"The wind blows wherever it pleases." Word?
The scene is played out. We need some Eden!
Were Abba the DJ, He'd spin hymns
To slay. A hybrid of Gospel Blues Jungle
Copeland and Kundimans for a camouflaged choir.
Strobe lights bounce off converted monks, now
Punks, who die and dye their hair. Who cares?
Graffiti overflows wall to wall, inspired
By the Kotel: tattoo artists perform
Miracles, I share a bottle of Mountain Dew
With my bro, while Bhangra beats lull homeless
Ravers too tired from the blessed breakdance.
Elders with glowsticks trade skateboard stickers
And croon in vintage threads the Salvation
Armies donated. Just nudge me, aight? You can
Hock my iPod, mobile phone, knapsack, shades.
I wanna go where the sun rises best. Shalom.
Clifford Rivera is a performance poet and lives in Spring Valley, New York.