Same Everywhere

Same Everywhere
After Langston Hughes’, “Letter from Spain.”

Gijon, Asturias, Spain
February, something 2017,
Near 80 years since beginning of the Spanish Civil War.

Dear Johnny,

I am your brother.
I reside in Spain. Still the same everywhere.

Franco is dead. I think you would have been pleased
By this news.

You are my ancestor. Not directly. I lift you up.

Republicans/Anarchists sadly no emblazoned
Glory hallelujahs nor banners flown in their favor,
U saw that as a result
U saw that crooked cross spun scoliosis fascists other party
U boat and jet propaganda bombast in blast blast
All over Europe and parts of our mother land. You knew. You knew
Holding that Moor already ¾ in grave.

I live in a different Spain now
The Moors aren’t being thrusted into the front line as shield for Francoites
Naw, still persecuted though
And do risk life and limb to enter into this new thing
So too others from the diaspora
Like this Senegalese brother who said,
“You must write your stories and tell the children they are beauty.” Deep. Moved.

I will tell you they are safe.
That they live with a dignity like the white man-I would like to say.
But you know, like I know, that would be coal in the mouth
And still from your Galaxy House
Among those fiery deities: Malcolm, King, Angelou, Parks, Ghandi, Baldwin, Hurston,
You still write to save, to educate
U know nothing new abides in this earth but
The Sun Commandment: that which lives, must die.

To scribe the World needs the scribe-who is it?
The pain staked youth, they are Beauty, can’t shake it, that message
Yet the spiritual take:
It was the journey he took to tell me that
Engaged in this author’s glory
He risked his life and limb to soak up Spain shore
I can’t shake it
To tell me to scribe to uplift the
Future it is young and must be born in compassion not in material
I can’t shake it

This country of which I knew you
Stayed, I am sure, loved for a moment
I will tell you
That the world too seems to fear and hold us in crushing hands,
Still, I will tell you they still don’t know themselves: the whites
They still appropriate and dispose of our bodies
Like we were lower trash, still
The only thing that’s changed
Social media, we got varied outlets now

The Fog is Gatsbian. This night, I am strolling along
The boardwalk lights undulating like snake hips on black Cantabrian sea,
That black sea fighting against shore, a tiding inn
Did u ever see Asturias, Gijón?
U’d love it.

My fav thing is to walk back home
Drunk on whiskey and beers
Along this misty boardwalk

Had a feeling, never go back (US).
I was in Cartagena (Spain) face toward the bowed part of back-head of mother Africa North
And thought freedom, in some ways I am. In other ways, there is an ingrained racism here I am trying to dislodge…it.

I am tired. I am.

Today, I explained to a Spanish ten year old
Why the N’word is putrid. Deadly. Horrid.
I have done this several times to whites here in Spain and
To whites from our home living in Spain. SMH (this means ‘shaking my head’). They still do not get it.

I am sorry to report this. I had wanted to report better news. I cannot say
This dispatch is a happy one. Recently, a known bigot was elected but
I guess you already have lived through the worst bigots in that white-crowned-
House built on black spinal cord and hip bone, sweat, shit, blood…
You already know!
These cycles are repetitive, sadly.
I am sorry to report no real advances have been made
Although we finally had a Brother in office
I think you would’ve been proud.
Johnny (Langston),
I love you.

You still radiate.




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