September 11
Banks are the temples of America.
This is a holy war.
Our economy is our religion.
Giannina Braschi on the collapse of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001
Poems
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More by this poet
Burial of the Sardine
Giannina: I’m burying the sardine—the dead body I carry on my back.
Zarathustra: A little fish—in a little coffin. And for this—for this little stinky
thing—we came from so far?
Giannina: Look, it’s moving. It’s still alive.
Zarathustra: It’s so salty and ugly it itches and bites.
2001
Tongue Machine
I’m in exile from the mother tongue—in exile from the foreign tongue—in
exile from all the tongues that wag with the familiarity of knowing—with the
credibility and the certainty—and without any kind of doubt that this is their
town and country. I laugh out loud—and my laughter is as mother tongue
as any laughter in any foreign tongue—but the joke is on me—because my
2001
A Toast to Divine Madness
(in the crown of the Statue of Liberty)
2011