"horchata" poems
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
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
I haven't told anyone--
but I know that my neighbor is dead
because when laying in my bedroom
separated by my wall and his.
I no longer feel him there as I usually did.
He always listened to "Horchata", by vampire weekend
on repeat it played as he slept.
I imagine he wanted to dream of tropical islands
to be back with his wife and child in the Philippines--
every morning it seemed to disappear
at the same moment he could no longer dream his dreams.
Each day making sure to wave to my neighbor
the largest smile I've ever seen was this mans,
with off pigment teeth that speckled in the morning sun
tarnished yellow from all the coffee I brought him;
it was a lovely smile, wish I had it framed to see it still.
As I usually do on Mondays I made my stop
popped open his door bringing his surprise,
some variety of coffee that sits idly on my counter--
inside hung the man I admired,
with a simple note saying "Thank you Young-Man"
and in front of him a scorched photo of his pregnant wife.
placid were his hands in mine--
setting aside the gift, I gave the only thing that I could.
I set the photo in his shirt pocket, "he deserved to be with her"
and putting his cd on repeat as "Horchata" filled the silence
slowly did I depart and head to my own bed.
After calling the police I hoped to fall asleep
and dream of tropical islands of where my neighbor is...
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
put the key in the ignition, the car into drive, and all your gross post-sex insecurities to the back of your mind. forget you don’t have a license. forget she’s asleep in the bed that knows your panic attacks like they’re a late-night tv special and roll out onto the road - don’t hit the neighbor’s buick - drive. drive.
take the route you used to sneak over to your boyfriend’s house in 7th grade. feel the ghosts of his hungry pubescent hands under your bra, get that old lump in your throat, wish you could go back in time and scream that you weren’t ready and that you’d never be ready and that one day you’ll be seventeen driving down his street hating the way he used to own you. remember that his street is also your street. remember that you’re worth owning things too.
pass by the house your best friend used to live in, back when summers meant hot cheetos and horchata instead of cigarettes and cheap sangria. pray that one day you’ll be that way again, happy and fearless and okay with being alone. scold yourself for praying.
forget where you’re going until your stomach growls and the road gets narrow. then keep driving.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
This holding back stuff,
facade, is getting rough
with my hopes in reach
close enough to touch.
Practically out of this rut for
a life time of not giving up,
if I could only take the last step
but I know for certain
it'd be a bad bet to run a circle
around a friend like a back-stabbing
game of chess
and the check mate would leave
a dark stain on the membrane
of what ever came next.
So I take small dips
instead of full rips
one or two hits
just enough to get me to my next fix,
the whole time her face playing
in my head like movie clips
laughing at jokes or drawing *****
little kid shows, cartoon pics.
Making food and saying, **** the dishes"
But now I wash them and watch
my ideas swirl down the drain like dead fishes.
Split a swisher, pack, light, lifted.
My mind keeps switching
as I watch her walk back and forth
cooking in the kitchen.
Sooner or later my life will be ruined
by this
decision.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
I remember the last time we talked
you called me on a Thursday afternoon
I asked how you’d been
you were fine
and if you were still working
at that bakery in West Hollywood
no, you had quit 5 months ago
we talked for twenty minutes
but all I could think about
was how we used smoke *** in your bedroom, watching
cartoons for hours
or when we’d walk to Aldaberto’s
for horchata and chicken burritos
and the days we skipped school and drove to Malibu
to smoke cigarettes at the beach and drink Mountain Dew
mixed with ***** we stole from your dad
you asked me
how I’d been
I lied and didn’t tell you
how I’ve been drinking more lately
and that I still sleep on
the same side of the bed
as if you were going to show up one night and crawl in next to me
and yes, the dog is good
we now go on walks every morning
and yes, my diet is still poor— I know, I smoke too much
but I’m glad you’re doing fine
we talked for twenty minutes
and I hated it
because I didn’t
everything felt like it used to
except no one said ‘I love you’
before hanging up
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
you called me the other day, to ask for your textbooks back.
it got me thinking, you know.
i remembered the first time you said hello to me in the Starbucks on 4th street.
the way your ring finger and pinky curled as you waved to me.
it was november 7th.
i didn't see you again until after thanksgiving break.
we had a creative writing class together.
professor calhoon.
