Brown Gente Working - A Blues Song

 

Verse 1

Brown gente working

in a world of hate,

brown gente working 

in a world of hate,

our criminal dream

just to make some pay,

just to make some pay.

Verse 2

Brown gente hiding

from the men in masks,

brown gente hiding

from the men in masks,

break your window

then you’re kidnapped,

then you’re kidnapped.

Interlude 1

America, America

land of dreams,

paying government officials

to lie like thieves.

If someone ain’t eating

that’s more for me,

if someone’s in detention

that makes me free.

Verse 3

Brown gente in cuffs

aint got no names,

brown gente in cuffs

aint got no names,

when they get dragged 

onto corporate planes,

onto corporate planes.

Interlude 1

America, America

land of dreams,

paying government officials

to lie like thieves.

I know you don’t think

it’s polite to say,

but closing your eyes

don’t make you great.

Verse 5

Brown gente working

in a world of shame,

brown gente working

in a world of shame,

when you say your prayers

who are you gonna blame,

when you say your prayers

who are you gonna blame?

Criminal Song

Criminal Song

(2025)

Lift that head of lettuce in your hands,

moist and light

in the grocery store,

incriminating and weighty

as exhibit A

in the immigration court.

Lift that head of lettuce in your hands,

taste the nutritious criminality,

the aromatic felony

of the worker that wielded

the sharp knife 

of harvest.

Lift that head of lettuce,

spread the leaves across your face

to make the mask

that drags

brown woman,

brown man

into the cage.

Lift that head of lettuce in your hands,

feel the mud and water

drench your clothes and soul,

bend and break 

and bend your back again

till you crawl

beneath the burning sun,

breathing wildfire smoke

and chemical choke,

how long can you last

to pick a few thousand more today -

this the harvest of your hate.

1968 Night - Elegy

 (a memory of two friends, recently passed)

We three were sitting late one night

on a lava rock wall

on a lava rock island 

looking across the dark salt sami

of Pago Bay -

many miles,

many journeys, 

many days

from where we each abide

in star light and shadow now.

On that night when we were young

on Samoan island

in South Pacific expanse

a full moon broke over Rainmaker

and spread at our feet

a glistening carpet,

a path of stars,

a shimmering, leaping,

shivering bridge 

across the water and the night.

Together we held our breath

as the moment and the moonlight 

spread silence and songs 

in our heads,

the only responses

our young hearts could express,

startled by the time and chance,

the volcanic ages, the tectonic surges,

the relentless relation of tides and phases,

the human daring of wander and desire

that brought us three to that moment

of miracle existence.

Each trembling spark of light

on the water that night 

might’ve been each one 

of our steps to come

on jet plane, sixty Chevy,

Greyhound Bus, Amtrak rail,

and misplaced US mail

racing into separation’s shadow.

To snowfall outside Seattle,

to soldier nightmares in LA,

to raucous bars in Virginia,

to barbecue and diner kitchens,

to drunken drive-ins at freeways end,

to dark journeys through darker bedrooms,

to sweating skin and nasty lies

till we all escaped and met again 

under Nuevo Mexico skies.

But on that night, in that cold fire

by oceanside and lunar light

you each knit your fingers

in your lover’s hand,

and then reached to my hand too, 

unspoken wisdom in our young touch

holding us three together 

so we could skim step by step,

and breath by breath,

across the full moon’s shining path

of water and fire.

And in my heart and memory 

there we’ll always be,

hand in hand in hand,

current coursing through,

connection weaving full,

three into one with 

Rainmaker, moon,

star fire, sami,

and journeys to come,

and journeys done.