A shadow we become in the midst of promise and peril.
A tingling voice fed by the imaginary monster of hope of prosperity.

They sell us a dream from which constant rude and lethargic awakenings auction us to the highest bidder.

We are political bargaining chips, fillers, collateral, surplussed aims and aspirations.

We are worth our blood but never true citizenship, but what does citizenship mean when our siblings are murdered with no consequence?

Quick some of us are to fantasize about trading fences and walls for humanity.
Ignoring that the very potion that will hold those borders together is our flesh, and the dreams of our children.

I always hoped for more out of this narrative, some sort of comedic relief or an alternative ending. But I’m just sitting here in this never ending opera with horrible singing and beer.

II.

Aquí, behind this rock I call my safe voice I stay rooting for you, I just don’t have it in me, the more crumbs we get, the closer we are to the cake, but if you get the bakery, I promise you I’ll be your cashier, plus I love cheesecake.

Waiting games... I don’t recall the last time you looked at me. Can you stamp me please?
Something within me still longs to be free and I don’t know what to do.

Fear of repatriation, when there’s really no country for you, you nationless, culturally ambiguous neoliberal residue.

One day they will ask me to speak, I will walk slowly towards the podium as people await to hear what I have to say, they imagine I’ll sing an anthology of resilience, but instead I’ll just say “ya pa’ que!”.

Sus manos tejian poesia, como torteaba, como cosia, como ella hacia para que el chile se convirtiera en su sinfonia, como ella asaba chiles serranos, como sus manos tejian poesia...

Literacy
“Please don’t tell anyone
My husband beats me…
I am undocumented, I don’t speak English…
And my child, el pobrecito thinks he’s the only one who can defend me
He thinks he’s the man of the house…”

His eyes get lost on the spotless white wall,
Thinking if his dad got home…
Yelling in that cursed language his mom can’t understand,
Language becomes a violent beast coming out of his dad’s mouth.

A monster that smells like alcohol and burnt tires,
Feels like broken glass, blood… and fear,
And he ain’t there to stop it.

What if his mom is calling him for help… in Spanish?
And he’s there instead,
Encased amongst all this English and them four pristine white walls,
“What are these letters good for if they won’t save my mom…” he thinks.

A teacher tells him
That he should learn how to read in English…
He then could teach his mom,
And one day she could defend herself from the beast.

He devours below-his-grade-level books.
Each letter: a weapon.
Each word: a shield.

And he begins to believe that through knowledge he could save her.
Every time he writes a word
He imagines himself as a victorious warrior,

The beast is tamed,
And his mom will one day be safe.

Yesterday he smuggled words inside his old torn backpack,
Stole a fruit cup and the entire alphabet, took them home.
“Here ama, this is for you!
One day you’ll talk so much English you’ll be free.”

Anoche te encontré
Flor de selva encabronada
Lengua libre y encontrada
Antiguo amor

Antenoche te encontré
Piedra de montaña verde
Amuleto de mi suerte
Antiguo amor

Ayer te vi
De reojo entre mis brazos
Escuchando la poesía de tus abrazos
En tu regazo amanecí
Antiguo amor

Amor dulce
Lento, perezoso, poseído,
Amor de viejos
Amor que triunfo después de ser vencido
Amor de esos que no mueren y se quedan ahí
Como humedad en la pared
Antiguo amor

Amor suave,
Te de arándanos y hierbas dulces
Mirada onda y media pérdida entre sus luces
Dulce poesía color azul
En todo su esplendor
Antiguo amor

Y vendrán tus monstruos a buscarte,
Escondidos en la solapa del pasado,
Recordando aquellos tiempos escaseados,
Donde existías sin necesidad de responsabilizarte,

Y vendrán tus monstruos a buscarte,
Todos ecos de tus gritos y tus golpes,
Alhajados con mil manillas de cobre,
Donde hay llaves que abren lo menos deseado,

Y vendrán todos tus monstruos a buscarte,
Desde el más pequeño y recóndito rincón,
¿Te recuerdas cuando te decías campeón?
Ahora vives haciéndole ofrendas al amor
Esperando que te vuelvan lo invencible

Y vendrán tus monstruos a enamorarte,
Pegándote los labios al oído,
Repitiendo cada prosa ya olvidada,
Con la que te hacías decir que eras un dios:
Los demás no valían nada.

