James Blood Ulmer/Grisel Acosta
Back to La Iglesia Blues *
(in response to James Blood Ulmer’s “Back to the Church”)
1.
daughter of un ministro
disciple of Al Jourgensen’s Ministry
drinking scriptures and whiskey while
spinning on middle finger cross spires
ain’t nothin’ wrong with my song
siren banshee call of sex and politics
Jello Biafra, my teacher of world genocide atrocity and healing humor
my damnation is only chisme, rumor
oye mi melody too dark and sweet
mimics the jeweled deep stained red
glass blood wine salvation is mine
like a new-limbed leper dancing on velvet
dark 20 foot Gothic doors can’t keep
my musica out—open for me
beat knockers to my walk
hear me talk mierda, and sometimes the truth
2.
Blood
back in the church
crimson music spilled like candle
wax on carpet burning smoke
bullets sangre muerte—love
won’t keep you alive, sacrifice
cross an X with steel and spine
sword gun words and bonds
bounty on your head, cracked
broken preacher my teacher his flock
Black
Blood
Music
welts on back
cleft pain on skin
burrowed worry and hymns of fear, we’re
Back in the Church
Under the Church
Within the Church
Singing
Still
3.
El Reverendo sings the blues
The Priest sings the blues
The Deacon sings the blues
The Spirit lives in the blues
Kneeling is the blues
Healing is the blues
The song is the blues
The sermon is the blues
The Bible, The Word, The Glory, The Funk, The Junk in yo’ Trunk and the resulting stank eye is the blues.
*Inspired by First Spanish UCC and the Charleston shootings
Are You Happy to Be (a Black Latina and) in Spain?
(in response to James Blood Ulmer’s “Are You Glad to Be in America?”)
sunrise
east mosquito blood spread
soft drip summit whip winds
hit my head with the buzz of anarchy
conquistadores
subversive conspiracy of Catalán scripture erasure
Aragonian empire western sea scourge
reclaimed Don Cuixot* serving vermouth on saints day
sky
tracks criss cross bones under taut
olive complexion digging
seeds of homeless dirt hunger
web
telarañas blanket cask, block peepholes
smalltown grocery clerk overpriced judgment
porque we Americanos don’t belong here at late night tapas hours
vanquished
punk afro-latinidad sancocho language banning
American empire eastern sea scourge
reclaimed batata baile ass dance in your face, ja ja!
sunset
west black racer entrails crush blue
mirror tiles under boots, free
loud, waking up the Español neighbors, now
I’m the invader
*This is the Catalán spelling of D
Freelancing
(in response to James Blood Ulmer’s “Freelancing”)
we are vines
reaching for the solid wall
twisting around wrought iron
a centrifuge spiraling dizzy
grasping metal with teeth
pointed and shiny hope
pain hangs like unripe grapes
light and bitter, unseen between spring leaves
we crawl on the ground
wanting more, hungry for life like an empty cave
our green desire will smother beauty
all over rotting stucco, old façades
and when our cloak of writhing madness
obscures the crumbling institutions
then, will we bear our honey
fruit, tasting of death and miracles
a metallic surf scream
the hesitancy of an embrace
resting twilight on furrowed brick