I am a communist warlock in their eyes;
I ride my broom down highways and see
the warning signs stuck in the ground.
One will notice them on green lawns,
fertilized by dreams of a straight nation
and apple pies untouched by an immigrant.
This is the American dream, where those
who want to be heard are placed in boxes
and looked upon like screws and marbles.
On the floor beneath their big feet, they
are the tolerated: the ebony skinned,
the beautiful faces wrapped in a hijab.
The boys who love boys, the ghosts of
unborn babies which haunt them, the girls
on testosterone and proper commodes.
I am one of them, boiling in the American
dream; a fried egg on their big, black
pavement that lie before China and Russia.
Under the tar is a Native American burial
ground stretching from California to Florida;
perhaps that explains the curses.
The hombres burn their soles and swim
through rip currents just to see the headstones
and leave sugar skulls on top of where they rest.
Meanwhile, the children in the American
dream go door to door and collect candy
in smiling, plastic pumpkins.
Orange as a dictator, orange as the sun
burning eyes to blind crisps and black
as the lives of spirits that matter.
It is dead, my favorite holiday, drowned by
torrential rainfall and red, white and blue
fury in the palm of his hand.
A wicked X, star-branded, the evidence
when heritage was hate and the delusion that
Confederate soldiers will rise from the Earth.
To reverse time and put on a ghostly outfit
and burn the crucifixes; the narrow gap is
tighter than a noose hanging from the pine.
Every day in October shouldn’t feel like
July 4th, but only in such a patriotic realm
of poisoned sugarplums does it exist.
It’s dulled down my craft like a lead
pencil bubbling in a ballot and their fat,
sausage fingers have smudged it.
This is their American dream, where they
put words in Christ’s mouth and grab
black cats and skin them alive.
Where the good ol’ boy can be butter
thick and hard headed and drink from
the bigger cup while I get the smaller.
Filled with approval, filled with blessing,
petted like a dumb rabbit stuttering over
his nonsense for a bigger bigot.
A bigger gun, a bigger bullet, a bigger
truck, no Mexican and a wall for the
brain to close itself inside.
Religious freedom, discriminatory cakes,
tar heel stuck, a circus campaign on crack
and cocaine and absent seats at Thanksgiving.
Burned bridges to nowhere, fueled by
arrogance without gas, for they have drained
the tanks to fill their never-quenched engines.
Object to their ways and you are a terrorist, you
are painted dark and a walking perversion that
infects all morals like bacteria in a wound.