Listen to the Heartbeat of your City.
Helicopters Hover in the air pounding out the bass of war-time anthems.
While the stitching and sewing of garments mimic rhythms of modern-day slaves.
And when sirens sing your songs of salvation, from whom are you being saved?
And when the choruses from which you cry justice are rendered silent
By the raging rivers of indifference,
Who then will we find to ride waves around your city-lines
From Boyle Heights stretching to the West-Side
Anchored at the ports of San Pedro
Wrapping around the Hollywood sign.
Repairing your broken halo
into a yellow-line railroad transporting stories of salvation.
from here and there and back and forth.
Until the dizziness of our scattered consciousness
Can no longer hide beneath the sounds of this cacophonous existence.
LA, Your songs have been sung by shattered souls.
While refrains of white lines cough out broken smog-filled notes.
Your lungs expand to reverberate into traffic-jammed echoes.
Inching along the highways of hope.
For Singers to bring forth hymns and hers of your once immortal songs.
Poets to stitch together forgotten lyrics of your lost soul.
Painters to paint delicate details of the devils that you danced with.
For you, LA, are the most beautiful creature they have ever danced with.
Here at the edge of the pacific Ocean you were abandoned
after forcing you to bear a child from your womb.
Here in the scars of your wounds from where your wings were torn
You cradle in your arms the only hope you have left,
Your children, lost angels in the city you have born
And here, our questions rise to the skies wondering
Why we were born a city full of angels unable to fly, created with only one wing.
And why our attempts at flying on April of 92 result in songs of uprising
Being written off as nothing but brutish violence?
Why the stories of our righteous struggle enter through downtown skyscrapers
and exit through the pockets of wealthy politicians are being sold off in silence?
Why finding another wing, in a city full of angels
Is a lot more difficult than you might expect.
Why broken feathers and empty bottles of whiskey lay barren
On skid row’s street side beds.
LA, your children, have unwittingly become your enemies.
Your single-winged runners. Yet you speak to us about the mysteries of our existence.
In our selfish attempts to take flight are made deaf to the whisper of your secrets.
And perhaps if we listened to the heart beat of your city we would hear the tears of your graffiti covered river
The laughter of your silenced sisters and the freedom of your imprisoned brothers.
We can find salvation etched in the memories of forgotten fathers ingrained through the love of single mothers.
LA, You have tried to teach us your song from the beginning,
we just never bothered to listen, and if we could just listen
We would hear you singing this lullaby:
“My children, each of you are angels born with one wing,
And only by embracing each other will you learn how to fly”