Call me your
greasy surrogate
cannibal, your
Caliban,
your sexed
up Caribbean Taliban.
Rezone
me. Clone me. Skull and bone me.
Prop me up. Jack me up. Crack me up.
Bag me. Tag me with hypodermic platanos,
switchblades,
black beans, boleros, and salsa.
Unload clips
at my feet ‘til I shake my hips.
Dress me up
to play your bloods and your crips.
Make me your
island cabana boy toy, man maid,
tour guide, ghetto
clown, bareback barback
in braids, your
docile simian, semantically
frantically,
pedantically panned. Brand me.
Strand me. Café y pan me. Drop
my slang
from your canon.
Dis’ my Fanon. Dispatch me
like drone assassins
in Pakistan to work
in your sweat shops while you work on your tan,
nap on my
coast, make a toast, eat my roast
and boast that
I’m the one sweating your border?
Report to your official superiors that I’m inferior,
that I’m
pulling triggers and scams
selling
kilos and grams while your President
lands on my plains
in planes packed with cocaine.
I leave that
kind of artful dodging
to your
publicly appointed placaters,
your
anointed creation haters. I’m too busy scanning
the
blueprints of the original womb raiders,
the masters
of eugenic pyrotechnics, techniques
perfected by
your congress and senate,
pushing dope
dished by lobbyists, weekend warriors,
ethnocentric
hobbyists robbing wavy gravy trains
splayed from
Kansas City to Haiti. You dropped
your Walmarts,
your Catholic churches, your Church’s
chicken on
me, still I got my own flavor. I copped
a feel from
your savior. I’m a ranter and raver.
I got
digable syllables, a sancocho of styles.
I hopped the
Antilles like Cleopatra rode the Nile.
I’m too
pretty for your red carpet, too Albizu
for your
allegations. You’ve captured my flag
but I
captured your imagination.
It’s true
you regulate what I grow,
relegate
what I know,
and to pray
or to play I got to pay you
a fee, pero we both
know that you
wish you could dance
like me.
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