Jimmy Santiago Baca

February 4, 2019

“Waiting” by Jimmy Santiago BacaPosted by

Jimmy Santiago Baca

WAITING

I remember it was a game—blindfolded,
an adult handed me a broomstick,
turned me round until wobbly,
I swung a few times
then whack, I smacked la piñata,
candy and kids scattered everywhere,
hysterically
blinded by the bounty.

Also, blindfolded,
we played
touch & you’re it:
arms extended, I grope air
teased by lunging giggles, reach
and miss
until finally I touch another kid,
and he’s it.

These games, I understood.

This Lady Justice, blindfolded, I don’t.
Was she kidnapped?
I’ll pay her ransom
to get her back, to get her to drop the blindfold
so she can see again, and we don’t
have to go far—no ISIS, al-Qaeda, Boko Haram—
in Albuquerque, Central Avenue, police murdered
Luis Montoya last night, and two others raped
Maria Quintana on the Westside mesa.

Lady Justice, you have a comfortable way
to inhabit time; in your righteousness,
understanding life only in terms of your darkness,
do you not feel an irremediable loss and sadness?

Yes, you live in darkness. Better to have those scales
stolen and melted in the furnace of a closed steel mill
into gold rings and bracelets for the wealthy
that ruin this country, rulers
who rent out jail cells to the poor,
corporate oligarchs who spread your legs
in judge’s chambers and repeatedly fuck you.

You’ve lived in darkness too long,
time for the blindfolds to come off,
to look around at your people,
La Raza—who wander
in your shadow, homeless refugees
waiting for you to untie the knot and throw that rag
away, swing the razor-edged scales on that chain
as if they were weapons and cut and slice at injustice.

I can help.

I can teach you to take my hand
and dance. You don’t have to be afraid,
you don’t have to be in denial, we can both,
with three hundred million others,
teach you to see again, to sing and give you purpose
and a life again that explains why you are here
holding those golden scales as you do.

Right now,
those scales are weighed down—rusting away
holding Wall Street yachts in one—poor in the other—

Shake ’em! Shake ’em! Free ’em up!
As if you had a poisonous spider on your hand—
Shake it off! Shake it off!

So you can accurately weigh the weight
of my humanity against injustice, get the precise
reading of my suffering against their riches,
correctly measure my life’s worth
and dreams for a better life
against corrupt judges and corporate oppressors;

turn your scales to catch the sun’s reflection,
illuminate my dreams again with hope,
let your light rays shoot into the alleys,
jail cells, under bridges, hospitals, old-age homes,
food lines, on teenage sex-slaves and runaways
fucking privileged men for a hamburger and fries.

Wake the fuck up, Lady!

You’ve been in that pose out there
way too long, pretending to represent
people like me living week to week—
take a bath, brush your hair, look presentable,
there’s a lot of us waiting for you,
and we can help you, just take that blindfold off
and throw away those sleeping pills
and see us.

We can help, we’ve been at it a long time,
and you can join us in the lines
marching, protesting, fasting, striking,
you don’t have to be afraid: sure, you might
get bruised or gassed or pepper sprayed,
end up getting arrested and beat up,
but we can free you, we can make you feel alive
and vibrant, and we’ll show you how beautiful
life can be, how much you’re loved,
when you’re with us, we’re ready to help you.

—from Rattle #62, Winter 2018

__________

Jimmy Santiago Baca: “I was a scared eighteen-year-old kid in prison. I didn’t want to join any of the gangs. I saw right through it. But it did get me in the end; the power over another human being is addictive. You do a little bit and you want another line, and then another line. It took me a couple years to fight that. The only access I had was to walk through the door of the page. It was the only way through, get a book and read. If I didn’t walk through that door, I’d end up fighting somebody. And when you have no self-esteem, and you’re full of self-loathing, reading gives you perspective and lessens the self-hatred one carries after a lifetime of abuse and poverty and drug use.”

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July 24, 2018

“Celebrate” by Jimmy Santiago BacaPosted by

Jimmy Santiago Baca

CELEBRATE

Five hundred and five years
tortillas slapping between mamas’ hands,
farmers irrigating red and green chili, squash, and corn rows,
forming halves into wholes, braiding
two roots into one thriving, ever-deepening, mother-root
bridge between black and white,
blood rainbowing
opposite shores,
connecting south to north, east to west.

