September 11
Banks are the temples of America.
This is a holy war.
Our economy is our religion.
Giannina Braschi on the collapse of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001
Poems
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More by this poet
Miracles
—There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed in your
philosophy.
—Like what?
—Like miracles—like changes of power—like changes in climate—like
political climates collapsing like polar ice caps—like the dungeon becoming
the crown and the crown the dungeon—like not paying attention to
2011
Soy Boricua
Soy boricua. In spite of my family and in spite of my country—I’m writing
the process of the Puerto Rican mind—taking it out of context—as a native
and a foreigner—expressing it through Spanish, Spanglish, and
English—Independencia, Estado Libre Asociado, and Estadidad—from the
position of a nation, a colony, and a state—Wishy, Wishy-Washy, and
2011
Burial of the Sardine
Giannina: I’m burying the sardine—the dead body I carry on my back.
Zarathustra: A little fish—in a little coffin. And for this—for this little stinky
thing—we came from so far?
Giannina: Look, it’s moving. It’s still alive.
Zarathustra: It’s so salty and ugly it itches and bites.
2001