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| © 2008 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| He was from Wisconsin |
| by Joel Sweeney |
| He was from Wisconsin,
but married to the revolution. Kenosha couldn't keep him neither the beer brats, The Packers nor you. He said your kisses can't arm peasants, your smile can't liberate souls, your heart can't stop corruption, your love would just slow, the movement. You told him he was a C plus student with Lexus driving parents, he didn't speak Spanish and cried after sex. How could he free Oaxaca? He said it was destiny the poor in Milwaukee were too apathetic to their own starvation. They stood in line without rocks or guns, they needed a voice, but he was not it. He was useful some place more exotic, to be an outsider, to tell them what is best. You sat silently while he packed the rest of his sandals. Now every time some guero is shot in Mexico, you smile and think of what might have been "Viva la revolucion cabron, viva." |
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| May 2008 |
| 106 |