Five hundred and five years
of prayers mumbled from lips,
hands clasping other hands to endure,
keeping the line intact,
unbroken hope, rosaried faith,
from Incas, Moctezuma, Cortez, Villa y Chavez,
to the anonymous men sitting on park benches
meditating on the dawn,
to women climbing cathedral steps to attend Mass,
to whimpering, wakening infants
suckling at their mothers’ breasts.

Five hundred and five years
and still they remain
all beating with strong hearts,
strong
hearts celebrating the magic songs,
acts of courage that leap from them
and integrity
that shines from them.

—from Rattle #12, Winter 1999
Tribute to Latino & Chicano Writers

__________

Jimmy Santiago Baca (from Working in the Dark): “One night in my third month in the county jail, I was mopping the floor in front of the booking desk. Some detectives had kneed an old drunk and handcuffed him to the booking bars. His shrill screams raked my nerves like a hacksaw on bone, the desperate protest of his dignity against their inhumanity. But the detectives just laughed as he tried to rise and kicked him to his knees. When they went to the bathroom to pee and the desk attendant walked to the file cabinet to pull the arrest record, I shot my arm through the bars, grabbed one of the attendant’s university textbooks, and tucked it in my overalls. It was the only way I had of protesting.” (web)

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July 12, 2018

“Set This Book on Fire!” by Jimmy Santiago BacaPosted by

Jimmy Santiago Baca

SET THIS BOOK ON FIRE!

Rising
in the glow of the embers,
and even in the ashes, I want to tell you:
I’ve spent years
studying stark cries in the cancerous marrow
of inner-city streets. I’ve gone to
Uppidee districts to witness poets
who kiss their asses while adjusting grins,
luring audience approval with politically correct quips.

I want to tell you:
don’t lie! If you’re going to read a poem
about a kid getting his head blown off,
don’t raw jaw your cotton-tipped tongue
to gain the sugary aplomb and donut favor
of English Department heads, who like you
and never scavenged food from dumpsters, who like you
and never stood in welfare lines, who like you
while gleaning misery topics from The New York Times.

I want to tell you:
if you’re going to preach what you don’t follow,
testify to what you haven’t lived,
hoola-hoop your way like a pride-plucked hen
doormatting your heart for moneyed admirers
whose concerned faces ohh and ahh faked empathy,
know that poetry deserves better than that
hee-hawing, educated, hillbilly-mule
whinnying for the crowd response.

I want to tell you:
while you do your sheepish, poor-me routine,
your victim-in-distress sighing,
poor people are being murdered,
prisoners are being zapped with fifty-thousand volts
of electricity to make them behave.
O hollow-hearted, New Age activist that you are,
tell us in your poetry how cooly you’ve risked
your life helping refugees cross the border.

I want to tell you:
what you’re looking for is a new title to acclaim,
what you want is to be hailed a savior
when you spice your poetry with theatrics,
crumpling on the floor and groaning with rage.
O how the world has done you wrong!
The last thing we need is more toothless tigers
stalking thousand-dollar checks from sympathetic patrons
of first-class airlines and four-star hotels.

I want to tell you:
I’m weary of these castrated Uppidees,
poets and patrons who’ve hardly engaged in life.
I’m tired of the prejudice they never own,
tired of them spouting off familiar remedies
to a world of ills they’ve never known.
I beg you both, get out of the way,
please step aside, just a couple of steps,
it takes too much effort to go around you.

I want to tell you:
the flashpoint of paper is 451 degrees.

—from Rattle #12, Winter 1999
Tribute to Latino & Chicano Writers

__________

Jimmy Santiago Baca (from Working in the Dark): “One night in my third month in the county jail, I was mopping the floor in front of the booking desk. Some detectives had kneed an old drunk and handcuffed him to the booking bars. His shrill screams raked my nerves like a hacksaw on bone, the desperate protest of his dignity against their inhumanity. But the detectives just laughed as he tried to rise and kicked him to his knees. When they went to the bathroom to pee and the desk attendant walked to the file cabinet to pull the arrest record, I shot my arm through the bars, grabbed one of the attendant’s university textbooks, and tucked it in my overalls. It was the only way I had of protesting.” (web)

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