When I am older I will be just like my Nan,
Streaking my naked body every Wednesday to the delivery man.

I will have a chihuahua,
Drink my milk when its sour,

Use by dates will mean nothing,
For 10 year old bread makes a good stuffing,

I will live off many cups of tea
Every ten minutes have a ***.

Hoard a thousand tin of beans in the draw,
We all know we need them when we're at war,

I will be superstitious,
And make food taste delicious,

I would be head of my family, head of my herd,
My word will be final, anyone else's word is absurd,

Anyone who calls me 'dear',
will get a slap around the ear.

YES,
I want to be just like my Nan,
Every Wednesday streaking to the delivery man.

life is a chihuahua -

somedays it smiles
at you - stroking it's back

wondering when
it's gonna bite ya

- life is a chihuahua.

r ~ 10/26/14

Wussup, professional Latina?
Diversity been good 2 U?
Water warm enough 4 U?
Shaking down enuf rich gringos
to fund your Non-Profit?
(speak against capitalismo here)
Got time for la Revolución after your pedicure today?
(mention the border here)
still watching Oprah, Abuela?
heard from your third ex-husband recently?
Wussup consummate professional.
(turn on NPR here)
Got nail polish? Got car waxed? Got investments?
(take a networking business lunch here)
Have you streaked your hair enuf?
(mention indigenismo here)
I hope you are caring well for all the nietos
and still have time to be a tiburona
(insert italicized Spanish word here)
How are all your gente ?
(mention mujeres fuertes here)
Hey Latina - when did you move out of the barrio ?
(mention La Raza here)
Mujer Latina—wussup.
how is Gringolandia workin' out 4 U ?
(turn off Univision here)
'cause if the oppression gets too bad
you could always move back
to Venezuela
or Chihuahua
or San Juan,  or...
(mention Trump here)
...Miami?

"Go and talk to your son!". It seemed lately that every arrival at home, in the old section of Glasgow, began with "Go and talk to your son!". "Why?...what has he done this time"...answered Angus' dad. "What trouble did he get into now?". "None...so far as I can figure" answered Mary, mother of the aforementioned Angus.

"Then why am I going to talk to him?". " He's not selling autographs again is he".
"No dear, he's not...you should just go and have a wee chat with him...that's all."

"Alright, I will"...."will I need some hobnobs as ammunition, or should I be okay on me own?".
"You should be okay without them, but, then again, a wee plate of hobnobs never hurt anyone...least of all our Angus"

Dad, poured two glasses of cold milk, set six hobnobs on a plate and ventured up to himself's room. He knocked twice, just above the "No gurls alowd" sign that Angus had put up after last nights arguement with his Mum, over carrots. Angus refused to accept the arguement that carrots gave you better eyesight...while his Mum said they did. A snicker from Dad at Angus' response almost got him banished to the sofa for the night himself, with his own "No gurls alowd" sign going up in the living room. He remembered Angus standing up from his chair, and stating "If carrots give ye such good eyesight, how come so many rabbits get hit by cars at night?". Then he stormed off.

He knocked again, and Angus opened up the door. Angus was still in his blue school shirt and grey pants. "Can I come in?" asked his father. "I've brought milk...and hobnobs".
Angus stepped back and let his father enter the room. The walls were covered with posters, of cars, footballers, horses, bikes, cartoon characters....so much so, there was barely any space left for anything else.

"Yer mum said I should talk to you...son...do you know why?" "Nope"...said Angus..."do you?" "That's why I'm asking you lad....she told me to come see you...do you know why I'm here?"
Angus tilted his head and answered "because Mum told you too?".
It was clear they weren't getting anywhere with this, so Dad asked "How was school today?"

Angus was now in full time kindergarten at St. Martin's in The Fields Primary School in Glasgow. The school was old, dank, smelled of age and was one of the finest in all of Glasgow...for it's age. It was famous for having had two members of The Bay City Rollers as students, one for about three months and the other a little less. They never graduated from St. Martin's, but, it was something to hang their hat on.

"I got all my Christmas Cards taken away today Da." said Angus. "I was giving them out to everyone, and the teacher, Mr. McDonall came and took them away.".
"Why would he do that boy?"...."Where were you doing it?'
"I was outside before school started giving them out...." , Angus sniffed, "and he came over and grabbed them from me".
Dad, remembered Angus working away for the past two nights, printing everyone's name on the cards, as perfect as he could. It only took 43 cards to get the necessary 21 Angus needed for all of his young classmates.
"Why would he do that?"..."did he tell you why?". "No Dad" said Angus through the rapidly increasing flow of sniffles and snot that normally accompany a crying child.

