Inn where his grandmother
cleans all day long.
we looked for god in the
shadows flitting across the
faces of junkies who say fuck
the holy family with every
venous scar, in the hours spent
treated after beatings by Fort
Apache cops, in the church
with a priest who never says
a thing.
we looked for god going
hungry, unable to pay the
rent, write a sentence, find
work, wash away grief with
stupid lines like joy, love and
peace. we looked for god in
sleep, on the cheeks we kiss
on faces judged full of sin by
the people saying phony prayers.
we take turns now expecting
a divine word, though it appears
god has no time for wretched
spics who never dress slick for
church.
Home
we have lived on this
street longer than the
women wearing their
covered heads, feeling
more than once the rosary
they pray cleansing us
for life in the flesh. we
have made the yearly
trip to Delancey Street
to find the Jewish store
with clothes to buy for
cheap to wear to Easter
Services to say we are
changed. just last week
we gathered at the little
creek by the water that
renewed Joseph for three
years and cleansed pretty
Rosa when her belly got
real big and felt morning
stars. we have lived in this
town waiting for years to
grow wings to fly among
the clouds with other dark
faces, experience whistling
wind and come a bit closer
to God’s heavenly home.
The Trump Crusade
I have watched events unfolding
for weeks waiting to hear a word
to comfort those who innocently
suffer like Christ without possibility
of resurrection, talking every night
with the stars that silently listen
to the terrible stories the migrants
share. I have watched the scattered
clouds roam overhead miraculously
carrying thousands of tears shed by
caged kids with carved crosses worn
around their necks, while trying my
very best to find strength to search
for sacramental bread, simple Masses,
and even thimble prayers from those
who claim to care in a world gone so
mad. I have listened to the words of
people fond of clicking their heels, felt
my heart dragged by a black Suburban
with politicians singing America the
beautiful in it, observed wingless Angels
move helplessly around shouting Spanish
names to white kin who sing the national
anthem without questioning what the future
will bring to this piece of geography called
by a colorful many home. without knowing
why I wait for truth to kick aside the mouths
full of loathing to make room for nobler voices
that will guide good people to undo
these dark hours before what remains
of America is a giant pile of ashes.
The Stone
the last time I looked in the
alley there were clotheslines
stretched from wall to wall in
it, with cheap threads tightly
pinched by pins to them, and
faces looking out of windows
longing to be someplace other
than the South Bronx. I made
up stories about the dark
