Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Fa Be O Aug 2013
There is

the bitter taste of the last cigarette

on the roof of my mouth,

a sourness on my tongue

and i try to remember the last time i felt like this.

or rather…

the last time I DIDN’T.

seems like as time goes on, every day becomes a struggle,

and some days more than others.

I want everyone to be my friend,

but i wonder where this inferiority complex comes from?

it paralyzes me and i do not want to speak.

meeting people, seeing my ideas put into words

by other lips and others’ gestures,

and yes I agree,

but ******* you make me so tired.

no, i do not need your hugs,

and no i do not need your validation.

and hell no i do not need your apathetic agreement

because like hell you would understand,

like hell you would know that

you can’t bleach this brown skin of

all the slurs and all the stigma,

that you can’t flat iron out the

ethnic tangles of my afro-something hair,

that you can’t even guess,

cause even i don’t know,

even we don’t know,

if i’m black or native or forcibly half white,

if i’m 10% this or 50% that,

like I have to be broken down

into numbers and percentages

cause I just can’t be whole again,

cause we just can’t be whole again.



They took everything,

they came and took everything

*******,

and yes God ****** us,

your ****** God ****** us,

you came and you traded

our generosity, our good faith, our sustenance,

you took all of that

and gave us biblical ******* about a God,

some overbearing, vengeful Lord

that didn’t even love you,

oh God, and we were the savages?

You came and you stripped us naked,

took off layer after layer of dignity and prosperity,

we gave you firm hugs of solidarity,

and you groped our ******* like they were worthless,

we gave you kisses of peace,

and you rammed your tongues down our throats,

demanding we choked into silence,

and we were supposed to thank you.

You came and you ***** our land,

our mothers, sisters, and daughters

and we were supposed to be compliant.

we were supposed to be quiet,

and we were supposed to be content,

happy to fill our wombs

with children who would later struggle

with the realization that the reason the color of their skin

was neither yours nor mine,

that it was neither milky white nor toasted earth,

was because my people had been ****** by yours,

figuratively, literally but most significantly, forcibly

generation after generation,

subjugation after subjugation

for 400 ******* years.



And here I am.

400 years later and I don’t know who I am.

They say I could be Chicana,

or Mexicana,

I could be Mexico Americana,

I could be Latina,

or even, god-forbid,

Hispana.

I could be but what does that even mean?

what does Mexican mean?

a land where the majority of the people

descend from the great people of indigenous America,

or the great people of Africana roots,

or these chaotically beautiful blends

that result in the sweetest of dark coffee- soft caramel of spectrums,

still say “indio" like an insult,

still say “*****" like an insult,

still say “prieto" like an insult.

still say, “baby girl, get out the sun,

what you tryin to get darker for?"

still say, “hell no we ain’t african!"

like that would be a bad thing.



