Shrouded in passion;
they have beautiful features
and skin satin Latin
and hair soft like L’Oreal,
and eyes dark like the midnight sky;

fucked up and emotional
masked in Love
heated by angry traditions;
Brutal romance
they scream machismo on panaderia walls,
some unwritten code of misguided honour;
some long ago language dipped in Spanish,
modern conquistadors;
they bathe in violence and cherry cars;
to be a man, their vision.

Rapid fire tongues
like machine guns in the night;
graffiti backed up by words and blood;
the stench of unrelenting anger:
Street name tattoos in old English font on necks, arms and torso calling you out: 18th St, Clinton, White Fence, Rollin 60s “Mi Barrio es primo, ese!
I’ll fuck your shit up, homes!” the butt of a 9 mil watches you from the top of baggy Chinos;

Familias like sniping dogs
creating life long politics
without understanding the implications;

there is escape in change
the young warriors are told;
but the warriors have already seen
the price to be paid
like third and fourth world nations
living in the shadow of democracy
and its ex-wife communism.

©2004 Chuquai Billy



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