xuanito-de-la-puente
American
Xuanito identifies himself as a third world Queer, mexican@, artivista, izquierdista, radical, proud person of size, Poet, Activist, Lukumi Priest, Xican@, Feminista, Muxerista, Student, Instructor.. a person who believes in social justice and that poetry has the potential to revolutionize the world, cada palabra is a spark of consciousness, cada poema una transformacion profunda. A highly recognized poet and performer who dares to interrogate issues impacting our queer and immigrant communities. his performance ranges from cabaret to slam poetry. Xuanito has performed at several venues such as universities, gay clubs, book stores, pupuserias, glbt centers, straight bars and art galleries. his/her vision is one of reclaiming art from and to the margins, dignifying our forms of expression and use laughter to fight oppression and exploitation. / / "Xuanito will slap you with knowledge and truth, and leave you wanting more." / / / Love writing, healing and chocolate.
El dolor de mi pais perdido
Es como el dolor de un amante ensordecido
Al que no se le puede decir te amo
Solo los labios muevo
Y soplo mis besos
Esperando que el viento los lleve junto a mis rezos
A mi hermoso y galante prometido
Por que un dia estaremos juntos para siempre
Mexico, mi Mexico querido.
7h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 4:29 PM UTC
East Side LV
My country is you.
My nationality is you.
Calles tostadas por el sol,
con palos verdes de flores amarillas.
Folks coming out to walk after 7 p.m. ‘cause of the heat —
elotero tricycle (and golf carts),
mangoneada con mucho chamoy,
trails with broken light posts.
My nationality is you.
Taquería on every corner,
señora selling sunflowers en la esquina,
countless Brown entrepreneurs.
Accent thick as atole, or thin as mezcal —
home away from home, but home nonetheless.
A Yeti trapped in the desert,
front yard nopales, roses, and Guadalupes.
Trunk tamales.
Pick-up trucks, college degrees,
aspirational wealth,
a proudly stubborn Spanish,
unwilling to leave our tongues —
and if they cut our tongues,
we will still dream in Spanish.
My nationality is you.
Mariachi singing the national anthem,
horse-riding vaqueros,
soccer-playing muchachas.
Botánica in the middle of the swap meet,
sacred drummings on scorching hot weekends,
birria Sundays,
underground rivers.
Working class,
rich in culture,
color,
envy of many.
East Side LV —
My country is you.
My nationality is you.
Not sure if you realized it by now,
but this is a love poem to you, East Side LV.
Jun 12, 2025
Jun 12, 2025 at 1:34 PM UTC
Un columpio
de mi patio hasta San Juan,
para que, cada que quieras,
puedas ir a visitar:
la brisa del mar,
el café de abuela.
Tus greñitas llenas de arena y de sal,
unos tostones,
un sándwich con pan sobao,
un café Yauco…
un mofongo los gorditos.
Una llamada cada semana
que se vuelva presencial en Caguas,
un vuelo directo, sin escala,
y quedarnos meses aquí,
con una serenata de coquís.
Una máquina del tiempo —
para salvar a aquel niño,
unos tostones de pana,
unlimited bacalaito.\
Una isla independiente,
un gobierno incorruptible,
una casa con cimientos fuertes,
una luna de ámbar que nos alumbre.
Dos tripletas,
tres cocas de dieta,
cinco dulces de guayaba,
y una piña colada…
Un columpio gigante que te lleve
de nuestro patio a San Juan…
Jun 11, 2025
Jun 11, 2025 at 5:17 PM UTC
I wrote a letter when I was undocumented,
Became a large brick wall filled with nails and empty voids,
Degrees, certificates, notebooks, notes, random *** poems, receipts, papers, papers, papers,
Overcompensating for my lack of status.
I hid under Las Vegas’ scolding sun while wanting to be seen,
Always missing the Aguascalientes’ springs,
When you didn’t need AC.
Sometimes I still wonder what happened to my elementary and middle school friends,
The ones I couldn’t say good bye to,
Because we left so sudden,
Grandma and I.
Randomly aftewards…
I wrote a letter to my future self:
“Whatever you end up, remember you are an educator…”
I inherited my teaching spirit from my mother,
I imagined that words one day would set us free;
They didn’t,
But they sure helped,
Helped a lot,
Especially them three words “United States Citizen”.
A former friend of mine once prophesied that 10 years after the Obama administration
Folks would realize the harm they’ve done to innocent people, immigrants.
It’s been more than ten years,
I want my money back.
I stopped worrying about Ice Cream trucks once they stopped selling chocolate tacos, I prefer the raspado man.
Jun 11, 2025
Jun 11, 2025 at 4:50 PM UTC
A shadow we become in the midst of promise and peril.
A tingling voice fed by the imaginary monster of hope of prosperity.
They sell us a dream from which constant rude and lethargic awakenings auction us to the highest bidder.
We are political bargaining chips, fillers, collateral, surplussed aims and aspirations.
We are worth our blood but never true citizenship, but what does citizenship mean when our siblings are murdered with no consequence?