Y vendrán tus monstruos a devorarte,
Como punto final de breve historia,
Llegaran mofándose de tu gloria,
Y no tendrás más que callar
Y volverte una memoria.

Y entre las piernas destruidas del imperio azul
Navegamos negadas gaviotas del sur buscando el sustento
Aros de plástico nos traban los picos
Y vemos miles de posibilidades más solo nos queda volar, imaginar y morir de hambre
Cuántas gaviotas cansadas no venderían sus alas por un bocado
Por hallar un puerto en medio del acantilado
Por caer al vacío en medio de un cielo oscuro y estrellado
Gaviotas pendejas
Acostumbradas a los vuelos tan normales
No sabiendo que ellas son tan desiguales
Y que a su imperio no le hacen falta más que para morir de hambre
Gaviotas acomplejadas
Que se limpian el plumaje
Y se quedan viendo las olas
En medio de las corrientes atravesadas

En sueños yo te salvo sin querer,
Y vuelvo hasta el antaño en un segundo,
Pensando en lo vano, en lo profundo,
En lo sincero y en lo vagabundo;
Y cuando tú apareces, mediodía,
Con el sol paralelo a tu sonrisa,
Desarmas las estrategias y guías
Y ganas la batalla por un día.
De noche yo te abrazo de costumbre,
Buscando el calorcito de tus brazos,
Escondiéndome como un niño en tu regazo,
Huyendo realidades con engaños.
Y a veces tú me miras "diadeberas",
Te das cuenta que existo y me liberas,
De lo mortificante que es quererte,
Sin a veces saber que puedes verme.
Quizás yo por mi letra y mis consejos,
Debería de quitarme de complejos,
Buscando algún guiño en aquel espejo,
O una señal de vida en tus montañas.
Yo soy expedición de vez en cuando,
Y tú un dios que se esconde en el ocaso,
Me vuelvo eterno como el firmamento,
A ver si en tu creación te pertenezco.
No quiero ser tu vida o tu sustento,
Ni tú necesidad semi-quimera,
Quiero ser tentación y vicio eterno,
Ser algo como una suave condena.
Vivimos entre espuma y medianoche,
Entre miel que nos cubre los adentros,
Llenando poco a poco los silencios,
Yo me lleno de ti
Y tú
Me salvas luego.

It is not my story to tell:
Languishing dreams in the midst of barbed wire fences,
Fearless laughter,
We add lemon, chile powder and salt to this border.

They carry these stories,
Heavy as a sack filled with indignities,
Weighty, like your grandmother’s advice,
Cumbersome, like this daily mental displacement.

I have not bought big things as of lately,
In my mind I plan my exits,
I constantly check my relocation fund,
“What if” is a constant in my lexicon.

I often break in tears at the sound of an immigrant story,
My emotions become gallons of water:
broken and splashed by the boots of immigration officers,
Little do they know, we are cacti:
Tough and our seeds also flourish post mortem.

I want to sing an immigrant song:
Less like butterflies who migrate,
But more like dislocated nations,
Collateral flesh, caught up in steel thorns.

Rest assured we will survive,
Like leaves of siempreviva,
Even after torn away from our stem,
We will grow our own roots:
Defiant, resilient, and with a stubborn willingness to belong.

We are you.

Short Film

Scene:

I wished for these minutes to be frozen,
Paused-while-in-motion, congealed, kept eternally intact,
Like a slow-mute-black and white movie in constant repetition,
I, surrounded by your arms: an eternal art installation.

You sparked a procession within me,
All’the sudden… I remembered,
I recalled that which I did not care to forget,
Just like when I would memorize them old romantic Mexican movies grandpa used to watch,
I replayed every dialogue thinking that one day,
I would ride away into the horizon on top of a white horse locked into Pedro Infante’s arms.

Short film:
One which owns no plot,
No cathartic ending or even a narrative of love,
Random flicker of time,
Broken words and missed flights.

