Gospel of Shit Happens
What goes around
comes around, and
it picks up speed
on the way back.
Whose blood flows under my fallen arches?
10,000 years pump in Indigenous’ blue veins.
Sisal fibers layered around lacerated hungry soles
of Asians as they trudged the Bearing’s ice bridge.
Their land was old when Los Conquistadores
savaged natives until creeks ran crimson, stole
gold for the Queen’s grace in Ronda’s cathedral.
Their land was old when Spanish priests wasted
Mission tribes for Jesus, their Cross-born gore
ran to the LA river in the trough of Zanja Madre.
Their land was old when Mexican grantees from
Chihuahua cultivated citrus on Boyle’s heights,
on hills where the slain Tongva once hunted.
Their land was old when Fremont’s Yankees
sabered Mexicans in Cahuenga Pass, cussed their
Spanish language but married Juanitas, spawned
proud strains later evicted from Chavez Ravine.
Their land was old when Poet Laureate of Pueblo
de Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Ángeles Luis
Rodriguez was whelped.
Long before Luis’ Coiled Serpent struck quake-
swarms in Sylmar, occupation Gringos stole
compesino grazing fields for Anglo golf courses.
The land got older when Ruben Salazar, Chicano
thought-leader, was executed in a Constitution-
sanctioned redress of grievances by our citizens.
Any wonder why La Raza burst out from East LA?
