The Kings

Marcos Reyes is an amazing San Jose based poet who writes about the hardships that life throws at him.

The Kings

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the heart beats,
the rhythm pulses,
the morning is over the hills,
and the sound of the muffling pushes through the highway.
There is something so ephemeral about this moment,
in another world I was born a prince,
son of a feudal king that owned lands that stretched as far as the eye could see.
In another world,
in this world the only thing I hold to is my name,
it is a Spanish one,
that describes my gentry,
those of a pure blooded prince,
in America there is no such thing,
those remnants of cultured creatures like the southern man are no more.
Like the disposed families of Faulkner,
today my days pass like a slave in the land of Egypt,
beating a hammer over concrete,
sinking a shovel into earth,
my dark flesh soaks the heat,
the taste of this country is sour,
and every moment it shares with its people is stuck in a chain of need,
we are dope fiends and the promise for wealth dissipates,
like a cloud that moves farther into the sky,
that moves and evaporates as we reach out and touch it.
There is nothing here,
there is no history to the world we live in,
those lost convictions of capital have dissipated,
we are post capital,
farther than anyone could have seen,
this country is for sale,
and forever slipping from your reach,
between wires,
between the contracts,
between the numbers.
In America foreigners change their names,
even the lowliest of workers,
the ones that work in factories,
that dig up your pluming retains this obsession,
names that don’t mean anything to the adopted,
there is something I want,
I don’t want to forget.
The history of a man is carried in his name,
the places he went,
the people he came from,
the wars waged to preserve a blood,
a creed.
The love that Indian men made to white women,
that sealed off their fate before they died,
that chanted old wails in the heat of their land,
that Spanish man that renounced his king,
that fought with his bare brown hands against an empire,
that half creature with the zeal of an Aztec,
the long nights in the warmth of kin,
those ancient tales of the mountains,
of lovers turned into cordilleras,
those ancient chants that echo,
and bellow in halls of our minds,
like a lullaby that cradles a child.
This world,
that sells the poor a dream,
the Indian,
the Spanish gentleman,
the peasant in revolt,
the culture of strife,
of triumph that bred Mexican kings that owned lands are far as the eye could see,
that held the earth between his fingers,
like a lover,
like a friend,
and a tamer,
that world is still within me,
that world of tranquil peace,
that heaven that was roamed by my mothers and fathers,
I am a silent man,
that doesn’t flaunt the names of strangers,
that speaks in silent moments,
that is civil in the face of avarice,
I am the son of a prince,
that works in the land of Egypt,
that builds the edifice of a foreign empire,
that retains his chivalry in the face of farce and falsehood,
that speaks English like he speaks Spanish,
that holds onto his name,
holding that world.

About Marcos Reyes

A contributor to multiple news outlets, Reyes is a rare literary mind that writes on the struggles of working class America.

About TIBURON!!F!B!

TIBURON!!F!B! is a mutant artist photographer who explores visual imagery via his dreams

This article is part of the categories: Arts & Culture  / Photo  / Poetry 
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Comments

Peace. Paz. Thank you for sharing the news from the front line, Marquito. Someone has to. Peace. Paz. Salaamu alaikum.

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