41

I say to you today, putos y putas, even though we face puro pedo today and tomorrow, I have a nightmare. It is a nightmare deeply rooted in the border nightmare.

I have a nightmare that the Third World Capital of the United States will disappear into the river and we will drown in the true meaning of this creed: "We hold these prejudices to be self-evident, that all men are not created equal."

I have a nightmare that one day on the urine-soaked pavement of downtown, sons of former wetbacks and sons of St. Joseph graduates will cut each other's throats. I have a nightmare that Rancho Viejo, sweltering with the hate of privilege, sweltering with the hate of prosperity, will be transmuted into a pit of mire and misery.

I have a nightmare in which my three sons will leave this harsh hinterland forever. I have a nightmare that one day in Harlingen, with its vicious racists, with its mayor from whose lecherous lips drip the words, WHITE IS RIGHT, that one day the little white boys and the little white girls of this corrupt city will be able to join hands with the daughters of Nazis and the sons of Klansmen.

I have a nightmare that one day every Rio Grande Valley town will be wiped from the face of the earth, that the river will slither through our barren midst like a poisonous snake, that everything green will turn brown and that every straight politician will be made crooked.

And the glory of Satan will be revealed and all flesh will become leprous. This is my despair. With this despair we will be able to dig a grave so deep into which we can heap all the bodies of a forsaken people. With this despair we will be able to transform the faint hopes whispered in a symphony into an cacophony of rage and rancor.

With this despair we will be able to writhe together, bleed together, rot together, stand for destruction together and go to hell together, knowing that we are doomed one day to die together. This will be the day that all of Satan's soldiers will be able to murder and maim with renewed madness.

My community, tis of thee, acrid land of slavery and poverty, of thee I curse. Land where my ancestors were slaughtered, land of the murderous mobs, from every decaying cadaver, let the death knell sound.

If this region is to be the ravaged stretches of Armageddon, this despair must come true. So let the death knell sound from the prodigious heights of the LNGs. So let the death knell sound from the immigration death camps. So let the death knell sound from Matamoros and Reynosa with decapitated heads rolling down Mexican streets.

When we allow the death knell to sound, when we let it sound from Port Isabel to Roma, from every barrio to every brick of our crumbling buildings, we will be able to speed up the day when Satan's bastards, from white trash to dirty brown, from Jesus freaks to devil worshippers, from uncircumcised penises to festering vaginas, to unsheathe their machetes and in the words of La Llorona, weeping for her lost babies, wail, "Dead at last, Dead at last, thank Great Satan Almighty, we are dead at last."   

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