When we fuck I shout: s. o. s. la vida
‘Cause our bed is more like a corrida
But when I stare at my ring with a pearl
I ask myself again, am I that girl?
When I take Mexican tic tacs with Corey
I feel like Christ is sending me that glory
But when I’m on the ground and start to curl
I whisper to myself, am I that girl?
And when I’m dancing topless on a bar
I feel like killer sexy movie star
I finish twenty lemon drops and swirl
While crying to myself, am I that girl?!
Gloria Martinez
Loved to go on photography missions
In Downtown Denver
With the Canon Camera
That her grandmother, Margarita,
Gave her for her Quinceañera.
While traversing the streets,
It was common for Gloria to receive catcalls.
"Hey, baby!"
"Where you goin' with that nice camera?" a fellow fifteen  years older than her asked.
"I'm doin' a photography project," Gloria calmly responded.
"A photography project!" the catcaller exclaimed.
"If I had to do a photography project, I'd take a thousand photographs of YOU!"
"I prefer to photograph the Elderly," Gloria calmly stated.
"The Elderly!?" exclaimed the shocked catcaller.
"Why would you want to take photos of 'The Elderly', baby?!"
"You've got all the assets in all the right places!" the catcaller seductively assessed,
"A billion people around the world would want to see everything you've got!"
"Senior Citizens have a certain beauty which I lack," Gloria asserted.
Now,
The catcaller was shocked.
"Beautiful......but humble."
"Dios mío!"
"You're the type of Package who might be too much for me!
"I'd better let you get on your way."
"But, if you ever change your mind,
"And want to be photographed by a Professional,"
"You know where to find me, baby."
"I'm generally smoking a joint here on 16th and Arapahoe"
"After I'm done with the Ritz-Carlton Hotel morning shift."
The voice Mar 22
I stand in the middle of the room
My classmates are commanded to listen to me
I am the 14th person to present and so far, everyone has done a good job

I stand in the middle of the room
I begin to saw the name of my project
“My Poem”
I cannot remember what it was about
I do remember, what I felt

I stand in the room,
Hoping that everyone feels what I felt when I was writing it
I felt excited, my stomach had ‘butterflies’ I think
I felt the heat in my heart and the cold on my shoulders.
I felt the tingles all over my body, and the air escaping me

I stood in the middle of the room
I stand in the middle of the room
I was in the middle of the room and said
“My poem”
I heard a chuckle.

I ignored it because the ‘in love’ heart in my chest was more excited than It should have been
I continues and my voice began to play tricks on me
And the r’s rolled and the words were suddenly in another language
My mind still ignored it and continues
Because I felt I could write, and read this and everyone could love it

I stood in the middle of the room,
I waited for the, applause, the smiles, the congrats, or even a simple ‘good job’ like everyone else
Instead…
My teacher said, work on pronunciation. She said it again. Pro-noun-ci-a-tion
Ok. ‘Work on grammar.’ ‘Work on sentence structure’
“Work on being American” the chuckle said
Or the person who chuckled?

It didn’t mean much, you know
I loved writing so much that it did not matter
I would be a writer, I would continue to
STAND in the middle of the room and share my talent
And when I did, he chuckled
She chuckled, I was Mexican

Not a writer. Writers can’t be Mexican
Unless you write in Spanish and in Mexico
But I was too American for that at this point…

SO the next time I wrote I was ashamed,
Maybe if someone else wrote my writing?
But it didn’t matter,
When the teacher began reading,
The chuckle reminded the class it was the ‘Mexican’ who wrote it

“Mi nina” My mom would say
She reminded me that no only was I Mexican
I was a woman,
Only men thrive in this world
I believed it
And that is why my name is ‘The Voice’
Not my actually name,
Disclosure: I accept criticism on how to better my writing
NOT on what to write or on my background
Thanks, for a lesson I will never forget:

I make my own destiny!
The voice Mar 17
I couldn’t wait for my class to end so I could run outside and find
el carrito (Stand)
I fell in love with the feeling and the taste before I even knew what love was.
I stood outside holding my mother’s hand waiting for her to ask
the times she did not ask I would pull on her plaid, decently long skirt and looked over towards the man selling raspados

She knew what I wanted and she knew how much I wanted it.
I focused on ...
el carrito
as if looking at it would be enough to call the gods of raspados to have mercy over me