and ******* it i am ******* tired.
Brenda Gutierrez Sep 2013
Yo soy Guanajuatense
Nacida en una sociedad de Mexicanos
Born in a society of Mexicans were everyone is accepted by who they are
Not trapped as a slave or treated different
The American society can’t be compare to a Mexican society
Los mexicanos somos unicos
tenemos caminos hechos por padres mexicanos
Somo bautisados catholicos  
nuestra madre es La Virgen De Guadalupe
la cual Juan Diego vio y lo combertio en un santo
Penjamo is city full of colors visible as the rainbow
Our flag known as the tri color is a important figure in Mexico
green signifies hope, joy, and love
white represents peace and honesty
red stands for hardiness, bravery, strength, and valor
the eagle was found by Aztec people
where they would see an eagle on a cactus eating a snake
Tenochtitlan was founded by Aztec people
Which is now call Mexico City
As we believe the history we also believe what
The bible tells us it’s a precious thing for us Mexicans
We tend to speak with god to find solution to problems
Not all cultures have a belief in god
I also find myself in a world full of pain a contradiction to war
Not knowing whether anything could be done
People are dead here and their
Everywhere there is war
Veniendo de México a un mundo con nuevas reglas
saviendo que tu vida a cambiado y estas evolucrado/a
en una cultura que quisas no aceptes
como dise un dicho
mas vale ser aceptado/a por quien eres que por quien te cres
all cultures judge others by the way they are
but we are all humans and have the right to be who we are
only God could judge
when people say you're brown
I said I’m proud
When they say I’ll never learn English
Look at me know your reading my words
Soy 100% Mexicana
con educacion Americana
pero echa y derecha
con cultura Mexicana
Turco Dimas Jun 2013
You, saying love
You, shaman's road
You, a bird
You, a yellow sun
You, Emperor
You, lovely door
You, my Walt Whitman
You, Neal
You, Sal Paradise
You, Pancho Villa
You, La Revolución Mexicana
You, navajo
You, the border
You, the river
You, chicana
You, Mafia
You, redemption
You, poetry
You, Salvador Dalí
You, Picasso
You, stereo
You, love
You, ***
You, youth
You, America
You, América
You, español
You, english
You, country side
You, cat
You, fire
You, books
You, E. E. Cummings
You, Bukowski
You, Octavio Paz
You, Coca-Cola
You, Coke
You, India
You, Mississippi
You, jazz
You, Miles
You, Davis
You, water
You, rain
You, lagoon
You, chest
You, car
You, road
You, reading
You, lines
You, Paris
You, Baudelaire
You, Poe
You, japanese
You, katana
You, Mishima
You, gun
You, rifle
You, cam
You, can
You, can't
You, Durango
You, Arizona
You, desert
You, gonzo
You, mezcal
You, alcohol
You, drive
You, crush
You, alive
You, again
trestrece May 2014
Hoy me di cuenta de que todos somos un horrible cliché. Que más que interactuar y aplicar papeles y máscaras con el mundo que nos rodea, sobreactuamos, somos farsantes. Ya nadie nos cree. Ni nosotros mismos ni nuestros mejores amigos. Estamos solos y exageramos. Nos convertimos en bufones de los otros y ellos de nosotros. Que lento, que estúpido, que patéticos.

Hoy me di cuenta de que aquellos que parecían gentiles, amables y chamanes se han perdido, se han ido. Se han convertido en malabarismo de onomatopeyas, en cacofonías de libertad artificial. Hoy me di cuenta de que perdí el respeto por lo que creía superior a mí y que tal vez en mi ego, en mi megalomanía, he superado al maestro.

Me han aburrido los grandes sabios del mundo. Todo aquel jurando que la verdad está en sus palabras y en un video bonito. En la prepotencia de la única razón, ortodoxa falsificación de poder. ¿Cuánto tiempo no preví esta charlatanería? Y los idiotas, al final han tenido la razón, la que no quisimos ver. Años pasaron desde mi encuentro con los falsos trogloditas borgianos; ahora me arrepiento de no haber prestado más atención.

Siempre uno cerca de la muerte aprende y recuerda algo. Epifanías de cincuenta centavos y hierbas toqueteadas por el kitsch y el sinsabor viejo de un hierbero, de una calabaza de mate sin un cebador profesional. ¿Cuántos años, siglos, nos hemos tardado en psicologizar a los perros? El epítome del ser humano: sanar el ánima animal.

Pretendemos que lo que hacemos es original y pretendemos crear rupturas en la conciencia pública. Nosotros no somos Hakim Bey y mucho menos agentes del caos. Somos pretensiones de unicidad que cansan al hablar. Somos odio e indiferencia entre protagonistas de cada película hedonista. Nadie será trastornado por una belleza brutal más que tu falsa autoestima.

He prometido a la virgen, exvoto tras milagros que creo sentir. Mater dolorosa, he visto tanto mal… He hecho tanto mal. ¡Que ignorancia la tolerancia! Sentirse humilde ante falsos profetas ha sido el peor de mis pecados, jamás miré de donde aparecía la paloma blanca. Caí muy bajo y al parecer es tarde para rectificar. ¿Será este el punto donde vi o veré la luz? ¿Habrá más allá después del inicio de semana? ¿Habrá amor? ¿Habrá algo más que esta triste apuesta con convicción de orador?

