I will not kiss your fucking flag. Fringes taste of dystopia, bows for a cloth dripping in blood; waves flexing the gallows deep in the rift of American dreams. You, dead eyed and blue, hitting and running—allies are roadkill. Bloody pipelines on fire DACA tuitions burn in the wind where black faces fade under goose-stepped boots; beautiful ebony shattered by concrete. Snakes retracing steps flaming their path over native-skinned rugs. Knives made from the hammers: whitish hot heat in a whirlwind of spit skins splatter paint graves—pouring more value into ignited cross. Eyes watching each other, more care for lunch than the grass that they burn. They’ll cut out my tongue when I scream, “let us be.” They’re saving their matches for kikes, cunts, and fags. They’ll toss us dead half nigger/spics out to sea because we do not matter under the stars of your flag. Your red crowns match your white sheets and blue blood. Congratulations making everything great again. [Confederate wet dreams incubus for our fears. They’ll surely hang us since we don’t belong here. They’ll will hang us since we don’t belong here.] They’ll cut out my tongue when I scream “let us be.” They’re saving their matches for kikes, cunts, and fags. They’ll toss us dead half nigger/spics out to sea because we do not matter under the stars of your flag.

Thanks for the history or lack thereof, I’m obliged. It’s kinda strange being strangers filled with light. Misplaced allegiance finding it harder to say where your family used to live or when they came here anyway. Now disinterests turned to spite: festering—and you have no fucking culture You can read and you can write, but you can never learn a life. Three decades later know you’ll never be pro. Keep spilling coffee on your keyboard destroying everything you start; some ego broken on a Crosley. Mom made sure you could act like all the whitish kids at school who weren’t picked on or laughed at. Now you wonder if that was best for you or someone else. You can read and you can write, but you’ll never learn a life. Cut out my tongueCut out my tongueCut out my tongueCut out my tongue Cortar mi lenguaCortar mi lenguaCortar mi lenguaCortar mi lengua Your paper mâché tongue can’t taste the fly wings in my stew. Your paper mâché tongue can’t taste the fly wings in my stew because wallets brand you just like steer on puppet strings (and) white roaches eat your children: swallows them whole while you fucking sleep. Stitch my blood in your history books word for word with ivory hands. Stitch my blood to your history books and call me pocho one more time.

1! 2! 3! 4! That black grime underneath the cafeteria stove, you ask if that’s a relative of mine? You say, “sorry for patting you on the back cuz I don’t know if the lashes have healed up yet.” But relax! It’s just a fucking joke when you say, “you do not act black enough, nigger.” You want to rest your head on these big black mammy lips of mine then call me a gorilla faced mother fucker? “Oh, just laugh. It is a fucking joke!” when you say, “you do not act black enough, nigger. You do not act black enough.” Go ‘head, as(xe)k that one more thing? “Why don’t you tell me to go stand in front of some Home Depot, or get a degree in hopping walls? Come on, man! Burn me back! Throw me to the hands of La Migra. Beat those whites to the vitriol, and give me exactly what I deserve.” This hurts us all But you’re just so funny. Ha ha ha. So fucking funny (that) I am crying.

CLOSE YOUR EYES NOW SQUEEZE THE LIFE OUT (The) hand that holds the switch fingers apt to itch. Nothing better than (the) comfort of a ditch trenches huddled deep waiting patiently. Nothing better than naked honesty. Hold your nose and try to forget the crimes. Nothing better than an easy compromise. Red states dripping forth from the tiki torch from the whitelashed neck (and) all that came before. We were all thinking it (this time). Angel on the shoulder would admit to throwing hope in all the caskets Destroy the present Destroy the present Destroy the present Destroy the present Destroy the present Destroy the present Destroy the present Destroy the present BURN THE FLAGS NOW PULL THE STATUES DOWN

Never meant to give up on anything But plant my feet across the Rubicon; a coward’s glory on the farthest shore. Keep these blinders on a dead horse (and) kick her till I’m sore—gimme more gimme more gimme more gimme more What is this resistance? What is it but the nightmare reflection of my fever ships? Lashed, entwined, wound tight—binding the sky to a pale horizon. The vanishing point—the lie. I want it all for free, but don’t tread on me. I always believed it should come easily The city’s gone septic and the future has a gun to my head. Close ranks, circle the wagons. This is gonna be our last chance. Who am I without you? Who am I without an excuse? Who am I without…