"I didn't find out until I went to the office to see the Principal afterwards".
"You went to the office for handing out Christmas Cards?" . "That doesn't make any sense son, are you sure you weren't doing anything else?"
"I was just handing out cards Da, that's all", said Angus as he grabbed another hobnob, which he quickly stuffed under his pillow for later. He would get in trouble for that one, but, it would be worth it.

"The Principal said something about Christmas Cards that say Christmas on them, can't be given out at school anymore. They can only say Happy Holidays. If it doesn't say Christmas on it, how can it be a Christmas Card Dad?".

"I don't know boy"...."but I am **** sure gonna find out"....and "you'd better eat that hobnob under your pillow before Mum sees it"...smiled Dad.

The pair ventured downstairs for dinner, neither discussing what went on in the room where "No gurls were allowed". Dinner passed in silence, with Mum looking from one to the other to get some sort of reaction. Once, Angus started to talk, but it had nothing to do with what went on between Father and Son, so she continued eating. She would find out later after Angus went to bed.

After dinner, Angus went to the park with his friends for an hour to play football, and tag, and swing on the swings for a while. Mum, took this chance to corner Dad...and corner him she did...."What went on up there? What did you two talk about?" "He won't say anything to me...what did he do?"
"Nothing....he did nothing wrong at all, so as I see it....Angus didn't do anything wrong".
He kind of smiled at that, because normally after being told "Go talk to your son...", Angus had always done something wrong...this time...it was The Principal.

"Tomorrow, I'm staying home in the morning and taking himself to school....I'm going to see The Principal". "What for?...if he didn't do anything wrong, why are you going to see the Principal?".
"Well, what time of the year is it?".....asked Dad. "It's Christmas silly, you know that...why?"
"Well, apparently it isn't Christmas at St. Martin's in The Fields...at least not as far as himself's teacher and new Principal are concerned. It's now Holiday time....not Christmas Time, Holiday Time. Our wee Angus got in trouble for handing out Christmas cards at Christmas. Does that make any sense?"...said Dad.

The next morning at breakfast, Angus looked up and asked "Dad, shouldn't you be going to work? you'll miss your train.". "I'm taking you to school and going to see your Principal, son". "Why?" asked Angus. "Let's just say I'm going to give him a Christmas Card....have you seen my bible?".
"It's on the sideboard...but, why do you need that Da?"...asked the boy.
"Let's just say...to make a point.".

Mum smiled as the two men, both wee and tall, walked together hand in hand down the drive towards the school. Upon arrival, Angus went off with his friends, while Dad, went into the old, intimidating looking institution. He could smell the old wood soap and mustiness as he waled down the hall, past the class pictures and the old trophies that get hauled out and cleaned every year for games day, only to be put back again after the awards presentations.

Upon arriving at the office, he announced "I'm here to see The Principal.....where is he?".
A pair of beady, spectacled eyes looked up from behind the front desk...and in a thin, reedy, voice asked..."And who might you be, sir...to come in without an appointment?".
"Ah'm flippin' Father Christmas, that's who I am....I am Angus' Mc Dougalls dad, and I am here to see the ****** Principal. Now where is he?"
"Without and appointment.." she started, quickly stopping when Dad, walked past the desk to the door marked M. Dingwall, Principal on it.

"You can't go in there"...screeched the reedy voice..."not without an.." "I know..." said Dad..."not without an appointment.....well, I've got mine right here, and right now..." he said, waving his bible in needle noses face. He continued in to M. Dingwall, Principal's office....and sat down.

M. Dingwall, Principal...looked up from the papers on his desk, which incidentally had 5, yes...5 Christmas Cards on it, and asked Dad..."and who are you to come into my office..."...."without and appointment"...finished Dad. " As I told your chihuahua out front, all bark and no bite by the way, I am frigging Father Christmas, who I see on 3 of the 5 cards you have on your desk. That's who I am, Father Christmas !!!"

