Children Of Magdalene

Emanuel Xavier

Dedicated to Reverend Phelps

There are so many dead pretending to live amongst us now

who belong to a church hidden behind the harvest of hate

which takes us in and blinks us out with ignorant eyes

and condemn us for lying together in the tombs of our beds

while their savior hangs from nails displayed on hollow walls

and our sacrifices are left to hang on fences

bleeding rivers of glory

to wash away the sins of their world

This prejudice is the pain that clouds my eyes and knots my spine

the scars on the back of my head

engraved by those who reach out open arms

bloodied with hypocrisy, lost dreams, and intangible mantras

those who haunt our daily prayers

with the sounds of oppression

to silence our shepherds with death

because death equals dreams never to be heard of again

and our prophets get no maps to salvation

But the wind will not inherit the echoes of our souls

we will not leave our canvas with unfinished colors

or remain the uninvited children of a lesser God

we will ground our bare feet with toes in soil

listen for the wind chimes in the insanity of life

light candles for our brothers and sisters

from the West Side Highway piers of New York City

to the farm lands of Laramie, Wyoming

to the Castro Streets of San Francisco

and feel the closest we can to heaven

because true love has no boundaries

and our angels have wings too

AL PIE DE OYA

Emanuel Xavier

I shared a drink with Miguel Algarin,

founder of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe,

the place that sanctified me from the streets with poetry

& I found myself thinking about Mikey,

not the Mikey X I had contrived as an alias in my writings,

but the Miguel Pero that had been this man’ s best friend

Miguel (Algarin) stared back at me as if to compare

& I remembered one of his poems which read

“Instructions for ceremony should be written as a poem”

When I die, I want to be burned with my books

flesh and words melting into one (echame candela)

ashes unleashed over the West Side Highway piers

gently dispersed by the winds of Oya

carrying my soul to the secret verses and hidden places

where the children will always find me

where my lovers will always find me

where I had found me watching the bright lights of New York City

hoping one day I would shine as bright as the stars

inspiring hope in the hearts of hustlers to come

However, with many nights spent stretched out on her graves

tombstones casting shadows on faded wings

the Queen of Cemeteries will want to embrace me

If buried, black is sanctioned

color of my children and eyes and revolutions

garnish me with poetry and rosaries to set the spirit on fire

haunting dreams with words and deliverance

And so maybe I proved prostitutes can become poets

shamelessly rising above and beyond homelessness

Sitting there like a novelist posing in lush, spacious apartments

while French journalists covered me with cigarette mist

asking questions like, “What does ‘munchin’ trade’ mean?”

I came a long way only to find that it wasn’t enough

that the mistakes of the past limit the future

even though when it rains, we all get wet-

the prostitute, the poet, the prophet

Each breath brings me closer to the end of this journey

until dead is dead is dead

In the end, it doesn’t matter how I lived, how I died, or what becomes of what is left

Listen for me in the flicker of candles

Inspiration often comes from silence

Emanuel Xavier is author of the novel, Christ-Like, and the poetry collections, Pier Queen and Americano . He has been featured on PBS’s In The Life and Russell Simmons presents Def Poetry on HBO. He was born and raised in Brooklyn and currently lives in Bushwick.

Taken from the poetry collection, Americano.