Why won't the driver stop so that we can look authentic... mundane enough to deceive reality

at the end of the day, one only reaches normalcy through pretenses.
it's true... for example:
I like lying to you... when I tell you “i love you” just so that you'll **** it a little faster... for a bit longer... I really kind of love you though...

With my hands, I want to erase 500 years of colonialism off your flesh.
With my lips, I want to placate your christian guilt and burn away your evangelic shame.
With my words, I want to travel through your mind spreading a new gospel of love.
All in all:
I want you to become your own savior
breaking tradition in little pieces and rising in passion as a whole until you can touch the moon without having to be crucified.

I want you to leave me if that's part of your liberation.

It is imperialism and not god that they worship.
Being touched by the holy spirit as they turn deaf to the cries of children in Iraq... and on top of that calling the poor woman of color who just had an abortion a murderer. (meanwhile their pastors and priests **** children nonstop.)
Begging for donations to build the next temple as people in intervention torn countries die of hunger (all of this while Bill Gates and Carlos Slim become richer.)

I will love you after-wars
I will love you before-wars
I will love you during-wars

7th grade: ESL class...
I thought afterwards was “after-wars”
it wasn't until I took English 101 that I learned the proper spelling/meaning of this word
meanwhile I constructed a whole theory as to the origin/definition of such word:

such word according to the carlito's little immigrant dictionary is used to describe that time in which one is fatigued by so many battles, fights, skirmishes, attacks, abuse... and begins to see and feel all things around in a slow but certain process of apacigüe
that very moment in which one feels the cool air caressing each wound, each bitter memory.
Like a teaspoon full of honey after coughing to the point of bleeding.
The moment in which the universe seems to have mercy of/on the oppressed: when grandma's hoarse singing and laughter suddenly emanated and filled our hearts with a sense of peace after-wars:

Guadalajara en un llano
Mexico en una laguna
me he de comer esa tuna
aunque me espine la mano

during-wars: our time, in the middle of societal scrutiny. See? They don't seem to care much at sight, yet their thoughts of exclusion tend to disembowel us, hang us in public and use us as examples of what can happen when you bend or brake the rules. Yet it is not hate but love that can save us... and them. You and I, by practicing this horrendous act of resistance called “amor” are in fact saving the world, or at least diminishing the painful moments.

And one day, I promise you we will touch the stars... after-wars.

I’m a bad lover
I ask too many questions and some answers make me uneasy,
‘Am impacient, sometimes have low self esteem and sometimes I just think I’m the **** (I do really)

I’m a bad lover
I tend to inundate the objects of my affection with attention, cheesy poetry and random drawings that look more like kindergarden scribble.
Broken promises **** me.

I’m a bad lover
I am inclined to forgive with ease but remember with intensity.
I do not acknowledge moderation when it comes to kissing.
I sometimes prejudge according to my last relationships.
And somehow I am not afraid of being loyal.

I’m a bad lover
I love cats and warm, fuzzy feelings.
I’ll rather watch a documentary than a horror movie.
I turn awkward in certain situations.
I go to sleep listening to democracynow.org but think Amy Goodman should be a bit more energetic, it’s almost as if she’s bored or ******* or something.

I’m a bad lover

She was lost in East L.A.
She was told she could be found
That she’d feel something profound
Once she walked over the streets
Once she would smell, touch and hear
Once she read the signs
Admired the murals
And entered each Laundromat.

Why do you hold on to nothing
as if it meant the universe (to you)
their doctrine: encrypted in your mourning
as if god had branded your soul
to remember (only what/when/where you are expected)

reminiscing about those days (that never happened)
illusions
restitution of dreams
and forgotten pasts (that you've chosen not to remember)
believing lies that make you feel warm inside
because that's what you're made of (according to 'you')
not acknowledging that what we are constructed of is constant transformation

so you remain in delusion
because comfort is more familiar than revolution
and even within the confines of this so called movement
your sight is not set on the walls (as they crumble)
but on the ground
because the sky is too high
and your mind is too little
or at least that's what they told you (and you believed them.)

moon looks sad tonight
It rests on the arms of mother sky
Surrounded by sister stars

When I was little, la gente mas grande used to tell a story
About a rabbit who was raised to the moon
And his shadow can still be seen
(If you look close enough)
…I wonder if rabbit is dead…