"gringos" poems
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?
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 7:01 PM UTC
Que lenguaje mas hermoso
el que produce palabras de alegria
como es el te amo, te quiero y te adoro.
Dicen que los latinos somos ruidosos,
llenos de energia y poca cordura,
pero es que no entienden que el español
no tiene limites, no tiene volumen, solo frescura.
Grita tus palabras indigenas,
huracan, coqui, fotuto, Boricua,
esas palabras tainas tan bellas
que usamos cada dia.
Porque tienes miedo cuando te sale el "Spanglish"
si los gringos no pueden pronunciar ni "Porto Wico"
asi que curate con un "bad english"
porque nunca tendras que procuparte por decir RRRRico como un chino.
Mi lenguaje no puede morir
porque dentro de sus palabras
estan las llamas de un Neruda,
la negrura de un Llorens,
la fortaleza de un Albizu.
Oh cuanto te amo, te quiero, te adoro Puerto Rico
por enseñarme el español que uso para enamorar a tus hermosas mujeres.
Oh cuanto te amo, te quiero, te adoro Puerto Rico
por eseñarme el español que uso para luchar contra los que ya no te quieren.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
Excuse me Sir, I'm ready to order.
Can I please get some breakfast sandwiches
and a couple of bagels?
Uh, excuse me rudeness! What the hell was that look for?
Can you believe this motherfucker?! One look at my nopal
and he went straight into his skinhead manners brown paper bag
and picked up a big ol' hand full of **** you" and put it all
over his ******* face.
I like how now racism has a new look.
Indifference and side ways looks.
I still ******* matter.
I have a right to be where I please.
As a matter of fact, I have a right to be.
If I want a bagel I would like it without
a side of Caucasian *******
Pinches gringos cabrones.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
I was born in a cold land,
The leaves bright orange like the sun
And a dusting of icy dew on wilted grass;
I was born in sanitary white and surgical blues,
Incubated, saved, isolated;
Mamá cried:
In the motherland,
mi Apá would’ve had to choose.
I was born into exile.
I was born to immigrants,
Brown like the dirt
Mis abuelos grow caña in,
Like the leaves, glorious colors past;
I was born foreign.
I was born in Español,
Accented with indigenous words,
Bastardized like our foods and dance;
I was born and placed
At the care of a deer’s eye,
Tied red around my wrist,
A wooden cross,
A brown ******
A blue-eyed Niño Dios.
I lived in dust for 2 years.
I ran free, in fields of milpa,
In fields of caña,
In zocalos with
Colorful waving paper flags
And statues of generals.
I played with cousins,
Sharing bolis and nieve,
The hot clay burning our feet,
Racing to cool down at the spring.
And then I was brought back for school:
Los gringos van a estudiar,
They whispered, a bit mocking, about me,
4 years old, a girl,
In a place where girls were good for marriage,
University for the rich, snobby folks
Of faraway cities.
I came back to the cold land in spring.
A small barrio of tall broken down buildings,
Tiny apartments that became havens
At the sound of guns at night.
There was no more running around freely,
No more campos, no more town squares.
School was foreign,
There was English to learn,
A struggle to lose the accent,
To make the thick words
Comfortable in my tongue.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
His first love should've been basketball and his second, girls
because his name was Juan and he represented the white, red
and blue bandera, *Dominicano puro cien porciento del capital
entiendes compai?* understand homie?
and that label meant that he threw empty beer bottles
at abandoned houses and smoked second hand ****
because he was too broke to buy from the good dealers
and he hollered at girls with wide hips and short skirts that walked by
(oye mama tu si eres linda ven aquí!)
they would giggle and roll their eyes at him but of course
because he was one of those light skinned boys, the type
with light eyes and smooth brown hair that every girl dreamed
about, they would holler at him back the very next day
//
His first love was basketball and his second, was not
girls, his second love was words; it was the craziest ******* thing
in the world, to be a boy and not be crazy over women is one
thing, but to be Dominican and not in love with every muchacha
en el Barrio es una cosa de los maricones! as his best friend
would say as he shook his head disappointedly, muthafucka had
the finest beauties the Caribbean had to offer swooning as he
spoke, and he was in love with palabras de los gringos? but it didn’t
matter, he loved words like the junkies loved drugs and like
his best friend loved women, and while every other sin verguenza
on his block would dance to the hypnotizing beat of merengue and
bachata, he would watch by on the roof of the abandoned building
nearby and he would write it all down: how the lights of the neighborhood
had never seen more alive and how old man Victor looked youthful
dancing next to the neighborhood ***** and how his mother
looked happier than she had in a long time, swaying her body to the
calming voice of the old music she hadn't head in a while and
yes he was still the boy that threw beer bottles at abandoned windows
and smoked second hand **** because he was too broke
to afford the real stuff and he still hollered at girls who wore
shirts too low but in the shadow of all the happiness up on the roof,
he was not Juan, best basketball player on the team,
Dominicano cien porciento y no te lo olvides,
repping the white, red and blue bandera
instead he was Juan, the light skinned boy who liked the
palabras de los gringos because of the way they rolled off his tongue
and he had decided that he liked it better that way
(h.l.)
