Taina Fertility Chant

Betty Boop Boricua
No me diga - la nena ‘ta pregnant again?
(I thought she decided no more after Tito…)
she’s almost 16 – and she dropped out of school.
(It might be the spice in abuela’s sofrito…)

There’s one in the oven and two in the stroller
Oh nubile Boricua, what gives – ¿Qué sería?
if life is the masa and birth is the bakery
yours is a virtual panadería

Some pulse in your short-shorts, those flexible hips
under tropical rhythm of lewd reggaeton
seems to summon the sperm from your lover’s abundance
whenever you find yourselves home and alone.

Where’s your man? Who’s the daddy? Why didn’t he stay?
your gaze is unsettling, harshly pathetic
You sad Betty-Boop: are you waiting in vain
for your man – or your period?  How unpoetic…

This life lived on welfare, entitled, enslaved
with your babies at grandma’s and you with your phone
is a taxpayer’s nightmare and teenage recurrence
(but you’re busy texting some drama unknown…)

Mamita herself looks more like your hermana
She started this game even earlier, too
When you stand, side by side, in your thongs and pijama
it’s hard to be sure who is who.


Hindoo Folk Song

 तत् त्वम् असि 

for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons, washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo
 (the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute)

Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the dirty water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,

these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots

Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their loins with priestly garments, saying

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight

Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,

these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful  heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day

Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.

Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt –
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,

these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now -
drank fresh urine from a heifer’s  bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.

Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman -
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”

slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp

 Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.

 “This is God –worship Him, worship Him -
this is God – let us worship Him now…”




You globalists politically correct

Whose agendas infect, whose zeal diverts

limpid flowing water into culverts;

stagnant streams you trace – but cannot connect.

You suppress truth, enable and protect

alien subversion.  So truth asserts

her right to cleanse and purge; justice reverts

to judgment as our heritage is wrecked.

Let citizens awaken  – or reject

as useless: Faith, Family, God and Country.

Triumph forevermore, you despised sect

Enemies wish dead, buried, forgotten.

Spare us the multi-culti effrontery;

May your one-world perish, misbegotten.


Weakly Devotional

The First Shall Be Last
The men of Nineveh shall rise in judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it:
because they repented at the preaching of Jonah; and, behold, a greater than Jonah is here.
The queen of the South shall rise up in the judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it:
for she came from the uttermost parts of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon;
and, behold, a greater than Solomon is here.
Matthew 12:41,42

It’s Sunday again for the cloistered patricians
aloof from the madness of magic and myth;
who trust in their wisdom, investments, physicians
unready to answer forthwith:

“Why then should I worship – in church or the zoo -
why weaken the links with a dull set of tools ?”
you ask yourself over your high-end Tarrazu,
bemused at the fables of fools.

You’ve bartered salvation for New York Times articles,
sipping on bitterness (shade-grown organic).
You settle for molecules, atoms and particles
unfairly-traded,  satanic -

while you celebrate emptiness, general futility
musing on nothing, assured of specifics
ensconced in your kitchen of pampered gentility
flirting with atheist physics.

Those simple plebeians:  you’d love to enlighten them
help them, like you, to become a free-thinker
but you remain tasteful, for boldness might frighten them
reeling in fairy tales: hook, line and sinker.

Yet somebody, somewhere has uttered your sentence
(though you abhor judgement, let’s read it again).
Sheba and Nineveh, versed in repentance
await you – not whether but when.

The darkness is brewing unholy filtration;
the wine of the harlot approaches the rim;
your guilt is augmenting in slow percolation;
you shrug it all off on a whim.

The souls of Assyria rise from your paper
they watch in amazement, prepare your abyss.
Your coffee now brims a more sulfurous vapor;
poor sinner – there’s nothing amiss.

The crypts of Marib and the tombs of the Axumites
shudder and groan. But you’re reading the Times…
(who cares what some Christard, some Fundie-brained poet writes
mixing psychosis with rhymes.)

Royal Sheba will chastise your erudite unbelief,
smug self-importance and cynical talk.
Then she’ll sigh with immense Ethiopian grief
and her Highness Queen Bilqis will balk -

It is Sunday in Babylon.  What if your sunlight ends…
why are there mobs in the streets of the nation?
Shall you have breakfast – or calculate dividends…
what would you pay for salvation?


IMAGE CREDITS: faithofthefathersreadings.blogspot