LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      Holy Word

      the preachers of ancient texts

      are guiding their thirsty flocks

      to the nearest brooks in good

      faith. the ungodly campaigns

      in the changing hours, rejected

      beggars on the church steps,

      the forgotten poor with yokes

      around their neck, the children

      who stumbled away from mud

      floor dwellings, mothers at the

      gates crying for bread with infants

      on their knees, the dry bone voices

      filling the air, the innocent who

      wait for water to become wine, the

      tongues that mock the vulnerable

      from sun up till down, hear today

      from a preacher’s lips a holy word

      about infidelities in the world still

      delivering God to the cross.

      White Masks

      the children in the schoolroom

      with old inkwell desks whose eyes

      are bigger than curiosity stare at the

      neatly pressed white teacher at the front

      of the room. they learn to read history

      mostly in black and white, while the

      deep scars of weaving generations, the

      near pulverized first nations, European

      land theft, Mexican lynching, yanqui

      peasant killing and the politicians who

      looked away from black, brown, yellow

      and red women raped never appear on a

      public book page. the contract historians with

      English names, their hard of hearing college

      prodigies, never bother to put the bloody

      side of colored history in their texts, which

      infinitely overflow with grand white stories.

      when the children in the class strayed away

      from the morning lessons, the teacher

      called them back to the lost paradise

      text and with not too many words showed

      her students how to put on a white mask.

      then, one stubborn boy with the habit of

      sitting at a desk in the back of the room

      yelled, “Teacher, I like it when you call

      me, José!”

      Wreckage

      the wind found a little

      rest in the pocket of the

      old building an inspector

      scheduled to condemn just

      last week. it has gathered

      dust, shouts, sorrows and

      joys on the corner over the

      years, speaking to the city

      in Yiddish, Italian, English

      and Spanish always lighting

      up the sad dark. we talked

      about it standing in front of

      Joey’s bodega, seeing the

      Puerto Rican kids visit the

      store tugging at each other’s

      shirts, sipping from the same

      bottle of soda, laughing on

      those streets stuffed with family

      dreams, and every step taken

      by them so completely full

      of expectation. Victor once

      lived in the condemned building

      no one imagined defined by

      a clock made from Orchard

      Beach sand, the lightest side

      of heaven and now about to

      be tumbled. we chanted adios

      on the way to the alley behind

      the tenement, carrying spray

      paint cans to write our names

      on its wall again in fat twisted

      letters.

      The Radio

      in a world with streaks of light

      Picasso would have run down

      our spines from bulging eyes,

      radios announce in crowded

      apartments last night’s injuries

      and remains of those flattened

      by devouring white rage. the smug

      politicians who find clever ways

      to say God, ignore the beggars at

      the gates unkind Americans so

      carefully raze with their smiling

      English only lips and blindness for

      the blessed fruit in brown wombs

      birthing human beings. in a world that

      hates wretched migrants with Spanish

      names, in all the places of worship

      that never call us fathers, mothers,

      brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,

      children, neighbors or friends, we

      ponder in American English about

      soldiers at the border, I.C.E. agents

      down the street, cops taking aim, the

      work for penny wages, the endless

      nights weeping, the disemboweling

      of Jesus and American shame!

      God Bless America

      the moon is rolled up for

      sleep and our dreams are

      troubled by the sound of

      shouting on the White House

      lawn, the rackets on the small

      town streets, the corrupt ideas

      of pious hearts and the faces

      God dares not to see. tonight,

      tears wash us clean while the

      slow hold of darkness roves

      around cursing at the light that

      shines in our children’s sweet

      chocolate

Скачать книгу