- by Hector E. Gomez
Streets of gold, that lucky strike
just over the next lotto drawing.
Scratching and sniffing,
The more the pain,
the more the gain…
(then why is social security and education so fucked up?)
But the immigrant children keep coming,
Sleeping with strangers.
Trading one wolf for the next,
they cross their own Hells,
and their own High Waters
in that search for the promised land.
Fancy billboard bullshit-
Hope exists just across that river.
Step right up, boys and girls,
but pay no mind
to the Man behind the curtain.
He’s there to keep the illusion rolling,
nose to the grindstone grinding,
24/7 lights ashining,
Midnight Disco Cocaine blaring,
breakfast tacos in the morning–
atop the bones of dreamers like you.
Ashes of fools who were never told
Heaven only exists
for those who invented it.
Gears keep turning,
Children keep coming.
The Dream is not ours,
but the delusions are,
as long as we’ve got our papers.
Just keep hitting that snooze button.