(On stiff straw paper, / I write a note to God, I’ll hide in my habit, / “Please, keep Mama, Papa, Brother close ...”) /  Before sun melts periwinkle to hot-red dawn, / they’re grunting, “Sign it! Renounce this country!”

They stain themselves with rosaries, / Rucas and Monte Carlos, skeletons / In fedoras and furs.  The whole room / Reeks of California's finest, at least / Ten blunts spinning hand to hand. / And Santa Maria is there too—praying, / Head bowed, on the shoulder blade / Of an overweight drop-out, brawler / Who calls himself Tiny.

When they say “swarm” / What they mean is us. / What they mean is black / Mass of wings, a single fist / Flying, indecipherable / Chants.  What they mean / Is body.  What they miss is / Brain born of lifetimes, / Mind made of centuries / And sacked catacombs, / The sweet they breed us for. 

Say timbales, say conga, / Say sinew and stilettos, / Say thunderclouds conjured / From a man's hard hands,