I,
invisible black hole
that I am
barely a fidget
or graceful movement
as I stand
attract only the
lack there of
genuine interest
and reluctant glance
from people too
busy pretending to be
occupied
in a mundane trance
I,
a super catastrophic nova
of social proportions
only watch from
the corner of my eyes
hesitant to interrupt
these paranoid distortions
called **** sapiens
as they corrupt
the simple art
of sipping coffee from
a cup.

Everyone’s a mutt in this paradise
adding to the Gumbo: America.
Anglo pure blood and breed will not suffice
To thicken spicy stew’s- Hysteria.
Strength, which each American is made of-
From the poor origins like Plymouth Rock
to indentured servants-it’s not enough.
Like bitter tyranny of slavery’s stock,
And exotic railroad builders toil…
Sweaty brows and every acrid tear dropped
pierced this soil, made this land boil
with every dreamers dream heavy hearts stopped.
We overflow into the salty seas
with ancient roots long as sequoia trees.

Excuse me Sir, I'm ready to order.
Can I please get some breakfast sandwiches
and a couple of bagels?

Uh, excuse me rudeness! What the hell was that look for?
Can you believe this *******?!  One look at my nopal
and he went straight into his skinhead manners brown paper bag
and picked up a big ol' hand full of "*******" and put it all
over his ******* face.

I like how now racism has a new look.
Indifference and side ways looks.
I still ******* matter.
I have a right to be where  I please.
As a matter of fact, I have a right to be.
If I want a bagel I would like it without
a side of Caucasian *******.

Pinches gringos cabrones.

In the radiant sea
of your delicately
coarse red hair
there are waves and ripples
microscopic  masses
of peculiar people
like you and me
I’ve seen the
stroke of genius
in your incessant
and persistent strokes
mired with madness
an inexplicable sadness
you and I know
where your stare leads
what echoes and stirs
of haunting thoughts
lay within your mind
that produced such priceless art
you manipulated pigments and hues
into what you couldn’t
do with words
you formulated ideas
and conjured emotions
in the lives of lovely
strangers who never
had the privilege of loving you back
I can’t own your originality
I barely possess your
authenticity where it matters most
you and I are kindred souls
carefully orchestrated accidents
in the midst of a
compromising world
now your starry nights
are my cloudy days
your variation of blues
are the robust soundtrack
of an inconsolable vagabond
searching for her voice
in a literary chaotic world

Listen to the calmness
the tranquility of this place
where spirit waves are restless
hungering for your embrace
I wish you’d see me crying
Because hearing me is too late
You left in such a hurry
You didn’t even bother to check
If I had ate
It was all of a sudden
You decided you needed a break
It’s been almost fifteen years
But why does my heart still ache?
In the muteness of our chaos
We’ve lost the right to say
We’ve lost the right to speak
For resentment’s sake  
We simply stay
Vengeance has a purpose
And anger has a name
Be careful of her stillness
I’d recommend you stay awake.

I don’t sing anymore.
Ever since I quit the music ministry
and later the church all together.
I stopped singing because
the band and microphones
weren’t mine so they had to stay at the church.
That store-front wreck
slightly glazed over with peach spackle
to shoo away any indication
of its poverty or its emotional members.
And emotion was all everyone
ever heard or saw.
Even our baffled neighbors
in the two story  apartments behind us—
were subjected to a blunt
steady annoying hollow drum beat
accompanied by an old wooden rusty *****
being played by—get this---
the biggest **** I ever saw
with a parade of effeminate brothers
to the right all singing (or screaming)
to the Glory of God!
All singing…everyone
A congregation full of people
ready, anticipating the presence
of God so they could get buck-wild
jump, shout, and run down the aisles---
or at least until the organist hits E flat
(which of course is the universal
Church queue for “Y’all got 30 seconds
to give God a crazy praaaaissseeeee!”)
And crazy was exactly what took precedence.
Guys shouting themselves
right out of their britches
sisters shouting off their sweaty weaves
hollering, high pitched screeching “**’s!”.
Mytika in the back of the church
standing on a white plastic folding chair
blowing the hell out of her holy whistle
while waving a white cotton handkerchief
round and round above her head.
And all of this chaos was somehow
glued together by a subtle soothing
baseline humming ----
doom-doom-doom-doom--doom---
doom-doom-doom-doom--doom---
do­om-doom-doom-doom--doom----
doom-doom-doom…
Amongst all the noise and commotion
I was the only oddity to be found.
The only white looking person
who had the audacity to be singing into a Mic.
People falling out, shaking, rolling on the floor
was never out of the ordinary there.
But having an un-black person
a part of their unfortunate country club…was.
Out of all the paranormal spiritual metaphysical
manifestations –I turned out to be the
scariest **** they ever saw.
Because to me God wasn’t a game
or a religion or a face or a person
or a symbol I hung around my neck.
He just was—and still is—
so I could be.
I didn’t buy into the lopsided myth.
The let’s have church,
throw all our worries out the window
and act like we lost our **** minds-
Myth.
And after singing
or at least trying to sing
I had to quit.
Because after all the weird-*** ****
I had to endure and put up with----

I apparently was the only *******
there out of tune.