I found this piece in a book my friend Vickey gave to me before she moved out of town. The poem spoke to me because of how raw and disturbing it is and what it says about humanity at times. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
it is the season of penitence worshipping white messiah our village
boys do esta cauresma the church turns away we chant because the
city man who owns our rice fields demands more and more so our
boys whip their backs leather tipped with sharp metals their field
worn palms blood lashed five-inch iron nals dipped in alcohol
just few moments hanging good show say flashbulbs popping
sunburnt white people barely hold down their lunches they weep
these people are barbaric how does it come to this so sad they point
digicamcorders sad bleeding boys
haven’t we always captivated travelers and social voyeurs black
saturday soul searching redemption of scattered flocks epic-singing
on all continents in a language our children no longer recognize
otherwise our villages are quaint
just quiet, and quaint.
– taken from Poeta en San Francisco (2005)