Por un Futuro Mejor

Archbishop Óscar Romero’s birthday was last week. My family marked the date with a trip to a pupusería for dinner, something I know some other friends were doing a couple time zones away. I know that the Catholic church is in the process of beatifying him, which I think is maybe how you become a saint. No longer a believer myself, I’m only glad that I was able to pray at Romero’s tomb while in El Salvador in 2002.

Americans would do well to understand that our current refugee crisis with unaccompanied Central American minors has everything to do with the atrocities against which Romero bravely preached and U.S. involvement in those atrocities.

Por un Futuro Mejor

When asked about the war
Miguel lifts his shirt to show
a tangle of scars from
a homemade bomb.

Imagine Miguel in conflict outside
el Museo de la Revolución Salvadoreña,
tracing the lines on his stomach,
which is now so uneasy.

A neighborhood of sadness and struggle,
como la linea.

La Linea where he makes his home,
a sprawling slum from San Martín
to Soyapango and beyond,
a sea of shacks on a decommisioned rail line.

Miguel remembers it wasn’t always this way.
He tells a story of a boy he grew up with
who lost his legs to a speeding train.

“The existence of poverty as a lack
of what is necessary
is an indictment.”

Miguel never heard the Archbishop’s words
broadcast on rebel radio
while fighting on the other side,
but he can’t get them out of his head.

Imagine me in Morazán
outside that same museum.
Me and Miguel and Monterrosa’s ghost
and a myriad of unanswerable questions
about life and death, wealth and without
and history’s immutable thirst for blood.

Ferguson

Ferguson

I saw Dunbar’s Mask in reverse:
black journalists don’t choose the news
anymore than the rest of us.

A straight face can be hard to come by
when talking about black protesters,
majority-white police departments,
and efforts at community relations.

He imagined the press bulletin:
Terribly sorry about how we reacted
to how you reacted
when we shot and killed that kid.

This is not a justification.
I believe in stoicism
where the news is concerned.

But let’s give the newsman his due.
He kept it together until he couldn’t,
till it started to crust and sugar over.

And there, nearly imperceptible
at the corners of his mouth,
glass breaking in the night.

 

Sanford Florida Public Works

Sanford Florida Public Works

They’re ripping up the sidewalks,
Cardinal calls drowned out
By jackhammers, bobcats.

You can’t weaponize a sidewalk
That isn’t there.
No more crime scene photographs,
no more guns discharged.

This is a peaceful place –
And don’t we all deserve
Some peaceful ground
To stand on?

Soft and grassy,
Surrounded by gates
A worn path in place of pavers.

A word of caution:

This is our life.
People not from around here
Who make us so afraid
That we go towards them
Instead of away –

They don’t get a warning shot
This isn’t Tallahassee,
This is a peaceful place
Where we do what needs doing.

Bring on the jackhammers:
We’ll walk on the grass
If we have to.

New poem after long hiatus… first draft… crowdsource workshop!

HCP

This poem sets up on the floor
no pretense, no bullshit
preferring a basement, 
eye level.

The secret handshake anyone can learn,
this poem is not interested
in selling
or in being sold.

It is the lyric sheet passed out
at the outset,
because the words fucking matter,
a butterfly pressed in your pocket.

This poem is the moment there by the water heater
that you realized both your privilege and your potential

Right

Before

The

Mosh

Part

Took

You

In

These are loud stanzas, and, okay,
a little abrasive,
but they know that’s not enough.

They are also starry-eyed,
and why not?

Nothing good ever came
out of anything that wasn’t.