Pretensiones de Gingsberg y actores sobrevalorados por bellas sonrisas. Interpretaciones de aquello que se cree pretender, ni siquiera ser. Pero siempre, el bueno de la película. Yo prefiero a las locas y las putas que la doble moral del cínico con cara de ángel cocainómano. Yo prefiero aquella de la infección vaginal y la tristeza embarrada en el cuello. Yo prefiero al homosexual de closet que ama con pasión, y las lesbianas cristianas que se rasuran las axilas para encajar socialmente en la bella estética de portería, de revista “Teen Sport”, Sport Spice, Pepsi y futbol. Latinismos a la Salma Hayek y relojería armamentista.

Prefiero movimientos involuntarios y errores. Perder la conciencia para saber que se ha perdido todo, que solo quedan las buenas noticias debajo de la bata de un hospital, con el culo al aire y los tubos controlando tu cuerpo. Viajar no me sirve de nada si no huyo de los fantasmas, si revivo miradas de comadrejas y camaradas que piensan que el arte, la poesía y el comunismo salvarán de alguna manera y desde su liderazgo al mundo; y sobre todo, que todo debe ser como ellos crean que sea.

****: se dice “natzi” no “nasi”. Los alemanes y franceses son sensuales al hablar español. Pronunciando la “r” como un bello gargajo. Escupitajo en retretes de ideología escatológica. Jedis con obesidad exógena frenan el movimiento cerebral. Cefaleas de obscuridad y lipotimias que me recuerdan rasguños antiguos. Cicatrices de épocas salvajes.

Marchas de vaginas violentadas, liberadas y repletas de castigos divinos. Y tú, tú apenas eres un recuerdo forzoso. Una brisa con leve olor a meados. A triste esperanza de poeta maldito, que los reblogs de una página le recuerdan el pesar. Diálogos žižekianos preparados para impresionar hipsters. Lo posmoderno de un Manchester tercermundista y la bicicleta como justificación, como disfraz del ñoño, de aquel que sabe pero que igual es un loco con miedo y visiones conspiranoicas; con tanta incapacidad, con tanta tristeza y miedo a morir como cualquier otro animal.

Goffman se quedó corto, jamás miró Marimar; jamás tuvo perfil en Facebook, blog, ni presentó a Lady Gaga en los MTV. Vestidos de carne, así se describe el género humano: todos somos un artista pop. Preguntas perfectas para congresos de embaucadores, de gitanos sociales. De adivinos de tres pesos con beca del FONCA.

¿Enserio a los 30 años y dándote cuenta de la doble moral mexicana, renegando con cicatrices en las muñecas? ¿Cómo no me di cuenta antes de que lo que buscaba no estaba en este teatro? Cuanta pérdida de tiempo, cuánto desperdicié con sofistas y feministas que reúnen redes pro-ana en la clandestinidad de la diarrea polifacética y políticamente correcta.

Una de esas florecitas que creía solo crecían en mi pueblo, me cansas pequeña. Prefiero las sonrisas tachadas y los ojos cansados del escritor que juega billar. Poco tiene sentido y poco hay que hacer. He perdido el deseo de convivir con esta sociedad más no las ganas de estar vivo.
(bad) trip | 2012 | guadalajara | 313
Napolis Nov 2018
Big brown
back  pelicans

sit a top

their

matriarch

perches

casting

their cynical

stares of

judgment

to all

who happen

by.


fat Mexicana

fisherman

skinny

Asian

fisherman

throw their

sights and

lines

beneath

the horizon

line.


dinner or

die.


two teen

lovers

holding hands

as their

walk

under this

splintered

pier,


stars in

their

eyes you

can see

that even

from

way up

here.


totally oblivious

to the half

eaten sand *****

that lie

lifeless

under their

feet.


and the tide

rolls in,

and the tide

rolls out.


and yet

to know

how I

fit and

breathe

amongst

all of this.


escapes me.