he told us that if we were to work together, we would be two of the greatest writers to ever study at Reed.
our first date was december 15th.
we went ice skating and drank horchata.
it had began to snow as you walked me home, where i didn't let you kiss me.
it's been a year and a half and i still remember the way you laughed when i rejected your lips.
you seemed to have no flaws for the first three weeks.
you were perfect to me.
i think i liked they way you made my problems feel. as if they were just a speck on the road map of my life. and just because everything seemed to focus on the moment in time, they weren't as big as i perceived them to be.
you told me you liked the way i bit my lip when i was deep in thought.
when you came to pick up your books i bit my lip to see if you would ask what's wrong. but you didn't. please don't think i'm crazy but i know she doesn't understand you the way i did or the way i do.
i see the way you interact with her in public or when she tries to hold your hand on the train and you refuse. i see the way she gets upset when your deep in thought. do you tell her everything is going to be okay? like how you used to tell me that? when you say that, what do you actually mean? do you mean that when you walk out my door you won't catch the feelings i caught on november 7th?
or maybe you're talking to her about yourself. and saying that everything will be okay with you.
i don't know why i'm pouring my every thought about since i saw you last into your voice mail.
you don't even have to call back or maybe i just called to say i want my textbooks back.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
Una corriente de brazos y de espaldas
nos encauza
y nos hace desembocar
bajo los abanicos,
las pipas,
los anteojos enormes
colgados en medio de la calle;
únicos testimonios de una raza
desaparecida de gigantes.
Sentados al borde de las sillas,
cual si fueran a dar un brinco
y ponerse a bailar,
los parroquianos de los cafés
aplauden la actividad del camarero,
mientras los limpiabotas les lustran los zapatos
hasta que pueda leerse
el anuncio de la corrida del domingo.
Con sus caras de mascarón de proa,
el habano hace las veces de bauprés,
los hacendados penetran
en los despachos de bebidas,
a muletear los argumentos
como si entraran a matar;
y acodados en los mostradores,
que simulan barreras,
brindan a la concurrencia
el miura disecado
que asoma la cabeza en la pared.
Ceñidos en sus capas, como toreros,
los curas entran en las peluquerías
a afeitarse en cuatrocientos espejos a la vez,
y cuando salen a la calle
ya tienen una barba de tres días.
En los invernáculos
edificados por los círculos,
la pereza se da como en ninguna parte
y los socios la ingieren
con churros o con horchata,
para encallar en los sillones
sus abulias y sus laxitudes de fantoches.
Cada doscientos cuarenta y siete hombres,
trescientos doce curas
y doscientos noventa y tres soldados,
pasa una mujer.
1k
i am so
like a
fistful of
rice dropped
on the hard
wood floors
you could
never gather
all of me, even
find pieces next
year.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
Horchata, please?
I can't help but to think that this is where you be, with me, in the evergreens...
Lazy,sipping tea, and some horchata please.
You like it rough, i like it clean.
Our lives shriveled.
Everything some fickle dream.
Nightmare how are you today?
You left me waiting on the slowly rising bay.
I drown.
You die.
I live.
We cry.
We're over in the beat of a drum.
I find the punishment you have done.
You lie.
You lie.
You lie.
Yet the truth is never true,
The wrong never wrong.
Someone else meets tampered weeps.
Another one happy.
Perfect.
Nothing pulled through her seams.
Nothing lurking through her teeth.
She has rung.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Answer her, before she leaves.
(December 2010)
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 10:11 PM UTC
My going away party
ended up with Garrison seizing
and Hailey getting a DUI
too much for one night
I like a good time but not
when people I love could die
it hurt my heart
I want to go home
and sit as a family
get a kiss from my dog
visit Ingrid and hear her laugh
grab some horchata then
crash in my old bed
lay down my weary head
only to wake up
and find myself
here
instead
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
you’re a sweet vibe
***** backpack clique kinda chick
make me wanna sit on some
apartment steps and watch
inspiring me to write till mamí calls me in for food
sipping my horchata,
like a hip hop song
make me warm inside..
let the kids from the barrio run around
because it’s not chaos to you
it’s _family_
the seriousness of the world will hit them
and its not any of our jobs to quicken the pace
you wear your dads cuban link chain
irremovable like a birthmark
pantalones rotos because everything else is
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 9:55 AM UTC