Sacred Smoke and Digital Deception
Poetry about the Pope... and the Dope
Sacred Smoke and Digital Deception
From the cracked earth where my ancestors walked
Between two worlds I stand watching
as white smoke refuses to rise from the Vatican.
The first conclave vote is a Nope—
Cardinals huddled in their crimson robes
deciding who will wear the fisherman's ring.
Meanwhile at the border, another kind of smoke:
Tear gas and burning tires,
while migrant children sleep on concrete.
Trump's AI Pope image makes him a Dope—
digital sacrilege that Catholic leaders denounce
but I've seen worse false prophets selling salvation
to those who build walls instead of bridges.
In Tucson, the saguaros witness everything:
Border Patrol trucks crushing water stations,
sacred sites bulldozed for steel barriers,
and how the same hands that sign executive orders
fold in prayer on Sundays without irony.
We've survived conquistadors and missionaries,
survived presidents who cage our children,
survived algorithmic borders that process refugees
like packages with barcodes instead of stories.
This desert remembers longer than politics—
the way water always finds a path,
how roots can crack concrete,
how seeds wait decades for rain.
I will be here long after the conclave names its Pope,
long after presidents delete their digital blasphemies.
I'll be here building bridges where they wanted walls,
offering water where they wanted wasteland.
Join me. Bring your hands, not just your prayers.
The future we need won't rise as white smoke
from ancient chimneys—but from the ground beneath our feet.
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