With this inspiration, we are given hope that the Universe may in fact be Just. And by this sign we are given inspiration to stay the course, since a symptom of the presence of True Justice in the Universe has appeared.
Para mi gente… chequealo… Bushwick on my mind quinceañeras at the bodega with their pretty pink dresses luscious dark eyes longing to cut the Valencia cakes while Mr. Softee lingers over coco helados y piragüeros fighting for the last dollar
Across the street, santeros dressed in white with their collares buying chickens at the poultry shop for their next tambor to be held this Sunday in someone else’s crowded basement
Maggie cruisin’ back and forth back and forth Keeping the dealers in check As the sounds of beepers Rottweiler fights Freestyle & chanting from the Pentecostal church fill the air with the smells of pernil, alcapurrias y empanadas from La Claribel - the best cuchifrito in town
Up on the roof, Miguelito giving blow jobs to grey-haired old men so that he can get a fade at Paul’s boutique or buy mami that fake painting she wanted for $5.99 down Knickerbocker Avenue
Malitza walking by pregnant with her second baby only 18 & already night manager at McDonald’s she wasn’t gonna end up consumed in the empty little crack bags she counted every morning on her way to Grover Cleveland High School
Hector, her boyfriend, home from playing handball all day lying shirtless on the couch blunted out of his mind staring at the roach on the ceiling one single roach in a vast desert or maybe an alien exploring a new world the ceiling fan - his spaceship
Doña Carmen sneezing so loud The walls so thin Hector says ‘Salud‘ & she hears him from the second floor over Walter Mercado on Canal 41
Turning off the kitchen lights so that the roaches can scurry into the darkness - their freedom like the children playing out all night
Waiting for the L train ‘Mira, Georgie… gimmie a quarter!’ ‘Fine… but cha betta pay me back tomorrow!’
Life in Bushwick, ain’t it a trip! One day we’ll all be buried beneath the ground we spit on
Emanuel Xavier’s work can be purchased online on Amazon.com. For more information, visit emanuelxavier.com, his MySpace page, or look for him on Facebook.
Possibly, tired of game-spotting, dotting and dashing, Painter-Creator had a longing for lines, elegantly unbroken. Pure without rendezvous, their unrequited love eternally unspoken. ``A change from Cheetah with his collection of marks All nature needs is a set of stripes - symbolic of healing forever, And I`ll lay them all on you, Monsieur Zebra!" Roguishly, almost, that creature roams the wild, although wearing rigor in the design of his hide. Always imprisoned in black and white. Imperial parallel lines. And, tamely, a convict looks out from the severest of bars Across his cell- window. ``Wish one were skew, I`d escape to the stars!" L and double ll, the word itself contains the concept - line-like letters, side by side. Though is it para-lell or -llel? Goodness, I forget! La-di-da, linguistic laws! You are laboriously legalistic. Let`s have gentle guidelines, almost-parallels, which have the grace to bend. Every now and then, two fools, bent on comedy, find each other`s antics equally funny. ``Ha-ha, Clown, you`re ludicrous!" ``Nay, Elf, merely eccentric!" Jesters, unaware that the very laughter lines on their faces are matched. Lovers, ha! - on the other hand, keep a cool fixed distance apart, initially. Then - legit-and-intimate, approach a limit, and come to lie closeclose together. Who can tell whether they form one life, or two, parallel? ``Long ago, in Liverpool ... " my mother-in-law tells stories of her boy, now my beloved. ``Look - these pointed iron railings are rare today." Neat, spearlike, in a row. Vectors! ``Let`s turn these parallels into bullets! Para-shoot in self-defence!" came the call In the Wars, I and II. Weapons, not hedges, were needed in a hurry. Indeed, the metal-melting worked. Line upon line, homely fencing was ripped out In sacrifice. Woeful women turned into widows, and a few men, sta-sta-mmering victors! Nowadays, well-organized fiery darts attack the family in more subtle ways. Newspapers no longer carry the cruelest lines of all. Nailed with His back to us, it`s easy to forget, at Easter, that thirty-ah! nine-ah! parallel strokes were part of the torture. Even a child playing choo-choo is fascinated by tracks which nevernever meet - ``Except at infinity" the sage adds, cryptically. So, terrible lashes free us from selfish cells, forever. Someone, sing of this escape from slavery. Guitar`s six lines, unplucked, lie Silently parallel. Musicians! Wake up! Make those strings meet, as we dance 'til Eternity!