like the

punch line

of a bad joke

at a

holiday party


now without

you for

the first

time in


my life.
Rayos Feb 2011
8yrs young
lo0000nnnnnnnnggggggggg
thick  shiny  blue  black  hair
Air Force Papa wanted a Wash N Wear
He wanted mija* with Dorthy Hamill hair

So I was ordered to March down the street
to Emilias Holy Carport
Emilia La Bautista Mexicana
She knew no english but she knew Jesus
She'd cut your hair and save your soul

That day i requested un "Dori Hamel" Cut
She smiled and charismaticly said Amen! Te vas a ver muy bonita

Her holy * tijeras snipped
my hair glided to the cement floor like feathers off angels wings

She made me look right
she made me look left
and when i looked up...
I HAD A MULLET

my tears came down
because of my Dukes of Hazzard crown
and I marched home to Dixie
TRANSLATIONS:
mija-spanish for daughter
La Bautista-The  Mexican baptist
tevas ver bonita-you will look very pretty
*Tijeras-scissors
Nikola Kaberline Jun 2014
They hang limply from the walls as
Old friend DECAY settles
Suburbia Mexicana neons and
Obscene jabs in raspberry
Demonizing the scalp of an 18th cake
The lipstick is not dark enough to
Carry a meaning here

No scent lingers as the calendar turns
Another year burnt to death as
We move further away from coincidence
And desperately memorize the lines of a
Modern work, every brushstroke an intellectual
Marvel so if we stare enough it will enfold on
Itself to glass

Guten morgen, Herr Schicksal!
Would you be so kind as to
Dissolve the peppermint stench
And leave the shower on?
I may see a reflection through the
Steam and like it more than yours
I never much liked chloroform or
Frosted roses

Settle on with
Delusions of Poland
And lazy eye tangos
With naked melodies re-vamped
By a 21st century greaser
Please don’t leave
Hail to Canon, brute of mine!
América, de un grano
de maíz te elevaste
hasta llenar
de tierras espaciosas
el espumoso
océano.
Fue un grano de maíz tu geografía.
El grano
adelantó una lanza verde,
la lanza verde se cubrió de oro
y engalanó la altura
del Perú con su pámpano amarillo.

Pero, poeta, deja
la historia en su mortaja
y alaba con tu lira
al grano en sus graneros:
canta al simple maíz de las cocinas.

Primero suave barba
agitada en el huerto
sobre los tiernos dientes
de la joven mazorca.
Luego se abrió el estuche
y la fecundidad rompió sus velos
de pálido papiro
para que se desgrane
la risa del maíz sobre la tierra.

A la piedra
en tu viaje, regresabas.
No a la piedra terrible,
al sanguinario
triángulo de la muerte mexicana,
sino a la piedra de moler,
sagrada
piedra de nuestras cocinas.
Allí leche y materia,
poderosa y nutricia
pulpa de los pasteles
llegaste a ser movida
por milagrosas manos
de mujeres morenas.

Donde caigas, maíz,
en la olla ilustre
de las perdices o entre los fréjoles
campestres, iluminas
la comida y le acercas
el virginal sabor de tu substancia.

Morderte,
panocha de maíz, junto al océano
de cantara remota y vals profundo.
Hervirte
y que tu aroma
por las sierras azules
se despliegue.

Pero, dónde
no llega
tu tesoro?

En las tierras marinas
y calcáreas,
peladas, en las rocas
del litoral chileno,
a la mesa desnuda
del minero
a veces sólo llega
la claridad de tu mercadería.

Puebla tu luz, tu harina, tu esperanza
la soledad de América,
y el hambre
considera tus lanzas
legiones enemigas.

Entre tus hojas como
suave guiso
crecieron nuestros graves corazones
de niños provincianos
y comenzó la vida
a desgranarnos.
Elizabeth L May 2014
Cuando era niña, mi mamá told me to speak in spanish cuando I couldn't say mis "r"s en inglés.  Garlic made my mouth stink from the broth I drank when sick, so I ate spicy things to soothe my throat.  Muchas veces comímos tamales por la Navidad.  Cuando era niña, creí que era mexicana, pero soy blanca.  Y tengo miedo de hablar español en frente de los nativos y no sé como mostrarlos mi habilidad real.  En el fín, soy una wera, y más que eso, soy francés, y más que eso, soy alemán, and more than that, I'm finnish.