Quick some of us are to fantasize about trading fences and walls for humanity.
Ignoring that the very potion that will hold those borders together is our flesh, and the dreams of our children.
I always hoped for more out of this narrative, some sort of comedic relief or an alternative ending. But I’m just sitting here in this never ending opera with horrible singing and beer.
II.
Aquí, behind this rock I call my safe voice I stay rooting for you, I just don’t have it in me, the more crumbs we get, the closer we are to the cake, but if you get the bakery, I promise you I’ll be your cashier, plus I love cheesecake.
Waiting games... I don’t recall the last time you looked at me. Can you stamp me please?
Something within me still longs to be free and I don’t know what to do.
Fear of repatriation, when there’s really no country for you, you nationless, culturally ambiguous neoliberal residue.
One day they will ask me to speak, I will walk slowly towards the podium as people await to hear what I have to say, they imagine I’ll sing an anthology of resilience, but instead I’ll just say “ya pa’ que!”.
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 4:06 AM UTC
Sus manos tejian poesia, como torteaba, como cosia, como ella hacia para que el chile se convirtiera en su sinfonia, como ella asaba chiles serranos, como sus manos tejian poesia...
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 7:24 PM UTC
Literacy
“Please don’t tell anyone
My husband beats me…
I am undocumented, I don’t speak English…
And my child, el pobrecito thinks he’s the only one who can defend me
He thinks he’s the man of the house…”
His eyes get lost on the spotless white wall,
Thinking if his dad got home…
Yelling in that cursed language his mom can’t understand,
Language becomes a violent beast coming out of his dad’s mouth.
A monster that smells like alcohol and burnt tires,
Feels like broken glass, blood… and fear,
And he ain’t there to stop it.
What if his mom is calling him for help… in Spanish?
And he’s there instead,
Encased amongst all this English and them four pristine white walls,
“What are these letters good for if they won’t save my mom…” he thinks.
A teacher tells him
That he should learn how to read in English…
He then could teach his mom,
And one day she could defend herself from the beast.
He devours below-his-grade-level books.
Each letter: a weapon.
Each word: a shield.
And he begins to believe that through knowledge he could save her.
Every time he writes a word
He imagines himself as a victorious warrior,
The beast is tamed,
And his mom will one day be safe.
Yesterday he smuggled words inside his old torn backpack,
Stole a fruit cup and the entire alphabet, took them home.
“Here ama, this is for you!
One day you’ll talk so much English you’ll be free.”
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
Anoche te encontré
Flor de selva encabronada
Lengua libre y encontrada
Antiguo amor
Antenoche te encontré
Piedra de montaña verde
Amuleto de mi suerte
Antiguo amor
Ayer te vi
De reojo entre mis brazos
Escuchando la poesía de tus abrazos
En tu regazo amanecí
Antiguo amor
Amor dulce
Lento, perezoso, poseído,
Amor de viejos
Amor que triunfo después de ser vencido
Amor de esos que no mueren y se quedan ahí
Como humedad en la pared
Antiguo amor
Amor suave,
Te de arándanos y hierbas dulces
Mirada onda y media pérdida entre sus luces
Dulce poesía color azul
En todo su esplendor
Antiguo amor
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
Y vendrán tus monstruos a buscarte,
Escondidos en la solapa del pasado,
Recordando aquellos tiempos escaseados,
Donde existías sin necesidad de responsabilizarte,
Y vendrán tus monstruos a buscarte,
Todos ecos de tus gritos y tus golpes,
Alhajados con mil manillas de cobre,
Donde hay llaves que abren lo menos deseado,
Y vendrán todos tus monstruos a buscarte,
Desde el más pequeño y recóndito rincón,
¿Te recuerdas cuando te decías campeón?
Ahora vives haciéndole ofrendas al amor
Esperando que te vuelvan lo invencible
Y vendrán tus monstruos a enamorarte,
Pegándote los labios al oído,
Repitiendo cada prosa ya olvidada,
Con la que te hacías decir que eras un dios:
Los demás no valían nada.
Y vendrán tus monstruos a devorarte,
Como punto final de breve historia,
Llegaran mofándose de tu gloria,
Y no tendrás más que callar
Y volverte una memoria.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
Y entre las piernas destruidas del imperio azul
Navegamos negadas gaviotas del sur buscando el sustento
Aros de plástico nos traban los picos
Y vemos miles de posibilidades más solo nos queda volar, imaginar y morir de hambre
Cuántas gaviotas cansadas no venderían sus alas por un bocado
Por hallar un puerto en medio del acantilado
Por caer al vacío en medio de un cielo oscuro y estrellado
Gaviotas pendejas
Acostumbradas a los vuelos tan normales
No sabiendo que ellas son tan desiguales
Y que a su imperio no le hacen falta más que para morir de hambre
Gaviotas acomplejadas
Que se limpian el plumaje
Y se quedan viendo las olas
En medio de las corrientes atravesadas
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC