by Victor David Sandiego
Fence of law divides us
from the corporation
that opens its mouth to scream.
Fence divides us into camps, a wrathful
immigration king
guards the corporation
that opens its mouth to scream.
Corporation is dying
to scrape
newspaper holes in our shoes
proffers a single mug-shot mouth
when it screams.
Coin of our hands, a man
on a gurney gasps, clasps his contract.
Of meager years, a boy bleeds the tattoo
from his arm.
Pulse of our fingers
tap / tap
black stained factories and muffler shops
thrust
our frail paychecks
through the ravenous teller slot.
Ah, the gentle scampering of ledger sheets
rattle of courthouse doors, briefcase
justice walking by
canister-rolls-on-concrete sound of weeping gas
a lucky crunch of cheek bone, black
diesel engines coughing
walkie-talkie warlords laughing
drums and dance steps
god-damn paper declarations crinkling
mayors
blowing their air horns
on the tarmac.
And above the cacophony of grievances
above the shouts of swine and truncheon music
above the swiveling sound of turrets:
an anemic plea, a simple ghost child
trapped
inside the desolate heartbeat
of the corporation
that opens its mouth to scream.
Victor David Sandiego – poeta, baterista, composer – was the winner of the 1st WordStorm Poetry Competition held on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, a winner of the Jeanne Lohmann Poetry Prize, and the winner of the 2009 Crab Creek Review poetry contest. His work appears in various journals and on public radio. He lives in the high desert of central México. For more, see: www.VictorDavid.com.
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