My neck tarnished
stretches of veins collapsing around the dirt that holds fast to my collar.
Riches from a blue sky have deemed my whiteness in such a way that…I wish the lies to be truth.
And, thus I sit in my poor excuse at living unassisted.
A whitewash for my migrant legacy.
Opening a chasm between…
pools for swimming
and swimming pools to be emptied.
I live among a den of thieves
And, they all believe to be…me.
No saint. No sinner.
Nor, recluse or debutante.
Just an image of more and more wants.
Migrant Worker/D. Lange
Imprisoned Japanese American Workers/D. Lange
Miller Creation/D. Lange
Drawing Beauty Out/D. Lange
Cotton Picker/D. Lange
Lettuce Strike/D. Lange
Life, for people, begins to crumble on the edges; they don’t realize it.