There's a poet in America who's sick of systems which oppress all.
There's a poet in America; He's of young rebellious nature.
He sits silent in them classrooms where he observes the deceptions.
Silently, he questions irrelevant perceptions.
He knows his history.
His pride has been swept aside with steel bristles from iron brooms...
Echoes, haunting, like the slamming doors of cold sepulchers. Tombs.
He had to find himself hallucinant.
He thinks, "Fuck this education!"
Speaks like thunder and inhales fire.
He looks to swallow this country's liars...
Them that kill like white masked cowards.
His emotions, in a din, prone to explode like cancer flowers.
He don't get lost with all the talk stemming off, "Chicano Power!"
And he's silent like the poets from which knowledge he acquires.
His prose comes second-nature.
Never false, always inquired.
This poet fills his books with pride.
Imagination that sets readers off on rides from California sunset views
To atmospheres, new.
Like travels through galaxies of alternative imagery.
He's a poet from America.
In the heavens, he's a god like Zeus.
He's a poet from America in philosophies, obtuse.
He guides through rubble metropolis onto clandestine mansions,
Where like Greek gods the rich dine and the cup of the poor
Fill from The Nation's blood precipitation.
There's a poet in America.
He studies surrounded by concrete, block and bricks.
There's a poet in America.
He sees them "Democracy devours it's children to survive" tricks.
This poet studying America, he laughs, cries, suffocates like hysteria.
In endless metaphors he paints a world of concepts, blurred.
Inside his soul he's always felt the energy of truth.
He seeks deep answers.
He questions God. He questions Nature.
He wants to know which one is faster.
Then claims, "It's even better to be son of an ever-loving bastard."
And this poet in America, he's concerned with his Nation's line.
He cries, "How will they survive in this America, as have survived this system's swine?"
He walks bold throughout America, where on cue he flexes power-mind.
To listen to this poet makes you wish to press rewind.
A prophet-like song poet; His word, like THC crystals, shine.
He brings the meaning of America into the homes of those who have no clue.
Like to the thug, street product criminal.
Statistic life, pure sniffin' glue.
He brings out life from within America.
Like purple mountain majesty creations.
He brings out death within America; Silent like Peltier's incarceration.
A poet born of this America... Of gold and land and replica.
Of great men predecessors. Of great one's for professors.
He races fast through this America, while future leaders sleep at night.
He understands why his envisionments are to be shared with his Nation's minds.
While rebel Nation seeks a king,
By foreign philosophies they continue to bleed.
Yet, rebel poet says he knows intuition takes him where he needs to be.
This poet in America can fly in skies of worlds unknown.
With social condemnations he finds clairvoyant zones.
But here there are no fairy-tales, no castles, queens, nor crowns.
In frowns he raises issues sacred to the Land of White Heron.
American Poets like him in this lifetime don't come thrice.
There's a poet in America; He lies dead. And the world's demise?
And as he lies silently, so serene, read his lyric... it runs in simplicity.
No allusion to angels; No souls reborn.
Just Joaquin. A Poet. A king without a throne.
There's a Poet... in America.
Joaquin Jimenez. Born 12/19/1977 in Port Hueneme, CA.
B.A. English. California State University, Los Angeles