Hola mi Gente,
Note, I am not a Bernie Sanders supporter, but I will not be voting for him or Hillary. Hillary’s
record as an active FLOTUS who pushed for policies that helped her husband lock
up more (mostly black and brown) people than any other president in history,
and her record as a senator continuing
those punitive policies, disqualifies her from my vote.
Her response to activist, Ashley Williams, who confronted
Clinton about her comments 20 years ago calling young
black children “superpredators” was dismissive, belligerent, and quite
telling. However, my biggest problem with the discussion of the myth of the
superpredator is the denial that it had racist overtones. No one, not even the
snake oil salesmen who pushed the myth, deny it had a racial component. One of
the purveyors of this shameless poison, James Fox, warned of a “bloodbath” of
teen violence and in a report to the U.S. Attorney general, said, “Our nation
faces a future juvenile violence problem that may make today’s epidemic pale in
comparison” He called attention in
particular to the projected growth in the black teenage population (ages
14-17), which he predicted would increase 26% by 2005.
Any questions?
Today it’s all about art. This is one of mine written a
long time ago…
* * *
Yesterdays [no. 3]
A
case of Bacardi for the crazy ladies
in the corner of my past,
the hectic, horny days
of yesterday!
They beckon me back
to my forgotten madnesses,
the chest-pounding blackouts
that have grown into story-time delights.
Sure, they often left before dawn
to test my memory
with a perfumed and pummeled pillow.
And they sprayed me with
ashtrays,
broken bottles,
cans of habichuelas,
and all their sadnesses
to leave me forever bruised and bleeding.
But they cared,
these crazy ladies,
at least as much as they could...
So let's hear it for the courageous ones
who gave these hilarious crimes to me
as evidence that I once lived.
They are the only souls I still know
who can tell me what I used to be
and why.
in the corner of my past,
the hectic, horny days
of yesterday!
They beckon me back
to my forgotten madnesses,
the chest-pounding blackouts
that have grown into story-time delights.
Sure, they often left before dawn
to test my memory
with a perfumed and pummeled pillow.
And they sprayed me with
ashtrays,
broken bottles,
cans of habichuelas,
and all their sadnesses
to leave me forever bruised and bleeding.
But they cared,
these crazy ladies,
at least as much as they could...
So let's hear it for the courageous ones
who gave these hilarious crimes to me
as evidence that I once lived.
They are the only souls I still know
who can tell me what I used to be
and why.
* * *
My
name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization…
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