inspired by a conversation about 2Pac
I wonder if Heaven's got a hood -
A divine ghetto where the only way
The streets are paved with gold
Is if we melt our own teeth.
We tear our bling from our ears
And necks and toss it in the fire,
And from its diamond sparkle
We build towers of home.
The ill, and the sick, the broken
And the needy folks, left mamas
And abandoned children, we all
Gather in heaven's ghetto.
And in the perfection of poor love,
We wait. As Wall Street squeezes
Itself through the eye and
To the front, we wait patiently...
Knowing God will still be
there when we get there.
The State of Things...
I always seem to find myself in this situation
About Me
- Paul Morales
- Try as I might to breathe and bleed beautiful poetry, I live in the space between a vine and a virus. When my verse is good, it gives the world a foothold, and readers scale walls and reach new heights because of it. My poems ensnare people and pull them into shockingly beautiful and beautifully delicate places. But when they’re bad, my poems sit and fester like old food. Fungi grow on their deadness and their smells infects the air around them, until readers choke on the stink of my mediocrity. My only hope is that the strapping vines of my good poems will dig into my wrists and never let go - and slowly, maybe, it will pull me from the knee-deep pool of years of failed attempts at genius.
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