"Well, Mr. Christmas, what can we do for you? " asked a clearly shaken M. Dingwall, Principal. "I'll tell you what you can do for me....you can apologize to my son, for a start. My wee lad Angus, came here yesterday morning and was sent to see you for handing out Christmas Cards, at Christmas. What am I missing here?".

"I remember that....yes, he was disciplined and told no more Christmas Cards, it's against the policy of the school board...it's a religious holiday, and we are not allowed, with all of the various religious groups represented within our walls to favour one over another. So, no more Christmas Cards in this school. That is the policy.", said M. Dingwall, Principal.

"That's nice...then what are those 5 cards on your desk....the ones that happen to have Christmas on them and Father Christmas and a nativity scene, which if I know the book I am holding here, is a religious representation, and the reason we have Christmas in the first place. "...asked Dad.

"Those are private, they were given to me by staff" said M. Dingwall, Principal. "I don't care if they came from Jesus Christ himself " yelled Dad, crossing himself in the process, "They don't fit in with the policy you gave my son a reprimand for yesterday."  He looked about the office, and saw a small, four foot tall tree in the corner as well. "Is that a Christmas tree or a holiday tree sir?, which is it?"

M. Dingwall looked up and said, "It's a Christmas Tree, of course, haven't you ever seen a..." and he stopped. He looked at the tree, and the cards, The eyeglasses out front went back to whatever it was she was doing before Father Christmas arrived. "I see....". "You see what sir,?" asked Angus' dad, looking at the tree, and the cards and ignoring the eyeglasses with the reedy voice out front.

"I see your point....It's Christmas, not holdaymas, or xmas....it's Christmas, and I followed policy that I myself am not following myself. I will change that right now....imagine, it took a visit from Father Christmas to get me to see the light..." laughed M. Dingwall, Principal.

"My boy Angus, will be in class, expecting to be told that he can give out his cards to the rest of his friends as he was yesterday...am I understood M. Dingwall, Princinpal?" asked Dad.

"Yes sir, the mark will be stricken from the record and his cards will be returned....I appreciate you coming in to clear up this little misunderstanding...even if you didn't ..." "I know...have an appointment.". M Dingwall stood to shake Dad's hand as he left, and as Dad reached the door, he said "Merry Christmas". Dad thought a bit, smiled at what he had just accomplished and said to M. Dingwall, Principal...."and yes...It is A MERRY CHRISTMAS".

HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.

Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.

They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****.

As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.

It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.

He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."

Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.

How can I tell how Don Magregor went?

Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.

The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.

There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.

"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.

Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.

When my Chihuahua died during the Summer of 2020, I was devastated.
When I had to say goodbye and bury her, it was something that I hated.
At first, I wasn't going to buy another dog because it hurts too much when they die.
But I bought another Chihuahua to try to ease my suffering, that's the reason why.
When I bought Hazel one year ago, I started feeling better.
She's sweet and she loves to lick me and she loves it when I pet her.
I bought Hazel five and a half weeks after my former Chihuahua passed away.
Hazel is my Chihuahua who cost $200 and I bought her one year ago today.
When I lost my former Chihuahua dog, I felt so miserable that it drove me to tears.
Hazel and I are celebrating our first anniversary, I hope that she lives for many years.

A squirrel dog in a tree
Looked down at me
"I'm half a Chihuahua"
"So how are ya"

I was too shocked to walk
I never knew dogs could talk
"I'm fine, thank you"
"What do you do?"

"Not much" the squirrel dog said
"Hang around here before bed"
"We dogs really have brains"
"Hiding in trees when it rains"

I wondered if I had gone mad
Was this some passing fad?
"How do I know you're real?"
"What's the real deal?"

"Well, I'm as real as can be"
"it's the squirrel in me"
"Now I have to run away"
"So I'll wish you a good day"

Poema Code Switching
By Aylin Soto-Aleman, Mercedes Caballero, Jesus Martinez, Marta Silva, Alex Alejandre
16.4.15

El final de una etapa
The end,
The beginning of a new journey
un camino
A un mundo extranjero
Un deseo, un sueño
A dream
Haciendo mi propio path
un camino
rostros nuevos , new failures
historias nuevas , new experiences
a sequel to my story, con hojas rotas
y mojadas    


INMIGRACION

La memoria es un salto
entre continentes
crossing invisible borders
swimming in the rios
corriendo debajo del sol