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
The scene was chaos almost like black friday at El Wallmarto.
people being pushed around by gringo's who didnt
even own a pair of spandex tights.
Or even know the glory of winning a no holds barred naked lumberjack
with a ***** splintter match.
The people needed a hero.
they screamed for the legends return please poppi
save us from the ordinary.
My amigo's were persecuted and i sat helpless traped across the boader do to a bogus lack of green card.
I must have left it in my other tights.
but once again like a old man on crystal **** and ****** the champion has returned to claim his crown.
And to shake his groove thing all over Hello once again.
With the strength of a small well shaved bear.
And the eye's of a low flying seagull I shall drop some splatters
of wisdom apon my fellow amigos.
Chips and salsa for everyone .
no longer heartbroken from my hellcat seniorita Drew
yes her bite marks i wear proudly in places I need to tan.
Let the little gringos sing like pretty little birdies
and senoiritas run through the fields like in thoose not
so fresh comercials.
Go tell amigos everywhere pour the cervesa
For El ******** Rides again.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 6:57 PM UTC
I do not know why you moved to this side
long ago, before your city became a **** zone
maybe you knew something I did not
you knew many things I did not, which I discovered
when you politely corrected my grammar
though it was my native tongue,
and one you learned reading our newspapers,
watching our television
listening, more carefully than most,
to what the gringos said
you told me tales of the arena,
usually after dinner, on your back porch
when the shadow of the mountain covered our houses
like a quiet blanket, blocking out the blistering heat
of the desert day
you would offer me a soda, always
before my questions began
your civility was strange to me at first,
the adults in my family barked and cackled
your words rolled out like sweet liquid
and left me wanting more
I never asked why you had no woman,
you were as handsome as any man I knew
later, years later, years of name calling later
I guess I understood, maybe
that was why you left your home
though the blind blood of bigotry
ran freely on both sides of the Rio Grande
and I knew you to be courageous
for when you told me the stories,
as the desert sky became violet and cool,
and the few cicadas began their song,
you boasted not of your dangerous dance
in the packed dirt of the ring,
but of the art it took to silence the beast
the lost look in its red *** eyes
and the silent sadness you felt
as the crowd cheered
another beautiful death
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
El agua la manda el cielo,
la tierra la puso dios.
Viene el amo y me la quita,
¡la p...ita que se partió!
A ver, respóndame, hermano:
si esta fue tierra ´e los incas
¿de donde hay dueños de fincas
con títulos en la mano?
Pa mí que al pobre serrano
le vienen tomando el pelo.
Acequia, puquio, riachuelo
todo en títulos se fragua.
¿De ´onde tiene dueño l´agua?
¡el agua la manda el cielo!
Y por último, los incas
no han sido los más primeros;
antes los huancas ´stuvieron
y antes que ellos los mochicas.
Ora hay haciendas tan ricas
pa sólo un dueño o pa dos
y gritan a toda voz
que heredaron de su padre...
¡Que no me vengan, compadre,
la tierra la puso Dios!
Donde no hay minas de gringos
hay tierras de gamonales,
pagan míseros jornales
y te andan a los respingos.
Se trabaja los domingos
Más pior que en tiempo ´e la mita.
Y hasta si tengo cholita
para mi pobre querer,
por el gusto de ...poder
viene el amo y me la quita.
Creo que, ultimadamente,
debiera ser propietario
quien fecunda el suelo agrario
con el sudor de su frente.
Así espera nuestra gente
y así mesmo espero yo.
Y así ha de ser, pues si no
a gringos y gamonales
vamo a recontrasacarle
¡la p... ita que se partió!
1.1k
Endless tables
spewing debauchery,
mountains of tequila bottles
piled half-empty & empty,
faces lying in ***** & nuts,
bodies strewn about
in various
poses of comprehension.
