Diary of a Mutant Maya by Andre De Leon

On the coldest day recorded in Southern California history,


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.


The Acentos Review 2019