La memoria es los abuelitos
ancestors cooking arroz y frijoles,
flan, driving through for hamburgers,
popcorn, sipping on horchata
Basilica
No todo lo que brilla es oro
not all rainbows and butterflies,
Clarita y sus cien años
Ruben y sus Tacos del Camino Real
El rancho
Midnight movies
Quiero a quien me quiera
It’s been a long day, without you my friend
Mexicanos al grito de guerra
Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light
Tepechitlan, Jerecuaro, Guanajuato
Long Beach, Argentine, KCK,
Chihuahua,
A Distance Between Us
El puente, the bridge.
Three Little Pigs en casa, at home,
don't step out marranitos,
la llorona te va a llevar

Memory is a leap
between continents
Cruzando fronteras invisibles,
Nadando en los rivers
Running under the sun

Born in different places
Pero las mismas intenciones

come here. i’ll wrap myself around you
most of the time i’m sure i’m a sliding glass door
obvious like a schoolgirl crush
never able to hide the pink in my cheeks
or bury the truth behind enough broken parables
i’m about as vigilant as a chihuahua
perched on top of a sofa barking at the mailman
forgetting for a moment that you could pick me up
and put me down on the floor but
i promise i’ll just jump back up again
never fully accepting the plainness of my bluff
the winters crack my knuckles but
i don’t want to buy another pair of gloves
i’ve got ripped fingernails turned ******
and a kitchen sink full of unwashed mugs
and you’re pulling my hands away from my face
trying to show me how much we look the same

Cocoa. My mom's whole world. Her pride and joy. She's in real trouble folks. Last night she consumed over an ounce of dark chocolate. She also got into chicken bones. She needs divine intervention. We can't afford to take her to the veterinarian again. All prayers and good thoughts are appreciated. I am weeping. She's an important member of our family. She may only be a dog. The she is as important to God has anyone else. And my mother would be devastated by her loss.

I may not be able to read this morning. I'm going to be in My Sanctuary on the front porch praying. I'm not going to church because my job now is to watch after the dog. She is a beautiful little animal. A deer head chihuahua. The original breed of that dog. She was the companion animal to the Toltec. Very rare because she is also a brindle brown. I saved her from an abusive puppy mill ******* and raised her all on my own. I love her. I have no children. She's my baby. Please help. Thank you.

PLEASE REPOST THIS SO OTHERS SEE IT! I don't care about stats. But Cocoa needs all the good thoughts and prayers she can get! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Catherine :')

I sauntered up
to the carved mahogany
& ordered whiskey,
two shots straight up.

Outside the sun
melted tarmac,
saquaros
bore silent witness,
a million
miles from home.

I was mesmerized
by the toothless grin
of the tender,
deep ruts in his face.
his mystical eyes.

And I wondered
about the stories
he could tell,
if he ever wretched
on buttons
or traveled
the Milky Way
flying as a crow.

The blasts tasted delicious
burning my mouth
& enjoying
the cosmic
ethanol-moment,
I forgot about
such fleeting thoughts
at my sudden stop
along the lonely
stretch of highway.

I cough and laugh and smile with thoughts of you,
I remember that bit of annoyance that would break your lips,
that shift in your eyes.
It's been almost as long as we dated.
What did you think in September? I forgot until it was October and
then I realized and thought;
where are you and what are you up to
I've been listening to artist and songs that you showed me,
I like them more now, a sort of time machine.
I think of you when I *******, not every time.
Just when I'm feeling sad.
I think of you when I make eggs and when I use my laptop
I think of you when I see anything of Beauty
I think of you when I see a chihuahua or a golden lab.
When I take acid I think of you and get so **** happy
and I just wish for you to be happy
and I wish for things to be okay
and I wish I could just say hi
and I wish things weren't weird between us.
And maybe it's not.
I stay in this house and see what could've been,
some altered dimension
with pictures of our friends and family on the walls,
dog beds covering the ground.
Our toothbrushes in their chargers on the sink.
Your Halloween decorations still up;
I bet in a couple of months it'll look like
The Nightmare Before Christmas on our porch.
I have no idea what will happen in the years to come;
I just hope you're doing well.

If I had a blog what would it be ?

Would I blog about twitting?
Tweet about texting?
Text about bloging?

