well here it is:

as a good-hearted crazy boy as I am
I can be fixed only by a woman
on the last gear of speed
like a herd of mustangs in gallop
to the abyss or to eternity

a woman who dedicates me poems of hate
in which I'm the last provincial old man
the princess can fall in love with
but actually the joy is shaking whitin
any time she feels me arround

a woman dressed only in swords of Toledo
who can sing on a sword like Mariza
making me climb on the walls
like on the Chinese Wall on the moon

a woman that resists any melalcoholical drubbing
on rithmes of sirtaki with Zorba the Greek
with her heart blowned out of her mind
carelessly throwned like underwear through  the room

a long-time woman to lead my way
and night in sleep and life in death
and my god in all its demons of beauty
with the most innocent baby smile

a woman that on the last outpost of her ******
like a wild goddess will laugh and explode the night
as if as if ordering
the happiest end of the world

I thought,
There could be nothing more awkward
than two half naked middle-school girls
fighting in the middle of a locker room
the imaginative and ingenious verbal warfare of “*****” and “Perra”
bouncing off the tall cold grey concrete walls of the showers
combined with the energetic and exaggerated use of hand gestures and physical intimidation
could not be ignored
though I tried, even as the others spectated and incited the two opponents
Because mi guela always says Las mujercitas no se meten donde no la quieran
(Little ladies don’t intervene)
I thought there could be nothing more awkward
Than hiding my face inside a gym locker
With two half-naked middle school girls arguing behind me
Until I heard one of them say “Stop acting like a Mexican”
Mujercita o no I could not remain silent
“What’s that supposed to mean? I asked her, “You know I am Mexican too?”
I thought there could be nothing more awkward
Than two half naked middle school girls fighting
Until I saw both their eyes appraising me
Then shifting between each other
with their brows raise in agreement they said to me
“Mariza you know you’re white” “An Oreo when it comes down to it”
I didn’t know that the name of my favorite cookie could hurt so much
When said with a strange mixture of disinterest and certainty
And I didn’t even know what it meant
But I knew that it was an evaluation of my Mexicanness of my identity
All the mujercitas slowly poured out of that locker room
Not a one making an objection or even feigning interest in what was said to me
It did not matter that I spoke Spanish
It didn’t matter I grew up able to quote every Maria Silvestre movie line
It didn’t matter how much I idolized Vicente Guerro and Emilio Zapata
It didn’t matter how I saw myself
The mujercitas agreed I was dark on the outside, white on the inside
For years, I tried my hardest to prove I was Mexican
But it seems that the standards changed every year
No one was ever convinced
No one wanted to be associated with me
No one believed that I truly cared about the Mexican community
To this day I am trying
What does it mean to be Mexican?
I’m still trying to figure that out
It must be more than a facha, a look
It must be more than music, celebrations, a shared Language, And an Experience
It must be but
No body has ever told me what it is
Only what it is not
Which is Me
an Oreo
And all that it implies
A pocha, a race-traitor, a sell out
Dark on the outside white on the inside