” this tale told tyranny,
or such placation souls are kneeling: our do-or-die grandparents, this softer
adventure, this bookworm society: so indebted, so casual, at such a softer
approach: our stews with spices, our chicken with sage, at something too
terrible to fully shed a tear: this boxed cane, this boxed bed, this half lit
cigarette: such wisdom, such pain, such big, reality eyes: our mothers speaking
tongues, our fathers thumping bibles, our realities made to dislodge gentility:
those fences, those cops, this helicopter: to catch a taxi, running through
zones, at granny’s and gunning: this real reality, this concerned being, with nothing but tyrannies: our
midnight adventures, or souls fresh-out and passed a car, a joint and cash: so
torn, so at love, so true to this reckless game: while drinking with gila
monsters, to imagine an orangutan drunk, while swooping through graphics: this
two-toned Calypso, this eight foot tall mare, at something a man must prove: to
give with patience, to laugh, joke, and pride while eager: but Love adores
something spicy, something near death, something slicing Yahweh: so torn, so
ghetto, so sophisticated: this island of drugs, this world of
misinterpretation, at sentenced debates.
