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Jeremy Rascon Sep 24
My mom taught me to clean the beans
            seemingly hundreds all on the counter,
            a delicious rain
               as they fall.
Find the "Bad" ones
                              the rocks,
                              the ****,
I am power,
       I decide,
           just for awhile.
Cleaning beans meant
                   my mom would make
                                   my favorites
   stuffed sopapillas,
the timeless and classic bean and cheese burrito.
The beans take all **** day to cook...
                                      they taught me
I'm standing in a small living room, dead center. My family and even some people I don't know, all proud Mexican people, stand around me.

I don't know why, but this memory is blurry and filled with static.

Some buzzing, angry voice cuts my ears. The sound a sharp, electric squeal. It hurts less as I get used to it, but I've been used to it. My ears tune the squeal and I know this sound. My uncle maybe. To be honest I can't remember.

My mind drifts off.

I blink in the light from the projector. Words flash across a sterile screen, something about an opioid overdose. First aid training presentation. I sit in a chair that's too small for me. My hips feel bruised.

Someone in class answers a question but I'm barely paying any mind. I can't stop thinking about drugs. I read the words in our follow along study guide earlier and now I can't get it out of my head.

The hum turns into a low rumble.

I glance over to where it's coming from, the corner of a ****** apartment, the rumble creeps through the wall until it hits the sliding door to the balcony. Lightning bolt. I'm tripping acid somewhere I used to live.

I know I'm not there though. Just more flashbacks. Just more memories of things that feel good.

The phone rings.

I'm in my car, my cousin hesitates through the phone. My grandpa has cancer. I don't know how to feel because I've been avoiding him. I try to feign distress. Maybe make him think I'm not a terrible person for not knowing if I'm supposed to care…

I know I feel something. My stomach feels uneasy, like it always does. Except right now it feels uneasy like it usually doesn't. I tell him I need to hang up. I do. But it feels like a lie. I am self centered.

I am quiet.

The living room full of brown skin and brown eyes, red spit. They yell at me. My uncle's make fun of me for being ashamed of my skin. My last name is Montejano, but today my thirteen year old self has disowned my family. I'm tired of being called immigrant at school.

My cousins are solace, peace. I'm sure one of them told, but they pretend they care and some of them mean it. I am the bully in my family, I see them and I wonder if I even deserve my brown skin.

The memory sort of fades as I listen to the talking in front of me. Projector playing a slideshow. Things I should be writing, things I know. My right index finger is cut by a glass I'm washing in the sink.

The wound is large. I can see loose tissue while I wash it out. We find duct tape and some paper towels from the burgers we had last night.

I snort xanax. I'm outside.

Someone's playing guitar, I'm looking at the ceiling. It's just a memory but it feels so good.

My grandpa is in the driver's seat of a semi truck. We are passing a massive golden spire surrounded by trees. Somewhere near Maine or Virginia. As I try to remember the place we were, his face fades. His black hair is grey. And I don't remember it.

We're sleeping at a truck stop where he warns me not to open the doors at night. I don't sleep.

I step out of my dad's pick up truck a week later and it's the first time I experience perspective shifts, his truck isn't as big as my grandpas.

This is the first time I realise how small I am.

I'm pulling into a parking space as I get home from work. I can't remember how I got here.
“Your soooo pretty... for a Mexican girl”
Ive heard this many times. For a Mexican girl
These kids  
The ones with the flannel shirts over sweatpants
And staples holding the sleeve of their shirt to the shoulder.
These kids
The ones with the Hollister logo stitched to their jeans
And the eyes that make them look so much older.

These kids
The ones with the sweet-talk, fast-talk, laugh-talk
And Juarez clinging to the soles of their shoes.
These kids
The ones with the business model duffel bags full of takis and tajin
Smiling big and gesturing salesman style, asking you to choose.

These kids
The ones with the jumping limbs and loud mouths and sharp eyes
The restless hearts and the ready minds
These kids
The ones with their abuelita’s polite ‘Buenos dias miss’ falling from their lips
Clasping hands with each other, linking up their barrio binds.
Wayne Wysocki Oct 2018
Mexican moon be bright,
Fill all the stars with light,
Shine down on my señorita;

Mexican mountains high,
Holding the velvet sky,
Sparkle for my señorita;

Mexican hearts be ***,
Bring your guitars and play
Music for my señorita;

Mexican melody,
Say that I'll always be
In love with my señorita.
Copyright © 2018 Wayne Wysocki
Vivir es morir despacio

To live is to die slowly
i know, everything can be poetry. i got that memo already.
i have a question tho: when is despacio 2 coming out?
Rob Cochran Jul 2018
Temblando al borde de la locura
Tratando de encontrar un centro de gravedad
Cortando mi circulación para hacer esta declaración
sobre mi habilidad natural como reina nacida
a caminar con tanta fabulosidad.
Aunque este vestido es una monstruosidad,
mi cabello es una curiosidad,
hay mucho acerca de este alto paso que no anticipé.
Por ejemplo cómo el balanceo de mis caderas
contrarresta el movimiento de mis dedos.
¿Quién sabía que habría tal orquestación?
Un cuerpo en concierto: ¡una ovación de pie!
Y cada paso otro encore,
Gritando delirantemente: "¡Más! ¡Más! ¡Más!"
Y de repente, el mundo es nuevo.
Nunca lo he visto desde este punto de vista.
Me sorprende la diferencia que unas pulgadas pueden hacer
para cambiar la realidad que ahora crea yo
Y aunque mis pies están apretados como tocones
en estas bombas de tacón de aguja de seis pulgadas,
un testimonio que debo profesar;
Qué maravilloso es ser
un muchacho en un vestido.
A recent translation from my poem "Birth of a Drag Queen" about a young man dressing in drag for the first time.
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