On the coldest day recorded in Southern California history,
BIO
Andre De Leon is a queer brown 6'2" writer, poet, and Aquarius born in the border town of San Diego, CA. Their creative nonfiction piece, Extra Virgin Olive Oil, won them the Student Prose Award in Vol. 24 of the City Works Literary Journal (2017) some of their work can also be found in Issue #16 of FreezRay Poetry. On three separate occasions, Andre has been told they smell like burnt tortillas and they're totally fine with that.
Four Horsemen gallop-stomped
across cracked Earth’s crust.
Pestilence spread on the unwashed iron fist,
War smashed big red nuclear button,
Famine poked at sunken belly with knife finger,
and Death gnawed on American bones.
Apocalypse made wasteland of
palm tree littered desert
and we were made to cower.
On the morning of January 23rd 2046,
I arose from beneath bedframe and rubble
with ashy grated knees,
bloody stripes across brown forehead,
and a star spangled banner fallen at my toes.
I saw neighbors turned ghouls
and the skies flash green neon.
Still no trace of family or friends.
April 1st 2046,
April Fool’s
a yellowing calendar with images of space
taunts at my loss with its milky way of the month.
I thought I knew loneliness before,
but now Death has left me behind
to spin in gravity powered circles
on this barren planet; in
this galaxy void.
Columbus Day 2047,
after a year of looking,
I have been found. Finally,
on this cursed day of colonization,
I’ve cashed in my spirit guides’ blessings.
I’ve known no love
like the love of strangers;
they will know no gratitude like my own.
On the arid July night I was made leader
of transformed ancestral land,
we made bonfire from textbook and Constitution
and carved spear from legislative branches.
Two headed pigs were roasted in my name
and water was brought to a boil.
Who am I to rule god’s ruin?
On the years that followed,
I buried gun in gulch,
tended flower from radiant soil,
grew patience from ignorance,
and held hands with Gaia.
This planet had grown dry,
yet our roots delved deep into the land.
Our people celebrate the fall of a nation,
Judgement Day.
We call ourselves the damned
for we did not ascend.
We were made to tend to
the earth’s open wounds;
we did not cut through it’s skin so violently.
Still, when one turns back on false idols,
they find an honest God.