I tried to take pride in my heritage and learn this obscure language.  I tried to find similarities in appearance and personality.  I boasted of this culture that I so wanted to love and be a part of.  I thought I'd found my viking roots but no one around me cared.  I learned "tourist finnish" and forgot it because I couldn't practice.  I read the Kalevala and laughed at old newspaper articles about the joke of "St. Uhro's Day."  I pointed out weird translations in songs due to too many syllables, but in the end, I was too many generations away from being truly finnish.

Why are there so many poems about love?  Maybe it's because when we're in love we stop searching for somewhere to belong because we've found someone to belong to.  I've found my person but not my people.  I've been to seven schools and cried each time I left because I lost those I had tried to make into my extended family.  I try to fit in with so many groups because I feel like I never fit in with just one and in the end I'm on the outskirts.  We have so few people come to holidays and none of them really ever talk with me.  I have a mother but she's an island in a sea of lost chances and forgotten ties.  We seek love to have a claim to something but I've had to learn that I can lose that, too.  I strive for heritage to make up for family dysfunction.  In the end I am white, or rather, white-washed.  I was born without ethnic belonging and have not belonged ever since.
b e mccomb Feb 2017
it's valentines day
and there's this boy

he's got blue eyes
wears olive green
and this monogrammed
color pooled scarf in
red heart mexicana
that his grandma knit

(i'm also wearing olive
green with denim and
lace -- a skirt?? but
diggity **** he's looking!
i picked this outfit not
knowing it was the precise
shade of green made for
storming beaches on v-day)


i've been making his
espresso since last august
but today he came around
the back of the counter
to make it and chat so
i gave him some pie

...pie
many successful
relationships have
started with pie

(mental note: 2/14/17, 11:30
underbaked coconut custard)


it might be the 8oz
***** chai with
three shots espresso
making my stomach
flitter or it might be
him not the oven

that's got my cheeks
spotted with lightly
browned freckles and
cinnamon flavored blush

(he's a cook
i'm a baker
doesn't that
work somehow?)


***** it
now i've got a
heart shaped
pink polka dotted
sugary royal icing
cookie cutter crush.
holy crapoli what's gotten into me
Copyright 2/14/17 by B. E. McComb
Decid cuando yo muera... (¡y el día esté lejano!)
soberbio y desdeñoso, pródigo y turbulento,
en el vital deliquio por siempre insaciado,
era la llama al viento...
Vagó, sensual y triste, por las islas de su América;
en un pinar de Honduras vigorizó el aliento;
la tierra mexicana le dio su rebeldía,
su libertad, su fuerza... Y era una llama al viento.
De simas no sondadas subía a las estrellas;
un gran dolor incógnito vibraba por su acento;
fue sabio en sus abismos, -y humilde, humilde, humilde-,
porque no es nada una llamita al viento.
Y supo cosas lúgubres, tan hondas y letales,
que nunca humana lira jamás esclareció,
y nadie ha comprendido su trágico lamento...
Era una llama al viento y el viento la apagó.
Fah Mar 2014
:3
Helios , mexicana
dip diving to solar frontiers,
we are not dispersed amongst a boundless , dead , cold cosmos
we are nestled among the ***** of a warm , emotional , vibratory tone like a bell universes nebula eye in a storm , bumble bee to beetle bug , largest whale to smallest ant mixoligy lesson in creation.

