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Whitewashed Veins (Assimilation is a Violent Process)

Endless Memoriams

Political Heartburn

Compliments are Helium


Kindred Before Kin

Slough it Away

There is No I in Nature

Like Grass

Fabricated Face

Love: A Short Poem of Disappointment

Whitewashed Veins (Assimilation is a Violent Process)

My skin is white
White like an eraser
An eraser that wiped the brown from my skin
The skin of my cousins
The skin of my grandmother
Like the eraser that wiped her name
From her husband’s life
Her name is Maria, his wife
She is not named Mary
But that’s all he’s ever called her

She dressed in white dresses as a little girl
White dresses that erased the accent from her mouth
Erased the Spanish from her lips
Erased her native tongue
From her mother and my mother and me
So, now, when people say spic
I forget they mean me

My blood has been whitewashed
But I am not clean
My love is not wrangled by gender, color, or creed
But I married a white man
So marriage is okay for me

I don’t know my mother’s mother’s tongue
Her parents swept it under the rug
To keep their babies fed
In hopes they’d be free to tred

They succeeded
I’m so scrubbed
They don’t know me
‘Cause it won’t show on me
I walk in camouflaged skin
It’s all I’ve ever lived in

I lie awake at night
Wondering who I might have been
Wondering how much danger
I would have been in
If my genes showed a bit more melanin

My skin is white
White like an eraser
An eraser that wipes away my history
Until it is a mystery

Endless Memoriams

On this day
We claim
To remember

Who can have memories
except those on the field
and those still at home

On this day
We hail Freedom
But is it
freedom to . . .
freedom from . . .
simply Free

Can that be won?

Freedom is not given,
should not be hard-won
Freedom is not a gift
for a few
for everyone

Freedom is Free
so long as it is not taken

It only ceases to be
when stolen by slaves
who worship their chains

No matter how many fight
and how many fall
Closed fists hold tight
Open hands grasp nothing at all

Political Heartburn

Feeling the Bern

Flames leap with each beat

up my throat

How can so many




Every step countered

They don’t wave me over in the lot

I’m not of their Lot

They smell the liberal sprinkling of salt

Imagine me burning

Imagine us flailing

What’s left when all that’s left is anger

and entertainment

My chest is one match from explosion



Tired of the same

Begging for change

It shall come

From whom?

For whom?

The future is now

See the light

Feel the creeping cold

nuclear possibility

Who causes Armageddon?

Who brings Heaven?




Compliments are Helium

One day a man tied a balloon to my ankle
As I floated away and into the sky
He told me that I should be thankful
that he took the time to stop me
so that he could lift me up

The balloon is red and shiny
It reflects
the sun
my fear
my upturned skirt

the man says from the ground
You’re so high above me!
You’re so lucky you were born to fly!

Other men gather
The women hurry past

The men ooo and ahhh at my swift rise
Covetousness in their eyes
I’m almost out of earshot
when they start to jeer
Hey! Hey you! Hey, girl!
Aren’t you going to thank him?
He helped you fly!
He gave you a balloon!
He deserves a thank you!

I can barely hear their irritation turn to anger
She didn’t deserve a balloon.
Hardly any girls do.
I bet she gets balloons all the time
and now she’s never grateful.

I ache to explain
I’m late and now I’ll be later
(But they’d just say I should have left sooner)

With a pop
I fall
and fall
and fall
Bumps and bruises
rise as I land
(But you got to fly! Don’t complain!)
don’t you see
I’m afraid of heights
(Then you shouldn’t accept balloons.)
I didn’t want to

No use
I know their rules
I went to their schools

Will the bump blue
Will the bruise black
I hope as I cut back
Be visible
Be ugly
Maybe that will keep their bloody helium away
they’ll come again
they always do
balloon in hand
acting like the gesture’s grand


Earthquakes are a reminder

A reminder that we are on a planet

A planet is just a big rock

A big rock being flung through space

Space so impossibly large

So impossibly large that it doesn’t care about our little rock

Our little rock that shimmies and shakes

Shimmies and shakes every time we choose to let it break

Kindred Before Kin

“I wish you were my blood”
A compliment of poison composed

Words meant well
Dipping to the well of wounds

Were my reds and whites, looking blue
Made of all the hues of you
I would not be true

Platelets pulled from another sea
Would not create the curve of hip
nor the quick wit
which I have been endowed with

My hair would be lightened
My senses perhaps heightened
but there would be no me nor I
A child you would have bore
but I would not have been in store

Take what is given
Love what has risen

My genes I need
but for you I’d bleed

Slough it Away

When blood
As time
But more often
Why is it only

There is No I in Nature

We have the coma inducing nerve to call coal clean
and the destructively selfish audacity to name dandelions weeds
We click, clack, tip, tap our way around the world with a screen and a net,
but blank when we face the rape, plunder, and violation we have let.

Our rainbows should shrug their pastel suits and suit up, bows in tow, and rain white hot light;
Our overcast skies should cast hooks over flesh and rake till we resemble mesh.

There are more germs in your body than human bodies on Earth;
You are a host being hosted by the planet we’ve toasted.
Our father gets the credit and calls us indebted.
Our mother is warning us of the warming us
and we ignore and pretend, pretentious and unafraid to offend.

Mother is no liar and even a monk pushed too far has no choice but to light a fire;
She is willing to burn for her children that do not learn.
We shoot up, veins aflood with our mother’s blood.

Being pushed from the nest,
we’ve become a greedy guest.
Our documents were falsified for every land we plied;
Ground cannot belong to those who come along.

All ask how to heal the hollow so that we too may follow;
Fevered and boiling in instinct,
She answers us, “Extinct.”

Like Grass

She was like grass.
Constantly trod on,
yet always rising up again.

Fabricated Face

The masks we wear
rip and tear.
The skin beneath
no longer fair.
Flesh exposed,
ripped and raw.
The pain is great
besides the flaw.

Beneath the laceration,
we hear no salutation.
Within, a battle fought,
Without, a happy plot.
All is ornate decoration.
Self, meet thy castration.

Each is in pain,
all feeling disdain.
It’s a simple task,
to take off a mask.
Tell the rest of the cast,
the scars will not last.

Love: A Short Poem of Disappointment

Is that what love is?

Tears at a funeral?