wednesday mourning

Time punctures generations skin

Weaving threads of inherited trauma into woman’s bone

There is a man with blood on his teeth 

Smiling down at the patchwork of pain

I sever him methodically.

 He watches me feed his body to the starved pigs, 

both eyes, one, ghost eyes, none.

It’s the end of the year 

I am hunting cosmopolitan sales,
while girls are hunted under fear stained sheets.

The coming year will pass me by in a flurry of pages, stories, statistics.

The yellow-eyed patriots will continue to assert Empire abroad, militarizing broken states.

Collapsing mosques, homes, lungs.

Fingers pulsing on triggers, pulsing hearts and last pulses lingering

suspended in finite breaths, 

breathing in polverized

life turned to dust, death.

War will not ravage Amerikkkan soil next year–

that would alter predestined first world trends.

The cadence of bombs won’t clamp my brothers throats in their sleep, they’ll continue to dream in kind colors.

One will start school and learn about the vastness of the world.

I will not tell him how many bodies lie under the Mediterranean Sea.

I will not point to the places on the atlas where hatred burns holes,

indicating generations of oblivion.

My bloodline will remain intact,

we will still exist, like this.

My contemporaries won’t break the cycle of silence,

they will sneer at my urgency.

Stuffing their faces in bourgeois feed , interweb validation, sedating distractions, purple noise.

How to jostle this world out of obsessive greed?

World leaders concede to massacres abroad, meddling in coups while bruised babies wonder across sister’s breast, if their father’s leg is really missing, if mother will come back having escaped the bloodthirsty grip of the agent of state, with his grim face, with his haunting grace.

I awake in the night screaming for Aleppo and Screaming for Palestinia and Screaming for 




I inherit broken Nicaragua, where my mother screamed as her grandmother collapsed screaming where the same Entity, Concept, Government massacred my revolution poised uncles and raped the women who make me possible here now.

I trace my hands, I calm the electricity in my bones…existing…still.

Holding close the memory of the children, and women, and the frightened since hate’s origin 

Holding close the places where timelines bury bloodlines 

Where pachamama prematurely swallows her children back into the ground lifetimes and time again.

There is no song to sing tonight, there is no rhythm to soothe the panic in my lungs

Liminal spirits wander our plane, friends. 

My sisters and brothers are screaming.

Flesh in fire

Conclude another year.

Another genocide.


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moon skulled

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