They cost $1.50. My mother gives me the money
I run over
The man says

te faltan, no es suficiente (not enough)

I was devastated, I began to take step back slowly, I dared to not look at my mother with this disappointment.
I barely noticed the lady standing behind the man, she was the boss

I noticed she was looking towards my mother
Maybe she saw in my mother’s face something convincing, or maybe my confusion triggered a mother instinct
Whatever it was, it was enough

As I walked away slowly with my first heart break,
the lady behind says,

tiene antojo, tu daselo (She has a craving, give it to her)

I thanked her with my smile and with a slight flitter in my heart of happiness and even more with my taste buds having a celebration just by looking at how this raspado was being made

The beautiful sound of the mountain man, holding a metal, rectangular shaver of ice
containing it all inside until it was ready to be placed in the cup. The small stones pile one by one when crushed
Just big enough to hold shape and small enough to enjoy

Then the miel con sabor a tamarindo  being delicately set on top, like a creamy blanket in liquid form

Si, con limon y sal, porfavor, y poquito chile (add salt and lemon, and a bit of spice... Please)
because my mom taught me how to be polite
and then, to my surprise the actual fruit
tamarindo on top, a light brown coloring with a soft cover on the hardened seed inside

It decorated with grace and delight, the treat awaiting for me
I felt the richness


There I learned my first lesson of kindness
It is part of a longer piece... It is Nonfiction.
Raspados are similar to icecones but very Hispanic. I suggest trying one. They vary in flavors (guava, pineapple, lime, mango, etc...)
Katelynn Mar 7
the smell of fresh beans
fills by dreams
beckons me forth to my culture, to my people
acceptance is key, but I'm rejected by the world
simply because I don't fit the stereotype
rejected by my people because I don't speak their language

engraved in my heart are the traditions and beliefs of my people
but my body betrays me
I am Mexican
I am American
but the world makes me choose one
because I don't look the way I'm supposed to
annette Jan 10
i am my grandmother’s small and plump tears
when she thinks of her pueblo.
i am my mother’s broken english
as she greets the cashier.
i am my sister’s abandoned dreams,
her acceptance letter is etched into my palm.
i am my brother’s path to citizenship
along with all the photographic evidence.
i am my brother in law’s laughter
when he speaks to the nephew he has never met.
i am the ever constant fear
of being denied a home.
i am the secrets carried on backs
through miles and miles of desert.
i am the pan dulce on sunday mornings.
i am the mole and carnitas at birthday parties.
i am the thick hair on arms.
i am the first bite of a burger king hamburger
after years of poverty.
i am the first item of clothing bought at a kmart
after years of patching up old clothes.

so how dare you think less of me?
you do not know what i carry.
all this pain.
all this joy.
all this strength.

i am chicana.
the bridge between two worlds.
i will not be burned down.
un producto de una familia mexicana que vino a un país lejano por un futuro.
It is known through the eyes.
Not from the voice
designated instrument of the thymus
but the eyes.
Portals of silent universes.
The expression of the gaze
sometimes sings and dances.
Distracting eyes
couriers and trunks
can be closed but not liars.
It could be the same wicked look
lost, absorbed, but not turbid.
A ludicrous
man who
box and
angle with
whim wholly
heat dangle
his bantam
let towel
round his
ear with
such rumor
proclaim his
crown and
still fight
his trilogy
with Mexico
La Bourrera
Barrera is a surname in Romance languages including Spanich, Italian and Portuguese and the meaning is border, thank-you
MARK RIORDAN Sep 2017
THE TRUMP CHRONICLES ARE OUT
WHY NOT BUY ONE OR FOUR
ONE FOR YOUR NEIGHBOUR AND FRIEND
WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR



THE MORE YOU BUY THE
MORE THE STORY CAN BE TOLD
ALL THE POEMS WILL REVEAL
AN AMERICAN PRESIDENT TO BEHOLD



TRUMP CHRONICLES amazon.com
WELL I SAID 80 FOR MY PROMOTIONS
Esmena Valdés Sep 2017
I survived another day.
I will rewrite the forgotten,
before it is extinguished.
Steam in my lungs.
Carbon monoxide.
We ate honey in the morning,
to tablespoons.
We kiss without tiredness.
"Bathing together unites us," he said.
Resonant palpitations.
The guitar sounds soft.
You give me music of spirit.
I survived another day because you breathe.
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