Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Somewhere over the rainbow....

Credit: www.graphicshunt.com

When his small fingers ravages and pillages,
Amongst peels of rotted oranges and bananas,
And colorful,
Green,

White,
Sometimes black,
Fuzzy, yummy French fries,
Mixed in his usual fruitful salad bowl of fruit flies,



Zipping,

            Buzzing,



Listen to his surround sound system.
A regular lone audience member,
He sits in his large and empty auditorium,
Four walls of dilapidated cardboard,
Swaying with the winds,
Like a sunflower in the field of a storm.
Tired, he rests his little head,
On ripped, colorful SpongeBob Square Pants printed,
Cushion-filled defecation.


 

          He is never hungry.



Why does a person deserve to live?



Somewhere over the rainbow…

When I find her shivering, curled up like a precious baby girl,
Exhausted, she clicks her six-inch hot pink heels together,
It’s not Kansas anymore.
She’s tired from doing her nighttime dance,
All men are entranced, by her theatrical feats.
A big time actress in her hood,
She returns to her mansion of expanse-filled space,
Loud horns, car engines engaging in their orchestra,
Deafening barks and thunderous daily screams,
From guns, are her neighbors,
Who share her dark, starry eyed living room,



          She’s never lonely.



Why does a person deserve to live?



Somewhere over the rainbow…



When he creates his own cold, prison cell,
Moats, iron-barred gates, only one entrance,
Will allow you in…
To his,
Hell.
Restrained with a cactus made straight jacket,
Prickly thorns rapidly grew.
He never speaks,
Mute to the world.
Yet, we only hear his voice, when his small arms,
Ferociously,
Shoves,
Scratches,
And rips through his jacket,
Reaching out for,
Our sun’s warmth,
He shivers.
I feel his calloused and scarred arms,
Like icy stalactites in December,
The ice melts ever so slowly,
Slowly, dripping like a leaky, broken faucet,
Waiting and ready to burst.



          He still waits.



Why do they deserve to live?

Yes, they deserve to eat.

Yes, they deserve shelter.

Yes, they deserve to be treated equally.



Most of all we deserve love.

Don’t we?

Letter to My Fathers...

Dedicated to my father, grandpa Ramon and grandpa Mariano:

In this photo: my grandpa Ramon and my mom

Manong,

Why did you leave your family?

“In search for a better life,

Opportunity and equality!”

Manong,

Why are you in so much pain?

“We face discrimination and poverty,

Human rights taken away with nothing to gain.”

Manong,

Why are you so depressed?

“Opportunities lost and taken,

Beaten down and often oppressed.”

Manong,

How do you maintain?

“Our perseverance and aspirations,

Keeps us alive without disdain.”

Manong,

When will this arduous journey cease?

“When we all achieve our dreams

Of equality, opportunity and peace.”

Street Symphonies

Tantalizing tunes hearkens deep into the darkness,

Piercing through the dense fog of the night,
Evangelizing,
Awakening,
And calling forth,
Its audience,
Where shady’ shadows lurk.

I see ‘em doin’ paper chasin’ dances,

Singin’, their euphoric notes of,
Adrenaline pimpin’,
Needle humpin’,
In dark, menacing corners,
Of a hustler’s famous stage. 



On the corner,
I see spilled,
Permanent blood-stained lyrics,
Of the same ol’ song,
Of red streams flowin’,



Down,


          Down,


                    Down,



These concrete pages,
In the hood again.



Led by another illusory maestro,
Holdin’ onto his hot steel baton,
Finger trigger twirlin’,
Performances of gun smokin’ exchanges,
With another lead conductor,
Facilitating a new following of,
Devious,
Instrumental,
Death playin’,
Nocturnal,
Angelic musicians.
There’s always a new breed…

Waiting.

Pied Pipers of the street,
March to this acclaimed symphony,
Arousing the attention,
Of shape shifters,
Architectural mind gamers,
And street pharmacists,
Ready to medicate,
And regulate,
Your obituary.

Still, there is an alarming following,

Of these scrape steppin’,
Robotic drones,
Cultivated,
Manipulated,
And entranced by,
The disconcerting,
Haunting rhymes,
In these,
Symphonies militias.

This deafening overture of battles,

Is eerily familiar,
Reverberating its usual cadence,
Of maliciousness,
Rhythms stealin’,
And disappearin’,
Into the night,
Amongst those who choose to be,
Deaf and blind listeners.
It dissipates into,
Faded,
Ghostly whispers,
Forcefully heard and impacted,
By those few,
Dedicated,
Discarded groupies.



Everyday,
We all pray,
For these street symphonies,
To,

End.

Listen…
Can you still hear them play?



.........I can.