4 the Fam, pt. II

My family is made of bulletproof
peonies & gardenias, blessed roses
equipped with lava tongues & teeth

Our hands aren’t weak; won’t break
when squaring up against the state,

in our defense
we could evaporate 

the pen and the pigs
with nothing
but our good looks.

My family came up throwing hands 

by the carload, fists grinning,

sparring with the moon;
making meaning from mess,
amassing armories of hope
against the pale cloak of capitalism.

4 the Fam pt. III

My family is bigger than a booking booth or precinct.
We’ll keep throwing kitchen sinks into the county
court buildings, we’re sick of washing our blood off
these plates the state keeps eating our bodies off of. 

We can’t keep cramming crumbs 

under thumb; pretending it's a meal.

Still learning to mill the state into sustenance.

¿Quieres de maíz o harina? We’ll make tortillas

out of every racist city councilor; we’ll convert

city hall into a pop-up panaderia to prove a point.

Feed the people.  House the people.  Fuck the police.

My family’s made of strangler-ficus-ocean-focus
We don’t roll with cowards or cop sympathizers
squawking, you’re under arrest for existing!

No colonial-apocalypse could ever end us.

Just look at how we built these big beautiful lives

under the ruinous amerikkkan genocide; still alive.