The dark hour of the liberty bell —
a test-strike with a blunt force
cracked her brittle face.
With blood stained lips
she spits on my grave.
Like a black cat I’ve gone out to haunt
the night, braver in my own skin, seeing
no evil, dreaming like a possessed witch
night by night, what a black thing!
Your love out of my mind yet your
flames bites on my erection and
breaks the wheels of my heart.
This broken creature you know is
always misunderstood for a believer,
a thousand times of the ups and downs
you’ve failed trying to rearrange
his mind, for you are not that kind
raised by fire and brimstone to ride
in his cart — her body opened, believing.
Treading on a believer’s foot is a journey
and a destination mapped on her body
that allows you to trace your ground
and dig your own shallow grave.
I’ve retrieved the locks that they
dread I don’t believe her… curves!
And the beauty of the place my
hands have played with there.
And we both know that I’ve rendered
self to awakening upon this mountain
where God of the golden magical wand
inhabits with all good and evil dispositions.
LatinosUSA 
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