Illegal immigrants are dangerous. They rob, they rape,
they cheats, they spreads disease.
They make committees who do not keep their words,
they make beehives for us to work. When things get
worse they stretch their reach in the name of charity,
they shrinks our heads in the name of territory: they say
look, there’s gold, pick that up for me and make a
slave. Then all you know, knowing nothing, is no doctor
or book can cure your sore ass, your bent knees, the
ravages of some disease tearing up by degrees.
They make soup kitchen charities like Al Capone, no
mercy to those they know: murder is the treaty known,
don’t look, don’t plead, slaughter is your fortune told.
They impose high ideals and low defeats, always
something you must live up to, invoking religion or
some other big smoke choked with lies and fantasies.
You beat yourself, you beat the neighbor, you beat
the world and rail for some savior who’s asleep in
the cold under blankets of disease uncontrolled. You
stroll and bleed, you ache to please, you wish to climb
some Texas tower to eliminate monsters in your sleeps.
For relief some goodwill, some perfume, some visions
made of the unreal rich and famous: celebrity’s my aim,
fame the game away from the swollen ego which lacks
a discipline to create yet cannot speak but in clichés.
They cannot accept their nature, thus no apologies
unless too late for the party favors. They do not wish
to know for what they weep, for what they stage
until much later comes as an idea: the ideal to which
they pleads guilty, now get on with it, stranger.
This is them, that is me, which is you, confess your
hatred, your special inability.
Illegal immigrants from countries known and blamed,
we are them they are we, this is the danger.
Illegal immigrants from house and home, from isles
of sorrow and unknown responsibilities:
this is us, illegal immigrants making dust of dirt and bones.
Illegal immigrants are dangerous, ask any Indian, inquire of any native.
‘Poetry that is classic and timeless.’
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