Two friends are walking away, just scattered ashes off some lakeside, now total strangers alone just smoking weed and cracking jokes. It’s been two decades and change: they both look different but still the same. One pulled away and retreated, the other ran as fast as light. Now this is all no matter how far you’ve gone —childish bullshit controls you. Really tryna make it again even after fighting and talking shit. Now you‘ve got a couple of kids yeah, your wife’s always hated me. Partly why I ran so far— I was mostly too scared to react. Ran away and started again, forgot to write you back into my life. So this is it. Since this just how far I’ve come, childish banter consumes you. Wreckage! I’ve caused the colossus to buckle beneath its own! Now I just dwell in my failure pretending the ignorance heals all wounds. Exhaustion canyons mess. Self-sabotage. Self-sabotage. So this is it—since this just how far I’ve come, it’s happening. This childish banter consumes you.

A toll for the window ahead: anointed. A small price to pay for a choice between them. A fork in the road like a light directing, but these are the paths we’ve been got so take one. Age comes with beauty and longing, (and) fear is the cavern of hope. Chained to the floor, I’m stuck watching my own dancing shadow convoke. I am a sucker for feeling most likely since I barely can. So I can just keep it in plastic and stash it away until then. A son of stars, a basket of Christ. I’ll turn my cheek since you don’t mind. Is a coffin really only after? Since the word is just a symbol, isn’t coffin how you normally emote? I’m as weird as I expected but it’s really something watching the mirror—you get older by the liver spot. A circle only ends when you take your hand away. Death and interest. So it goes.

I’m the ghost of Christmas past (probably Easter, but a ghost). Not too sure of where I’m at or where the fuck I’m supposed to go. Hide all the brown in your eyes! Hide all the brown in your eyes! I have no native tongue to turn and barely know the one I’ve got. Of all the storylines I’ve learned, mines the dumbest one I’ve bought Hide all the brown in your eyes! Hide all the brown Hide all the brown in your eyes! in your eyes Hide all the brown in your eyes! boy. Hide all the brown in your eyes! Let dandelions pour their spores inside your poisoned skin. Trade it all for porcelain and tame your mother’s wild tongue and you’ll be one of us you’ll be one of us you’ll be one of us you’ll be one of us and we’ll pretend you exist pretend you exist otherwise, kid, you are gonna fucking DROWN! DROWN! DROWN! DROWN! DROWN! DROWN! DROWN but we’ll pretend you exist pretend you exist pretend you exist pretend you exist and you’ll be one of us you’ll be one of us. Just cut out those shit brown eyes.

I must be fucked in the head because I didn’t catch how you had called me a “polite young man and not some hoodlum in a hoodie expected of colored skin.” Well you can stop staring at my toes. There are no snakes in my eyes. You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know othered skin slammed face first on the hood of a Honda. You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know 12 gunshots that deafen nights. Just skittles as weapons. So tell me once again how it’s no one’s fault when children die, when hollow points take fathers and eat mother’s hearts alive. I want to see your face at the end of the world circled by crows where there’s a gun in your hand, a gun in your hand. Seared off your fingerprints, but the gun’s in your fucking hand. You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know bullet holes that sear seatbelts of a man surrendered. You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know cigarette ash that tighten nooses around black necks. You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know othered skin slammed face first on the hood of a Honda. You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know suffering You wouldn’t know 12 gunshots that deafen nights. Just skittles as weapons. Stop! Please! Don’t! Shoot! STOP! PLEASE! DON’T! SHOOT! “Black boy, brown boy, act like you’re white (and) hide that target on your back and maybe we’ll call you a citizen. Dance boy! Dance boy to this gaslight bebop. (To) the weight of nonexistence that was made just for your tapping shoes. Please surrender for your own good. Black boy. Brown boy. Act like you are white. Black boy. Brown boy. Act like you are a citizen.” Your breath down my neck holds me like a cop’s hand— the one not busied with a pistol, (and) I can’t breathe. I cannot breathe. "I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background."

Do you wanna play hide and seek the way they did backpacks worn as flak jackets? Did you see there was light in all their eyes? Futures dressed up as roaring flames when you pardoned bullets masked as tsunamis. You are a bastard. You are a bastard. You stole their breaths for 2A’s life support and sent them spiderwebs pregnant with flies. They should have been chasing butterflies, (but) now they’re trapped as cocoons where hugs are distanced by dirt and friends hear recess bells as bombs in the hallways. You are a bastard. You are a bastard. Don’t swear to God. You’re not doing the right thing. You are a bastard. [Deberían perseguir mariposas] They should Your thoughts have been and prayers chasing put them butterflies, in graves but your thoughts when they should and prayers have been put them chasing in graves. butterflies.