I apologize; I tend to arrive late to everything,
Including your life,
My bad.

Short film:
That long lost sense of belonging,
A plant with dumpy roots searching desperately for soil.
Somehow you triggered and meshed some recollections,
You know…
I have not felt someone caressing my mind at the same time as they desire my flesh.
Lost in lust: A short scene between your legs,
A brief script amongst our lips.

Melting glacier within
Resting ***** face
And cut…

Y entre las piernas destruidas del imperio azul
Navegamos negadas gaviotas del sur buscando el sustento
Aros de plástico nos traban los picos
Y vemos miles de posibilidades más solo nos queda volar, imaginar y morir de hambre
Cuántas gaviotas cansadas no venderían sus alas por un bocado
Por hallar un puerto en medio del acantilado
Por caer al vacío en medio de un cielo oscuro y estrellado
Gaviotas pendejas
Acostumbradas a los vuelos tan normales
No sabiendo que ellas son tan desiguales
Y que a su imperio no le hacen falta más que para morir de hambre
Gaviotas acomplejadas
Que se limpian el plumaje
Y se quedan viendo las olas
En medio de las corrientes atravesadas

En sueños yo te salvo sin querer,
Y vuelvo hasta el antaño en un segundo,
Pensando en lo vano, en lo profundo,
En lo sincero y en lo vagabundo;
Y cuando tú apareces, mediodía,
Con el sol paralelo a tu sonrisa,
Desarmas las estrategias y guías
Y ganas la batalla por un día.
De noche yo te abrazo de costumbre,
Buscando el calorcito de tus brazos,
Escondiéndome como un niño en tu regazo,
Huyendo realidades con engaños.
Y a veces tú me miras "diadeberas",
Te das cuenta que existo y me liberas,
De lo mortificante que es quererte,
Sin a veces saber que puedes verme.
Quizás yo por mi letra y mis consejos,
Debería de quitarme de complejos,
Buscando algún guiño en aquel espejo,
O una señal de vida en tus montañas.
Yo soy expedición de vez en cuando,
Y tú un dios que se esconde en el ocaso,
Me vuelvo eterno como el firmamento,
A ver si en tu creación te pertenezco.
No quiero ser tu vida o tu sustento,
Ni tú necesidad semi-quimera,
Quiero ser tentación y vicio eterno,
Ser algo como una suave condena.
Vivimos entre espuma y medianoche,
Entre miel que nos cubre los adentros,
Llenando poco a poco los silencios,
Yo me lleno de ti
Y tú
Me salvas luego.

Yo quiero ser la otra:
La que escondes de noche,
La de paseos en coche,
La de cosas prohibidas,

Quiero ser la querida:
Por siempre tu derroche,
Cómplice en tus huidas,
La que lame tus heridas
Y sabe mirarte a los ojos
(Cuando ni tú mismo te reconoces,)

Jamás ser la oficial,
Ni la de la silla presidencial,
Ni la santísima catedral,

Yo:
Yo quiero ser templo escondido,
En medio de la sombra del suplicio,
A donde llegas hambriento y cansado
A ofrecer tu sacrificio,
Tu amor
Sin derechos, ni beneficios...

Caemos lentamente al precipicio,
Donde dicen que de allá uno jamás vuelve,
Una sombra roja nos envuelve,
Dicen que ahí es donde los pecados se absuelven,
Ahí, donde te conocí,
En ese bar de mala muerte,
De la mano de aquel con el alma rota...
Yo quiero ser la otra.

Tus patas tamalonas, your fat feet
Fat feet
That makes the ground tremble as I take a step
My feet are flat
To be closer to the earth
God wanted me to remain grounded
To grow roots before I yearned for the sky
My grandma's feet:
Callous, hard, dry
Her feet were old books filled with handwritten poems
Romantic love journals
Her callous feet had to get like that
So that thorns and nails could no longer hurt
My grandmothers' travesia was grand
Her feet were so eager to move on
That they walked on their own
Patas! Patas tamalonas!
Grandmother would tickle my feet
And I'd laugh
Grandma, why do we get feet?
Because God wants us to walk mijo
Even when your feet are flat
Fat, uneven, or they hurt you must always walk
Stand up when they try to force you to sit down
Because those feet are yours
Today I walk, following your footprints
My fat feet being embraced by the hot sand
As I follow the sound of the waves
There you are
Waiting for me at the edge...

