As Us

A Space for Writers of the World

Che Christ Cruz – Poetry

the poet’s toast: (no thanks given);



we sit and feast at the final supper of beasts

catered by slaves & fueled by the blood of dead indian tribes

all gathered here, together, in this moment

at the table of chalices & swine

mixed w/ divine decadence

& split amongst the rotted souls of foul-stenched kings, queens,

the diseased carcasses of imperial regimes

the decrepit cadavers of governors, wicked bishops & priests,

savage conquistadores,

nearsighted spanish & italian explorers,

pangea pillagers & extorters

saints & lawyers, bankers & scholars

popes & infidels, judges & jurors,

retired generals & battalion commanders,

conniving retailers & taxmen, standard spineless yes men,,,

& the self-proclaimed sublime & beautiful–

per usual, its all unsuitable in the crucible but still HD viewable

& joined forever here–in the glory of unholy matrimony

attended by lonely drunk theologians & broken-hearted apostles,

self-taught loathers, self-promoters & evil-eyed monsters named leviathan

along w/ the bitter brother named judas w/ a dagger in his hand

& a coiled serpent around his wrists

standing amongst the sheriff’s cold-blooded men

who blow jay edgar’s hoover, wearing high heels & pink boxers–

while addressing crowds of false messiahs & thieves that idolize what is cesar’s

& move mountains with flawed philosophies, and our cheap labor–

erecting steeples in skylines & statues of prophets

in our places of worship they mount their cracked stone-tablets

like former addicts in transit retracing their tracks since the last hit

& recounting golgathan tales like campfire stories woven by clergymen

who are out selling the lords gospel to the children

while sprinkling their heads with d.d.t. (dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane)

when they sleep deep in the night

& filling their pockets w/ gun powder…

rising storms get louder than thunder sticks that sing out in the final hour

about the splendor in a rose or the men on grassy knolls &

the stranger & the straggler both for whom the bell still tolls

ringing forth like hancocks on constitutional scrolls

or neo-concentration camps brought home for the executions

of the young students of pseudo-industrialized revolutions;

they shooting–the leaders of the movement, that speak against the institution

so here’s our retribution sparked by a quick toast given at a banquet for despots & dilettantes

dictators & puppet presidents, & the devils of corporate settlements…

a speech delivered by the last poet still born of this natural realm–

forged beneath sun, moon, and sky, between the pillars of mountain rock & cactus spine

like wind & rain, thunder & lightning–one of the only few that remain, unchained,

but still prisoner to the system & ready to break free;

a living prophecy spawned by the collective actions of the very same ancestors

scattered & buried here, beneath these very high rises,

before which we gather, these towers from which you oppress us…no longer–



“it was upon our backs that these cities were built,

so it is upon your heads that the curses shall fall.”

the anonymous handwriting on the wall, says it all;


and with that said, the sky opened up once more,

& the history of the world unfolded, again,

with the brightness of the sun.


is born of the people, in the desert lands of his pipá/quechan (Colorado River Tribes) ancestors. Raised on traditional teachings, bird songs, & a high respect for the land-combined with a steady diet of underground hip-hop, che maneuvered the inner-city streets of Phoenix using his words to combat the oppression around him. Currently che resides with the masses, working to end all systems of exploitation.

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Issue 3February 14, 2014
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