Why am I still nervous when a cop
pulls up behind me in traffic?
I have done nothing wrong
there are no warrants
no all points bulletins floating my name in the airwaves
not even an unpaid parking ticket
yet I look into the rear view mirror and see
hard eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses watching every move
punching names and numbers into the computer to see if it
spits out anything worthy of his attention
despite my legal status
all of my papers are in order
neatly tucked away in the glove box
the radio is not loud
my tires are normal
there are no empty beer bottles littering
the floor of my suburban friendly vehicle
So why the butterflies in my stomach?
I am unassuming and nonthreatening
in every way but one: the hue of my skin
my children are with me, safely in their car seats
unaware of the sudden panic in my heart
I am a grown man
I have nothing to hide from “the law”
except maybe contempt
and the kind of bitterness
evolved from a lifetime of mistrust
Pavlovian baton beatings
murderers with badges
who receive slaps on the wrist and
the constant fear that I am but one
false move away from losing everything
in a moment of protest
©2010 Santino J. Rivera – Broken Sword Publications
*Dedicated to Oscar Grant and all of the brothers and sisters who have been murdered just like him.
I am an angry
miserable mother fucker
when I look in the mirror
with only myself to blame
if I punched the reflection looking back at me Continue reading »
I would break through several sheets of glass
hearing the cacophony of laughter
from generations past
If I look ahead of me I see the barrel of a gun, looking back
only the charred remains of many yesterdays
a bullet in my head and Hell licking at my feet
there is no more running – I know that now
ten years of suppressed anger have found me
like an immigration raid long overdue
I am on the bus back to where
I should have always been
detained and deranged, ready
to be unleashed with a head full of furious ideas
and no one to understand the language
the shackles are thin and
when I do finally wash the blood from my hands
it will surprise no one, least of all
the man whose funeral I forgot or
the one who taught me how to kill
I have always been walking down this road, searching
for an exit sign along the way
weighing the borrowed time against
the alleged progress
even though fate was just another dirty word
I will succumb to it like a jealous lover
too blind to see what is ahead of me and too careless to look
after what I will leave behind
the pieces are no longer mine to pick up
- S. Joaquin Rivera, All Rights Reserved
I am not Jack Torrence.
I am not Jack Torrence.
I am not Jack Torrence.
I am not Jack Torrence.
I am not Jack Torrence.
I am not Jack Torrence.
I am not Jack Torrence.
I am not Jack Torrence.
Yet I see myself in that photograph time after time, smiling.
I know that look, Jack.
It’s the same one I get when I drink.
It’s funny because, as I’m sure you know, the alcohol stays in the blood for sometime after
the last drop
The anger is always easy to rise.
It is a chemical transformation;
one which burns with fire if you watch the eyes.
It’s always within the eyes.
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