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jacking vibrations from moraga's poetry class
This land is my land,
this land is your land,
this land was made for you and me.
Fatherhood,
a rockstar
seeking redemption
filled with apologies
of the forgotten
icon
of new york's
false freedom
en la
luna de miel
obstructed
by
difference
of a secret,
oops,
don't tell anyone
of the skin
being our sin,
and my sexuality
shadowed in Cameron's
limelight...
and yet
our sister still stares out
the window sill
envisioning
mother's
coyote migration to America
busting jack moves
on their pretty little land
filled with dot coms
and
suv's
in the silicon valley
sex game...
merging with
college campuses
and k through 12
penitentiaries
branding us
with esl down our throat
in search
of perfecting
that accent...
that accent..
but amidst the rage of the storm
we are struggling til'
the end
unwhoring the mythical whore...
polluted by the gray ghost
into
the wings of the martyr
as the soul of man
degenerates
suffocating the earth,
and yet this land is my land,
this land is your land...
this land,
divided,
in between
a conquered
great sea
yearning to be free
en el nervio del volcan,
that even the blind man can see...
See...
mirror images
of a lost search
past the coast
opposing the current of wilmas
in the eyes of a child running
for his life
wondering if the black-o-meter
has spun out of whack
as even
the sky has to look away.
Away,
border lights
glistening from molotov cocktails,
as maquiladoras burn to a crisp,
but in the mean-time,
I was not supposed to hate the beer,
I was not supposed to hate the whisper,
and yet,
even in America,
even in this land,
the falling rock
makes a noise,
the falling rock
has a voice...
12/02/99
Written by: Cesar A. Cruz(Teolol)
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