Guys in the alley
stood in a long line
for the ******
standing, her hands
against the wall.
The Federales seemed
as bewildered
as the frolicking public
& the drunk gringos
having a ball
listening to mariachis.
They had duct tape
holding their guns together,
that was surreal.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
So wake up and what do we find,
the men in black, oh, aren't they back!
Didnt they blow up them planes
or helped those who did
or those who helped those who did?
or so we heard, why the gringos went
to smoke them out of their vents?
The men in black, oh now so cool -
we share hugs and name our friends!
Women, they won't be flogged in fields,
nor will they chop off erring arms,
nor them planes land in k-har
in exchange for killers barred,
no buddhas left to smash,
or so they say, but for what their books say+:
so the women, just tented,
working from wherever caged,
men must never trim their manes
even the cricketers have turned out to play,
though be just the men eh!
Beware if you are a poet though,
or sing, or a singh - coz nobody sure
if you will be lynched yet;
Half the country is staying shut,
half a million may run (or so says the UN)
But they surely come in peace
armed as they go on our humvees;
Mothers throw their babies over,
what a liberation! perfect sense
to the kahn across the Durand fence;
And no we here across the Jhelum
so busy with the mayhem
that anderson's caused to our playmen;
Oh the reformed men in spotless black
they're back across the pens,
and we can now go back to sleep
with not a ***** in our conscience
+or as they say they say -
they all say how they say
is what the books say anyway
Aug 29, 2021
Aug 29, 2021 at 2:09 PM UTC
**Limp hair,
Sopping, strung out
Pallid skin
You look hollow
As if
Lying on a hospital floor
Was too soon for a coffin
Hands smooth down frizz
Your mouth, ajar
Bits of chalk, grinning
Only you could
You itch at the humans
Coming in
And out
In and out
Who couldn’t oir tus palabras
Thinking, too young and stupid
An immigrant
So you sat
Waiting
For the gringos tontos
To fix you.**
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
La Kumbia Kalvinista no es ritmo vaticano
se baila todo libre con la biblia en la mano
La Kumbia Kalvinista es la onda reformada
las sectas sí prometen—pero no entregan nada
Esta cumbia trascendente, pero poco conocida
es la cumbre de verdad, y predestina pura vida
La Kumbia Kalvinista es la nueva nueva onda
se la cantan las iglesias y ofrecen otra ronda
La Kumbia Kalvinista no lo bailan los de Roma
si un padre lo intenta terminará caído en coma
es un baile teológico que es absurdo mientras lógico
lo baile cada tribu, cada etnia y antropólogo
el papa mismo, y su esposa
bailan esta cumbia fabulosa
tu estado de animo no es nada
sino gracia predestinada
lo bailan los sajones con cojones
lo bailan las alemanas si le dan la ganas
este baile está basado en un ritmo luterano
apetece a los gringos, a los indios, y a fulano
no bailaban los franceses aunque Calvin era suya
si bailaban los escoceses y gritaban aleluya !
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 8:44 PM UTC
Now since my childhood
I knew the world wasn't good
Cuz back then I was misunderstood
Subjugated by a system
That's color blind
Look into my eyes inyoull
See a glimpse of a lost soul
On a stroll bump the cash roll
Cuz it's all a fold
Debt been collected since
My first steps making reps
Trying to gain street fame
But back then I didn't know my name
But things changed for the better
I'm standing up for my nation
Fighting for my past ancestors
Reparations
They say we was lazy imagine that?
Working Sun up to Sun down
With a gat to the bat
Or better yet a whip
Or a noose
I'm knocking Washington's boots loose
Prepare for this lyrical *******
I ain't scared no more
Made for war talkin reckless
Out my maw
Raised in hell so I guess I'm an outlaw
Raw with my southpaw
But it's all good my folks
Been ready for battle if they understood
We been here along with the indians mexicans they kin
To us friend
The gringos took all they land
Then they got us fighting
For our own land?
What kind of ******** is that
I know my history
And it didn't start in slavery
It started with monarchy
We was pharaohs and queens
Back when the scene
Was black the dark ages
Wasn't blank it was just us ruling the world
Reppin' the black nations
Still fighting for reparations
They talk about the Sundance Kid
Billy the Kid
But what about what Nat Turner did?
