New Poems

 In the heat-wave streets of domestic 

“war zones” where bodegas hum 

and children skip rope between 

potholes and broken English dreams,
they came – unmarked like a reprise

of a 20th century nightmare scene.

Masks, protective vests, guns drawn,
ICE badges stitched into plain clothes,
not even the judges recognize
the law they claim to be.

They don’t knock.
They don’t speak the language.
They gesture with gloved hands 

signaling you, you, and you, 

like choosing meat at a butcher shop.

A woman screams in Spanish.
A child clutches a Spiderman backpack
as if it will make her invisible.

Ask yourself: who profits?

These men, these shadows of a state
that denies its own shadow –
they do not act alone.

Who will obey el jefe’s orders

to arrest Chicago’s mayor

or the Governor of Illinois?

Most likely some asshole from 

Texas sent north in uniform 

to invade another state. 

How broken must a man be

to turn on his fellow men

and women and how did

he ever sink to that level

of cold desperation? 

The silence of the block
isn't born of nature –
it is the fear-fed daughter
of compliance.

Truth wears no uniform –
though lies love a badge.

The van turns the corner.
Another block, another body 

taken without a headline.
The neighbors shut their doors,
then their mouths,
then their hearts.

A hushed child drops a ball
which bounces defiantly
in the middle of the street.

Even in a police state,
the beat doesn’t break.

Let that bounce be your anthem.

Let your defiance be the next thing
they fail to pick up as they make 

their bleak morning rounds.