It beats to a familiar rhythm
unbeknownst to the those whose
limbs can’t find home
in the drums or
of the Carnival.
My heart rarely bleeds.
Callus does that. It protects and adds layers
and character and wisdom,
a knowing numbness
to scars that attempt to reach to the lifeblood
of the living.
But it knows
it continues to work for a world that has never
always resisting the painful
calls, rules, lashes and fears of yesterday.
between rage and melancholy
but always residing in loving hopefulness.
there is no solution without connection
love..even when it feels more
strange than Boston-black
ice in the throws of a golden Boricua summer.
Loving for the love of tomorrow.
An action that births a reflexive
humanism. A call for actualization
for the living, the longing
the striving and surviving long
after my bones have decayed,
my mahogany flesh has become
one with the amber grains of
that gives freedom and life
just as it takes it. That is what I
wish for Amerikkka to be
The dream often glimpsed,
yet locked in a labor
breached and unturned.
The stories of the ancestors reside
under shadows and stones unrolled,
rich and dark as soil unscorched by the sun
our sons will value as worth
our daughters will reign as more valuable
than the thorned crowns of patriarchy
we mount upon their heads,
and knowledge will rule
as a matter of love,