Winter 2013 - THE POTOMAC

Miss Amerika

   Darrel Alejandro Holnes

A half–baked Cadillac pulls up ashore
with a semi–automatic sea princess aboard
fresh off the boat, according to lore,
she comes with guns to seize room and board

but before taking aim she stands
with a crucifix & blue rosary beads in hand
to trade for some weed and an island
with the rich, indigenous gentleman

seduced by her bleached blond luck
spun from enchantment’s wheel
he prays for her beauty’s fortune
or to be devoured by its sex appeal

and reaches for her body’s psychedelic
but gets lost in the perfume of her purple haze
lost in its thunder, in its lightning electric,
until she finds him and Judas kisses his face.

Hail Mary, full of hope, dealing genies to buy
your dope. Blessed is the lamb between your teeth,
blessed be the fool who buys your dreams.

Who can blame a card trick hustler
swapping spin for spit & money
flexing her triceps, toned and muscular
for the best caramelos in Milk & Honey

when she’s got a sweet tooth for true salvation,
the kind that comes from sacrifice.
Black backs rise and fall on tobacco plantations
tongues sing slick white moon vibrations tonight

like beach–front bombs explode their curses,
like diggers swan song when crushed by cranes,
like winds locked in chimes howl to escape,
like oceans, these voices, echo swallowed chains.

Hail Whitney, singingyour love trap deep
into our ears so every time love swings low
then soars high we burst a fire’s symphony

of amber embers dancing above the bon
flickering spangles crackling one–two rhythms.
We toasts the ashes. She cooks with bourbon
sometimes missing the pan but never outing the bidims.

Liquor burns to sugar in the flame
and drunk on her anthem we radiate.
Six shot–glass gun salute, hand over
heartworm to swallow him too.

White heat, diamond sun, and smoke rays
of glitter bejewel the crown emerging
on her head. Thirteen–carat princess, she blings
more shine than words could have ever said.

A red light searches for the money
shot, bang–bang his bullets fly wild,
it’s a drive–by and her top is down,
hot rod Sex in the City style.

Hail Carrie, narrating the fall of snake by woman’s hand.
Blessed be temptation giving men a taste,
damning them both with the same wretched fate.

How many ways can you skin a fig? Forbidden fruit,
never the answer. But here we are, oceans away from origin,
with the certainty we risked it all to attain in pursuit
of happiness, or its nearest illusion

still unsure if perhaps ignorance wouldn’t have been
the better choice. Como la flor she is lost in the garden,
eating flies to survive. Como la flor she is a signature tune
on blast at the rodeo, riding in on a chariot she croons con tanto amor

a cumbia to a crowd that proves the border crossed her.
She clicks her heels. Her dance says there’s no place like here,
no place like Houston, no place like home, and center stage she twerks,
she cartwheels, spins and sings. It was her last chance and she’s won.

Blessed is she now among women and blessed is the fruit of their wombs.
Holy Selena, mother of renacimientos pray for our Virgins, now
and at the hour of their deaths and eternal adoration.

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