agente federal jesus morales.

he thinks
i look like a
terrorist
or a
drug trafficker.

am i a disease?
do i have
     that look
          in my eyes?
of despair?
of needing to be pushed back
up against the wall?

he asks me to follow him.
he’s going to have to go
     through my bags.
asks, where i’m coming from?
as if he could ever know
     or understand.
so i answer where
     i was
     before Mexico City,
     in Oaxaca, in Chiapas,
     before returning to Chicago.
so i explain,
and show him my passport,
and then he barely
looks through my bags
once he sees my light skinned girlfriend
and realizes i’m a U.S. citizen
because then he just lets me go
without doing anything,
but wasting my time
because of how i look.

he thinks
i look like a terrorist
or a drug trafficker
or maybe just wants
to fuck with me,
which leads me to think
the suit is a cover
to cover a man’s
insecurities.

the badge is a cover.
the gun is a cover.
the cash is a cover.
the car is a cover.
the home is a cover.
the kids are a cover.
the wife, career, and bank accounts.
our whole lives are a cover
to cover all of our
insecurities.

02.22.09.

on a stool.

on a stool,
in a bar
that doesn’t exist anymore,
i was talking to this man.
i mean he was talking;
telling me
some real deep stuff.
so full of it,
all deep in it,
up to our knees,
so much so,
no room for treading.

“they kept on trucking ,”
he kept on saying.
he said something like
that, “yes we can. yes we can,”
so i became a train.
i think. i think. i can i think.
i can think,
or choose not to. about anything,
so i decided to listen in.

he took a drink, and responded with
“i am the man, and when you leave
you’ll tell the folks,
you’ve met the man,
and all is good.”
i stared blankly
without filling them in-
the gaps in space
and conversation.

he claimed i was Middle-Eastern.
i swore that i was Mexican.
he worked as a mechanic,
but had once been a gravedigger.
thus was quite familiar with the dead.
he drank to join them soon.
he called me a damn liar
for not admitting that
i was not Mexican
but Palestinian.
there was just no convincing
even when i spoke in Spanish.

he mentioned my people
would soon be free.
we’d all be free.
we’d soon be dead.

10.26.08.

(hy)pe.

hype.
hyper,
hypersensitive,
hypochondriac,
hypnosis.

the cool and the glorified g,
mass marketed culture,
pillaging, production, and promotion of urban style.

how would you dress for a war zone?
you could learn.
they could teach you,
but they’ll have to charge.
when you watch a music video,
buy into it.

hype
and static,
and how to properly consume,
and be merry (weary).
trust the economy.
question nothing.
buy into it.
hype.

don’t worry. just watch. don’t watch.
just push a button,
and wont have to suffer the view.
turn a blind eye.
trust elected officials.
let them calm all of your worries and concerns.

hype.
hyper,
hypochondriac,
hypersensitive,
hypnosis.

10.19.08.

form.

when we
     start to
          talk in rhyme,
i feel
     the sense
          of lost time
like when
     i walk
     with closed eyes
past the
     city
     and its lights.

where were you?
not been found?
yet) (not true,
but like sound.
there were clues
all around.
searched for you;
heaven bound
to find you.

we found truth
holding out
our hands too
in the crowd.

where is the thought that lingers behind this?
we all wear certain hats just for a kiss.

10.19.08.