there is something to be said about family.
and love. and culture. and freedom.
it is what you are born into through casualty

my casual roots 
contain casually casual
textures, and tastes, and smells, 
such as coca cola,
and vick rub, 
and papa’s callused hands.

these are the hands 
that have promised and prayed 
about peace and patience

these are the hands 
that have strummed and plucked
acoustic Psalms for our Savior 

these are the rituals 
where traces of tamales
trail through the trailer

and where my mother 
sings her favorite Spanish love songs
while she washes the dishes

and where the chihuahua 
licks up the morsels of mazapan
that my mouth messily missed

and where i
forget how to say Heaven in Spanish,
but can still remember how to say hell.

you see, 

hell is infierno.
a word i'll always remember 
it seems so palpable, like pulp
or a pomegranate's tang.

and Heaven, i later learned,
is Cielo. that's also the word 
for sky. 

you see,

a sky, to me,
is not quite comparable to a Heavenly sea
it seemed too concrete
rather than
impossible to reach

you see,

that's when i began to think
why does the good seem so 
impossible to reach

you see,

that’s when i realized 
that i think in pictures 
or maybe in senses
like a flickering fixture
or a scented sticker

i don’t know how to explain it
i guess i’ll have to portray it
through some paradoxes
or these open boxes
i don’t know how to put myself in

i know i can’t always be happy
i know that is something my Papi
Fino said to me 
when i would scrape my knee

i still wonder what he meant 
i still remember the scent
of his guitar, his cologne
and his tonic accent

i still wonder how he deals
with the loss of Memo’s meals
i wonder how he feels 
about realities.

does he think of them as tragedies
like my scabby adolescent knees?
incomparable to a welcome mat,
or a habitat.

God, 
i wish our souls 
came with hard hats
to soften the blow

God,
i wish i had an alibi
that could both 
justify and nullify
why we can not satisfy
our battle cries

Dios,
forgiveness is so hard to do.
i can't imagine how You
can subdue
the transgressions
my people are being put through

but Lord, i'd like to see you try.

or is Your Cielo too empty to cry?

the truth is,
infierno's scent 
hangs heavily in the air these days 
it is the fog of our predators 

it is thick 
and tangible 
like pulp, or
a pomegranate's tang.
so palpable.

it is the droplets of venom 
that have been injected into
skin so pale
that is now seeping 
through veins so plump

but the pale skin 
and the plump veins
can't help but mistake the venom
for progress 

the progress 
being painting
over the graffiti
of our soldiers
who cannot shout
any louder 
for much longer

the progress
being pale skin
with pale skin
and pale skin
with plump veins
and plump veins
with pale skin

you know,

it is strange how people can think that
it is no wonder
we drink the white milk.
it makes it easier to swallow 
the chocolate cake.

you see,

we fail to see
that America collects stories.
so many metaphors and allegories

that make her giggle
and gasp and groan

but we only get a glimpse
of these enigmatic narratives
and i think some of us are jealous 
of these idiosyncratic pyramids
of people

and so

it is not perfection
but its perspiration
that should be the inspiration 
behind humanity's salvation

we are now Walcott's broken vase:
"Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole."

now that
Is something to be said about family.
and love. and culture. and freedom.