17 years spent with nightmares of patricide. Blood boiled, a bull-rushed father falls in charred spoons while son is red faced, red eyed can’t get the image of a crack pipe out of his head— stains that chip father’s lips make kisses burn the forehead, make hugs from dad hurt so bad. 17 years turned to cancer from Bonzo’s war— battering rams stifle good nights and lullabies while son was red faced, red eyed can’t get the image of a criminal out of the mirror “Your future is a .45 that hold your hands in the air” and the silence is normal with zip ties on the wrist and no last kiss. 17 years sober; still hides the blood in the veins. Says it’s, “weighed down by tar, the sirens told me so.” Father was red faced, red eyed can’t get the image of a black man out of his head— a cacophony of badges screaming in his ears, pressing his cheek to a hood and holds fire to his lips, but son breaks the spoons. Picks dad up, dust him off over and over and over again “Mom will see you with sunsets as you both get older and older and older and older.” Lighters are smashed, washed chalk lines, keeps father sober. Sober. Sober. Sober. Son broke the spoons, washed off the chalk lines. You don’t deserve this. No cop boots on your neck. No thorns to cut away at your skin. They wanted you to fail. “57 years and you are still breathing. No bruises, just embraces that feel so good. It feels so good Please break out of your casket Please, no need for sorries when they tried to roast you, drown you hang you—but they had no string handy. Please hold me over your head like the stars you wished upon when you pushed me on the swings wanting it to last forever. You are not your demons. You are a good man You are a good man You are a good man You are a great dad, and don’t let them call us tar babies; we’re not stains on their white concrete. Don’t let them call us tar babies; We’re not stains on their white concrete.”

I. Abolish I.C.E. Forget the names get the numbers. There are no stories, just excuses. They came together. Separate them: animals belong in cages. This is who we are, This is what we do. Hate it all you want— you’re still one of us. Concrete floors tear open blisters. Shut the doors, lock the windows. It’s not like they’re our own kids— they’re not crying if no one hears them. This is who we are, This is what we do. Hate it all you want— you’re still one of us. II. why does my community make me feel like i'm crazy Now I’m alone with some paint in my hand about to spray windows like hearts in the sand, and this is the tinge that I’m given: now it’s the flag that waves. Compelled to cause havoc and scare all my friends. Deterred from self-love since I’m supposed to be man, but my body rejects me since I hate the rules you’ve set. But thanks. Thanks for the shirt. Thanks, yeah, but it hurts. Since I’m a loser who doesn’t resist, habits developed back when we were kids I’d rather blame you for it, rather reject all fault. So now as I age and get closer to death (I’m) less prone to whining or wasting my breath. But old dogs die hard as hell— my habits just learn new tricks So thanks. Thanks for the burn. No, there’s nothing to learn. III. Kill All Rapists Throw those fuckers in the dumpster, burn them with their scholarships cashed out by the coaches who cut off their own ears. Buzz of streetlights scream like women drowned in tears. “Put rhinestone on the pepper spray cuz boys won’t learn a damn thing.” Well, fuck you and your blinders and your courtrooms and your rubbers protecting murder weapons barely hidden in a jockstrap. Time will come when rats will take your hearts, take your skin. Take your cocks, take your bones: things that don’t belong to you. You don’t deserve culture. You don’t deserve language. You don’t deserve a second chance: kill all rapists! IV. Another Lynching We’ll cut off your head once you’ve taken all that’s free set it on fire inside of a brown paper bag, Toss the remains with your other trash in polluted seas because you will not matter when we tear stars out from the flag. For now, I leave revenge hopelessly to God as well water is poisoned, the bucket whittled from the cross. Swear the coal mine is fine while waist deep in dead canaries and the gauze is hidden as we watch the voyeur bleed. V. ¡Callate, Pendejo! We are waiting for you to die, colorless vice grips snapped at the wrist. You won’t be martyr just ash in the sky and when your heart explodes no one will miss you. No one will miss you. ¡No besaré tu pinche bandera! FUCK WHITE AMERICA! We are waiting for you to die, colorless vice grips snapped at the wrist. You won’t be martyr just ash in the sky and when your heart explodes no one will miss you. No one will miss you. No one will fucking miss you.