Before the beginning
God got colonized
so
The beginning was basura
pero
Bomba created the campo anyway
and Bomba saw that this was bueno.
So Bomba said,
“Let there be music in the campo”
and barriles, maracas, y cuás rose from the earth.
pero Bomba saw this was not enough sabor
Entonce, Bomba created campesinos to dance y
soil to vibrate y sound to move threefold
through the land of earth colored peoples.

On the second day,
Bomba’s hands were cramped from working the cane harvest
and her knees strangled themselves from the sun
so she couldn’t dance like wepa, and Bomba
in all her salvageable wisdom,
because all you can do is salvage from basura,
entiende?
knew she needed help
so Bomba created Plena
And told her
“Keep that tradition beat flowin’ mama.”
So Plena merged with los campesinos, y they sang, y they sang
And Bomba saw that this was bueno.

On the third day,
Plena was walking through Ponce in a shawl of Borikén
when she was assaulted, raped, and dragged to America
Who begat occupation
Who begat exploitation
Who begat the Dream
Who begat forgetting
Who begat hollowed words,
common wealth
Who begat Nuyorican
Who begat Natiao

And Bomba knew
And Bomba saw
Pero Bomba,
her strength gone after years of begat
sat in the campo and wept
until her tears
were salvaged

——————————————
——————————————

Misguided Praise

They call you Puerto Rican,
child of the proudest people in the world,
of the last colony and all its obedient burden.

Purveyor of Stockholm Syndrome’s mantra,
117 years captive of a puppet’s false heaven:
To believe yourself a real home,

when it’s called the island of enchantment for a reason.

Taíno, your compromise with a blasphemous savior,
swallowed a white man’s dreaming
to nurture a half / breed gospel
but we have always begged the worst of your magic:

The first time your god confused whiteness for divinity here,
we killed the preacher.

6,000 bodies later you called a massacre a miracle
and we have been misguided praise ever since.

——————————————
——————————————

Quick Succession

I am territory. Entonces,
night soil, my birth mixed:

African:    Great Great Grandfather,
Ezekiel, dark as the shaded part of la isla.
Taíno:
Porque who isn’t?
Spaniard:
la misma cuenta, 1898.

Otra vez, the neighbors in Bayamón
chatter about Nueva York, opportunity, y abuela Zaida
sits in the backyard comiendo mangoes, bananas, living on wonder
full things.
No, si. Your Great Grandfather, Emiliano died in the Korean War, 1952.
Died? No.
Captured? Si.
Cómo? Two of his friends were in his unit, saw it
happen. They tried to yell run but he was pinned down in a forest
never found his roots
no memory from mi arbol de familia

Zaida asks herself everyday why she came to America, sold her mother
the dream I guess. No.
Puerto Rico, heimliching its unemployment, choking need,
want, what? Si.
Emiliano captured, fighting for America

Entonces, Zaida captured, moving to America

I am territory, pale place in the file, made from the tree:
a grant,
insurance policy,
un-stable present from Korea.
This quick succession of roots,
when all he did was protect
the territory.

——————————————
——————————————

Lares, am I worthy of your name?

i marveled on your two days
resurrection,
gave jesus a run for his cross,
mi bandera querida,
shortest-lived republic in the world

your waves    ,     the     yank
————————————–centerpiece of my chest
——————————————decidedly pulling
—————————————————————-eastward,——forever,——from
mi ——— feet to (my)
—-salsero                                                Puerto Rican
cara,
——-        what more do I know than those yearnings?
—————————————————nada
in truth:
no entiendo your language
no entiendo your wet body
no entiendo your 1868

but I cremated Piñero
pero I guarded The People’s Church
but I saw Lavoe in The Bronx
pero I visited Campos en la hospital
and I performed the Nuyorican

i breathe in dusted history, stuffing
nostrils,
inhaling this flag like one more massacre

but los boricuas cut my throat,
tread the irresponsible blood until

Yocahú spits upon the flow,
mire tu sangre, natiao!