Will I sip on an organic double frappuccino?
Will I miss MJ?
Will I have a tea cup Chihuahua?
Will I hate the hills?
Will I be dealing with   bulimia?
Watching TMZ?
Liveing green?
Will my iPhone my big sunglasses be in my   louis vuitton handbag?
Will all this be something to talk about?
Will it still be "in"?
Or will outher things that I hate take it's place?

Will my blog be overrated?
Or will only old ppl like it?

Or will it be, anti-social anti-fashion
I hate everything even myself
self mutalating artsie fartsie
wannabe rabel who are also AS over rated

whatever...

((If I wred this blog, I'd hate it))

This morning, I experienced some good luck.
I bought a Chihuahua for one hundred bucks.
My new dog is brown and his name is Red.
He will be my dog for many years ahead.
Like other dogs, he probably loves to gnaw on bones.
Red makes the third Chihuahua dog that I own.

Down from Arizona desert cold, absence of ice and snow
three white painted terracotta pots
by the Villa apartment on the tabled walkway—
Christina’s place.

Stacked, each alternately inverted one to the next
stabilize a snowperson body.
Can you picture it?

Black painted buttons all the way up?
Lips of dots, an orange twist of nose,
deep eyes void black.

Burgundy scarf tied around the neck,
positioned just so, it could be fit
to a Christmas Chihuahua.

By its playful form and surprising attitude,
may it well succeed at pleasing every passerby
and draw out, on each scroogey face, a smile.

It’s been doing just that for me, as I park
opposite each night, my headlights there shining.

Still, I have not and shall not peak inside
the alluring, open terracotta skull,
since I have imagined not wishes,
nor disappointments, nor elves and cookies,
but practical ash, randomly spiked with spent cigarettes.

Last night, as I walked out, with my night’s anticipations,
my grab-bag of happy tangles, Christina’s hanging silver chimes
issued soft whispering over terracotta, and I caught
a remembrance of Amazing Grace how sweet the sound.

Then Mojo my psychic dog turned me sharply,
and he took me away–we two, going toward home
a starry desert.

That Mexican hunger of memory,
That 7- 10 evening shift,
Campesinos de Chihuahua,
Sinaloans de Durango,
Day laborers:
Organized Labor’s stubborn cohort,
Largely ungovernable,
With Union Label conspicuous in absence.
Labor Unions:
Largely dead in America,
Except for SIEU, of course,
Making astonishing strides in unskilled circles.
SIEU: The Future of the American Labor Movement,
Eugene Debs rolling over in his grave again.
But I digress.
Mexican gardeners:
Doing most of southern California’s
Weekly landscaping these days.
Tree-trimming in evening twilight,
Certainly an extracurricular
Earning activity these days.
“Hustlers Only” need apply.
Adding five or ten or twenty,
Cash on Tio Sammy's barrelhead,
Mexican tree trimmers, already exhausted from
A workday that began at 6 AM.
And isn't it a pity?
A moment’s lack of concentration,
Distracted, perhaps, by *****-spirit former selves,
Sipping that last shot of afternoon tequila.
Cue Jay & the Americans:
“In a little café on the other side of the border.
She was giving me looks that made my mouth water.”
Distracted, a chainsaw arcs carnelian.
ReCue Jay et al: The chainsaw
“That belonged to JOSE!
Yes I knew. Yes I knew. Yes I knew.”
Severing his right shoulder deltoid,
A butchering to say the least,
Requiring, at least, three weeks “en casa.”
Tres semanas
Without Labor,
Consequently,
Without Capital,
No wage-slave salt lick.
“No dinero” for bread and butter.
Bread and butter?
A consummation devoutly wished for.
And dead certainly,
Better than Guns or Butter?
That Hobson’s choice.
No Padron LBJ are you,
Down along the Pedernales
Texas Hill Country, west of Austin.
Conjuring up both Guns and Butter?
You can’t have both.
Which is why we laboring folk
Always opt for the former,
Knowing instinctively that
A full-flush, spurting military-industrial complex
Means full employment and good times,
Except, of course, for the soldier boys.

“Y los sueños.”
Bourgeoisie entrechats.
I hear America still singing, faintly now.
A shrinking middle-class siren song--
Just a little something--
Some small baited hook--
Some chum bucket for Les Miserables;
Swarthy aspirants.
“Y los sueños.”
Our hunger of memory,
That once booming American 20th Century;
Horatio Alger:
Alive & kicking in the new millennium.