In 1811
Sent many souls to heaven broke the leven
Claim we equal that's just a new sequel
To keep minds off the ********
**** them preachers in the pulpit
How the hell could God love everybody
When he abhors the rich trick
Games people play say
**** to make you feel better
But underneath they want you wetter
Behind the ears how many tears?
The poor gone cry no lies
Look me in my eyes
In you'll a 400 plus years of scorned mentality
I'm tryna uplift my peeps
But they it seems they mostly dumb succumb
To what the world lays
But hey
I say **** that bull and form a litigation
Come back like King said for reparations
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
Trumpty-Dumpty
Building a Wall
Mexico !
Will pay for it all.
All of the Gringos cheered !
(mostly white men)
They're going to learn
To pick cotton again
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
"Have you ever noticed
how we are always climbing
but never getting
anywhere?
up glass-sheered avocations
and suits with bonus ties—
up **** with temperamental husbands
and secretaries with Monroe thighs—?"
It was a rhetorical question, uncannily rhymed, in the wake of
Collinses. But he didn't know that.
"We are always climbing on
what other backs have built:
the greedy gringos and their
brown-backed buey—
but i'm for Scotch and soda
anyway."
He poured out spirits like amphoras of sin.
"Oh, never mind the mess—
please, sit down.
What's that?
The mess of lives, I mean, or whatever
it is that greases the greenbacked highway
to the corner office coronation."
He knew the prodigal flames that lit the
corporate torch—the cirque
that stood in steel. He said as much:
"Oh what a monstrous architecture
of avarice! What a makeshift it is
and so much lost for all these stacks of
stuff. Sad."
I pointed to the happy pair of smiles in a
company frame. Levity interrupted.
"What's that now?
No, i've been married three times,
divorced a perfect three.
I know what you're thinking—"
And here, he laughed as he slurried his rusty brown transgressions with an index finger.
"—lucky man, he slipped the shackle
three times.
And sure, I'm dynamite by numbers
but ******* say I'm not all that nice."
"So anyway," awkwardly pivoting his grease to grin,
"you'll take the job then,
and I'll be commandeering your soul?" With a shit-shitting smirk.
"It's a joke, of course—I can't just give you the job.
You'll have to show me you can climb—"
Starry-eyed empty ensued. It was enough to see
the rungs permutating above his head. Unclimbed.
"But we'll be in touch about opportunities—" he shook.
"You know—tits and stuff."
I didn't have the heart to tell him that I am, and always will be,
a homosexual.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
Twisted mind like a tainted vine; truth confined in a sea of lies. If only I realized these lies as I lay down betrayed.
They treat me like an intrusive loser, get to jobbing then fade away into obscurity like bastion ******
I once tried to search for myself but got lost along the way. I once tried to look at my reflection but it turned away.
Shattered perception, scattered pieces of memories replaced by delusion.
Forgot myself in all the confusion, all for fame or acceptance so I became this hollow substitution.
Invisible to myself and others, and I can’t even sleep at night because I realized I’m really the monster under the covers.
Tried praying to the holy father, but I ain’t got no call back so why did I even bother?
I’m lost and afraid, so I write another verse hoping all these feelings will fade.
Just a snap of the fingers like I’m thanos, because I can’t handle of these ******* ignorant gringos.
Tried going to a logos program, but gosh **** they even more of a problem.
Eating lunches with my shadow, and it feels like I’m stuck in the middle of ocean with no rowing boat or paddle!
Hook: Seems like I’ve almost had enough, but you be stupid if you think I’m giving up! I’m almost up that hill now, I’m almost free now, I’m almost able to see that real me now. Yeah!
Trying to find a reason to continue to rhyme or find a rhyme that will bring out my reason.
The reason to keep going, the reason to keep reaching and dreaming. So I write verse after verse till it rehearsed.
Cant tell if this is a gift or a curse?
So I continue to going different directions like embers from a fire, and it is for that reason that I’ll never retire!
I will never know unless I try, and I will never be a good father if I don’t let my past hurt die.
I need to cross that edge and take a leap of faith, for staying stagnant is a waste of my breath.
I know it won’t be easy, but life’s not supposed to be easy!
Got to face my Goliath will only a few pebbles and a sling shot and give it all I got.
I only have my self to blame or praise for overcoming these burdens, For life is a long play and I’m not ready to let down the curtains.
Hook: Seems like I’ve almost had enough, but you be stupid if you think I’m giving up! I’m almost up that hill now, I’m almost free now, I’m almost able to see that real me now. Yeah!
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 1:36 PM UTC