Stony the Road. Harold J. Recinos

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