by Carmen H Gray

What is this place?

Seized from its tribal roots

Built on the backs of African slaves

Japanese Railroad workers

Irish street and sewer laborers

Mexican laundresses and servants

Wealthy babes nursing at the breasts of slaves

An amalgamation of colors, languages, foods, beliefs

Founding Fathers my ass

America was not lost

Therefore, it could not be found

Thus, we are still becoming

US of Another



“When you cease to exist, then who will you blame?”-Bob Dylan


by Carmen H Gray

Turn, turn, turn

Me around my whereabouts

I am dizzy from the spinning

I am just as confounded

As the next person

Here in this convoluted space

Where anger is the easiest


Underneath the throbbing

Is the underbelly

Of  resilient tenderness

That you guard

As if it were the frailest spot

When it is where the truth originates

Where you are repulsed

I will still find beauty

I will ascend

In spite of it all