POEMS Storyteller

On Stage

I can hear the drums, I can hear the drums
Like the church bells on the day of a funeral
Like angels singing in the jungle
Compassion already spat on your soul
Deceit knelt next to you in church and prayed.
Death smiled so worm you wanted to kiss it.
Life stands behind barking like a rabid hyena
A mouthful of half truths already swallowed the truth
And is choking on it.
Laughter is laughing at itself
And we sit back and applaud the afterlife
In its 52st season on Broadway

Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

Rumble at The Fulton Mall Brooklyn (From the novel I am a Dirty Immigrant)

I always heard that The Melting Pot City was violent but to tell you the truth most of the fights I saw were quite funny. One day a couple of Puerto Ricans kids had a disagreement. I think it was over a girl; go figure. One kid slapped the other and the show was on. I positioned myself at the door to watch and for an hour they danced around like Mohammed Ali. I tell you what – they looked real pretty dancing around like battling peacocks, none of the punches hitting its target. There were some onlookers begging for one of them to hit the other, but the only action was the two young men who were floating like butterflies but neither of them stinging like bees. One kid kept yelling at the other, “You don’t want none!” I remember thinking, “None of what?” I mean, was this a fight or a Broadway musical set in the hood? The posturing went on for hours until they were the only people left on the street, yelling insults at each other.