who?|
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| When I look
into your papi chulo eyes I see happiness and joy the Christ-child con los tres reyes magos & bags full of toys for the first time noticing the beauty of brightly lit bodegas against cobalt skies the subway smiles of homeless mothers watching two men kiss quick secret good-byes walking away from each other banjee boys on their way home forbidden love glistening in their souls like the melted candles and whispered prayers from altars glowing late at night in the barrios of a sleepless city -still prejudiced and cold When I touch your papi chulo skin I abandon myself to ecstasy and hope childhood scars lost somewhere in your embrace abrasando tus sueños wrapped inside my coat your breath acariciandome like the soft island breezes of Oyá soothing the jagged edges of my ghetto face while gently rocking under the moonlight back and forth back and forth back and forth to the rhythms of salsa and Spanish lullabies engraved in memory like graffitied names on a hostel wall When I kiss your papi chulo lips I close my eyes to taste your tropics my inhibitions drowning in the sweet river of your saliva struggling to survive somewhere deep within while tongues dance to the beat of our hearts deseando que estos momentos would last forever in a world without boundaries in love without limits en la isla de Nueva York papito lindo tu amor es mi bendición
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Dedicated to Reverend Richard Phelps |
| There are so
many dead pretending to live amongst us now who belong to a church hidden behind the harvest of hate which takes us in and blinks us out with ignorant eyes and condemn us for lying together in the tombs of our beds while their savior hangs from nails displayed on hollow walls and our sacrifices are left to hang on fences bleeding rivers of glory to wash away the sins of their world This prejudice is the pain that clouds my eyes and knots my spine the scars on the back of my head engraved by those who reach out open arms bloodied with hypocrisy, lost dreams, and intangible mantras those who haunt our daily prayers with the sounds of oppression to silence our shepherds with death because death equals dreams never to be heard of again and our prophets get no maps to salvation But the wind will not inherit the echoes of our souls we will not leave our canvas with unfinished colors or remain the uninvited children of a lesser God we will ground our bare feet with toes in soil listen for the wind chimes in the insanity of life light candles for our brothers and sisters from the West Side Highway piers of New York City to the farm lands of Laramie, Wyoming to the Castro Streets of San Francisco and feel the closest we can to heaven because true love has no boundaries and our angels have wings too |
© 2000 Emanuel Xavier
