a Tennessee Williams play forgetting
lines. without yielding a single inch,
I kept counting those bricks expecting
an accurate reading would deliver me
to the mystical heaven so many talked
about on the block. then, tired I stopped
counting and promised to try some other
time without stumbling on cracks and
shades.
The Shore
in the thanksgiving month of
November beyond the high
thoughts perjuring history
that make you gasp for air,
kind hands reach for you from
the aching depths known too well
by strangers in this land troubled
by mouths full of loathing. despite
generations of knowing the nation’s
rivers, mountains, oceans, forests,
valleys and lakes, you are a stranger
here, one of the many dispossessed
of a place to call home, and your sweet
dreams are curved by those in power to
satisfy their English only wants. in the
many months to come you promised to
put away these days by having your truth
carried by the wind to any public stage,
where with elegant rage it will speak
to say America is home!
Resurrection
in this light, you do not walk
alone the long stony road, the
blessings of the heavenly stars
keep pace with the simplest joys
that meet you and your unbearable
tears. in this light, the church bells
are loudly ringing with good news
for a dirty world in need, with prophecies
remembered, and life without harm. in
this light, call out in the dark the saintly
names, whisper to the unifying mystery
that with firm clarity you know where to
stand. with your clay feet, dance the entire
length of life until you dive into the loving
arms of God.
Spanish Harlem
I roamed around the city by
riding her trains to places ten
year old eyes had never seen
way over on the side of town
that never heard of dividing
tracks. I roamed for years the
streets of Spanish Harlem in the
moonlight, looking for vanished
friends, traces of a dead brother,
collecting the storied dreams of
dark kids who ran, played and lived
in Spanglish where their world entirely
began. after years of climbing over
shady streets, I learned to stand quietly
on the corner to watch the dreams that
followed kids to school, grandmothers
into church and old men to tattered seats
carefully placed in front of Joey’s grocery
store. I learned the words in school books
carried around the city never coughed answers
for spics. tell me, how long until we cross
the river Jordan?
Ivory Tower
in the tower made of books
surrounded by planted trees,
beautiful flowers, and seeded
grass, separated from barbarous
clashing on the streets, scholars
are busy measuring what God
says on pages kept on shelves
away from the poverty giving misery
a home on earth. here on this corner
where indifference habitually makes
its bed frail dark bodies crying from
afar are rarely asked to give witness.
on the streets where hands are joined
by the poor dressed with bells like lepers,
there will be no rest until the bitter wells
are sealed tight and the high-minded blather
is thrown into fiery depths!
The Protest
I knew the time would
come to take up the poor’s
quarrel at City Hall, talk with
vigils to elected officials about
the bare bones economy scarcely
putting roofs over our heads and
dread on kitchen plates. I knew
the time would come to fling harsh
Spanglish words in the bright light
of day till Angels came looking brown
like us with beautifully spread
wings to make the deaf politicians
walk down the municipal steps
to listen. I knew the time would
come to lean on the shut doors
locked with the bullshit spinners
inside of them and open them wide
enough to break their hinges—that
time is now!
Factory Work
the toy factory where
his mother went to work
was then the only place
hiring broken English
girls with sleepy brown
eyes and dark faces born
on someone else’s land.
she assembled toys with
smiles peeking each day
through her