tame those furrowed minds
and be fed , with the grace of a learned lover , by the hand of magnificence,
A Lopez Jul 2015
Mexico city:
The metropolis of my mexicana heritage: Nirvana of the country.
Growing up here from the young innocence of a little girl
To seeing my cousin only being ten year's old
Shot and her innocence taken at only such a young time.
It showed me men's innocence: as you can say it showed me
Their difference.
Though we have no difference
The only difference isn't blood or ones thoughts.
We all think alike
Some crazier than other's.
The separation is love and hate
And you have to know how to separate the two,
Or you can be stuck in the middle to both love and hate.
One outdoes the other:
I'll stick to the loving path
Because you got to have an even balance
Or the scale will tip.
Alien Jul 19
cruse la frontera
Cruse el mar
Contra las tormentas
Todo para tu mirar
No mi pararon las balas de un güero
Por tu amor mi converti en tu Guerrero
Cruse la frontera por ti mi Mexicana
Para que vivemos juntos en nuestra
Casablanca
The streets of Mexico, have plants and chairs to eat on.

The house of Mexico, "Casa Mexicana" has a chef who says the occasional hola to me whenever I see her, and the DJ plays any Mexican songs, from Mariachi bands no one here in Abuja really knows to songs from Coco, so all your dreams of Mexico become just more than feels.

If you take a deep dive for hidden gems then you might be lost for 5minutes, with all the pieces which makes the walls and fortifies this Museum gallery feel.


There's more to Casa Mexicana than this.

Almost everything on the menu is organic, so you sit to this coffee with warm milk, and the coffee is lighter, it's traditional and you can open all your caffeine inhibitions.

It tastes almost surreal.

I almost always go for the chicken wings which are well sauced and come with actual home made fries, no embellishments what's so ever, so it seems like what you made or your mum made, without the sweat or having to eat at home.

With deserts for your beating heart, you could lead with a slice of the triple milk Mexican cake.
ConnectHook Apr 2023
Vendrá como ladrón, la palabra confiesa
Cuando la novia diga ven, cuidado . . .
No tomes lo santo por el pecado
Pensando con la segunda cabeza.

San Juan la vio bajar con delicadeza
La musa de apariencia turca
Enjoyada, velada en trasparente burqa
Para inspirar la segunda cabeza.

Manoseando realeza:
De los cielos viene tu gran sultana
Aunque ella parece mexicana
El alma floja, la turca tiesa

Contemplando extrema belleza:
A cada cabezón su gigantona
Para cambiarla en la llorona . . .
Ahora tú piensas con la segunda cabeza.

A las domésticas la limpieza
Tentándonos en sus uniformes.
A ellas: escribir cuneiformes.
A ti: leer con la segunda cabeza.

Lo que las chicas tienen sí cura la pereza
Meneando, cumbiando el bugalú.
Nos fascinan; affecta el espíritu:
El hombre piadoso y recto tropieza.

Muchacho filósofo en tu pieza:
La novia se prepara para su prometido.
No seas burro, no seas entumido . . .
Quita del huerto toda la maleza.

Medítelo duro con tu segunda cabeza.
Inspirado por Ruth Ayon
It's Kiss Me Where it's Dark, the comedy Cinema Mexicana smash hit, sci-fi thriller with something for everybody from the novel series Kiss Me in a Dark Place...a young Antonio Sanchez works nights selling roasted peanuts to support his day-time activity as resident brain surgeon at Mexico's finest research hospital: Diego Moreno Memorial. Nursing student Franchesca Castro {played by the versatile Helena Renaldo} embraces young Tony in a surgical theater making for one of the most memorable eye-popping, bra-stretching, zipper-sticking scenes in cinematic history. I give this film my top rating of 5 hose-lengths.
   My bikini top was tightly twisted about my throat & my eyes were bulging as my whites turned red. I breathed a sigh of relief when the plastic ringlet what held the cups together snapped, breaking the ligature. How could something like this have happened? Let's trace our steps: 7 a.m.: Awoken to alarm clock after 10 hours of fitful sleep. 7:40: Shower, shave, bikini wax. 8:30: Hardy breakfast: eggs, cream corn. 9 a.m.: Arrive at job site. Noon – 6 p.m.: Blacked out...against a hard, vitamin-like surface. Next, do: food-as-poison concept...

— The End —