poems, as of late
My Every Last Day on Earth
Pawn shop, East side, Cesar Chavez: a gleaming talking trumpet tries to steal my soul.
Lies about the devil orbit our feeble world-
A threat from my Mississippi Grandma , exhumed from the trove where I store my fears
Whispers me awake in my yellow universe bedroom.
Sweet Jesus candles flicker, projecting warm electric prismatic prayers on the floor.
An uncanny must invades my nostrils, and phantoms stagnated in stale air
Warn me about the rains-
Come to wash away the murderers, perverts, thieves.
We scoundrels shall share one island and duel like gentlemen for filthy bones,
Should I bare my thorny hands to build my escape,
They shall tear it down-
No comrade, no commiserate among expatriates.
Should I lasso the Sun and like a hot air balloon hover patiently along the mountains
He would land me gently singed again in my homeland.
Should I die before I wake-
Surely my feet will take root in Old Scratch soil.
See how I am buried in the spittle and sanity of generations- leveled like dilapidated houses.