El agua esta verdosa;
I take a plunge:
blindly and innocently,
hoping for the best.

I close my eyes
prepare for the worst,
and yet
it does not feel that bad.

I am here again,
surrounded by your arms,
resting;
god knows for how long
but at peace
again.

We live galaxies away
thinking of different things
chasing contrasting dreams
you... you run towards the light
while I ponder about it in darkness

You know...
I too have learned how to tame my shadow beast within:
the one you tend you unleash
with that luggage filled with insecurity
and lies...
...and secondary places in your life
(meanwhile I am your primary care
your home, your flesh, your receptacle of tears
your plate, your soil, your forgotten sketchbook)

how far away are you?
I wait for this chess game to restart
so we can go at it once more
waiting for a different outcome
with no plan b
without a care in the world of what can be
and contrary to advice
good customs and common sense
I will make the insane decision to submerge myself again
in love

Inches away... But in different worlds
I quietly await for the dream you promised me,
Instead I see you buried in years of solitude,

Quiet,
Unwilling to rise with me,
Because there may be something in the ground waiting for you,
Something that seems to be less fast paced and quite more traditional,

Since
I am so unconventional,
So queer,
So foreign to you.
So I tear my wings in hope that I can wait for you
As my flesh burns in desire.

I want to awaken you...yet not even the sun accomplishes such task.

And I am afraid that in your deep sleep one day my heart will be unwilling to compromise,
That impatient heart of mine that likes to walk away and destroy long term possibilities.
That needy heart of mine that yearns for the feeling of your breath over my skin,
Your soul over my soul,
Your flesh over my tongue.

So if and when he leaves
Don't ask where he has gone,
He's never told me.

(But he's there)
Impatiently waiting at the terminal of "maybes"
Measuring the time with the rise of the sun
And when he sleeps he dreams of your hands surrounding him,
Touching him,
Making him feel
Like you and him
belong.

No eres absoluto
You are not absolute
Like Porfirio’s power
Like the laws of physics
Like defaulted theories

No eres absoluto
Ni en lo diminuto de tus besos grises,
Tus brazos astutos,
No existen en luto.

I resist the words that will burst out of my lips
For I know my tongue
Usually lies out of mercy
And compassion

Truth is there’s no passion
Can’t live out of rations
I am not in dire need of love
I can live without the absolute emptiness you cause me

I can definitely breathe without you
No eres absoluto
Y de noche un brujo me cuenta que mientes
Mientes entre dientes
Cuando dices “tiempo” cuando insinúas “siento”  
Hoy ya no me tienes
Dejo el fondo abierto
Y de lejos sueño con las alas rotas
Para que no puedas volver a montarlas
Ni meterlas en tu maleta azul
Ni echártelas por la espalda

I await in silence, like one waits for judgment
I look at the ceiling
And I imagine how it looked when I didn’t know you…
I’ve become so familiar with the ceiling, looking at it every night as if it had answers for them never-ending questions…
Where is he?
Why can’t he see me?
Yet the insensitive ceiling remains motionless, static and monotonous: absolute.

Homeless aspirations:
I left home for you.
Made myself a hut,
A cave, somewhere where you could hide

And you did it well,
You did it so soundly
That I no longer see you.

I can’t find you.

Problem is:
When I found myself
I had lost my vision
For you, for us.

So I redid myself
Ate in moderation,
Was less emotional,
Unconditional, went to sleep in the darkness, holding myself hoping I would come out whole after your interventions of solitude… I was wrong.

Dry mouth, dreams, cautions,
Don’t you know I can see beyond your eyes, even if I try not to?
Don’t you know that I can tell through the tremor of your flesh when you leave home?
Even when you’re next to me,
I know.

So I’ve become an obstacle, clutter in this obscure path that leads nowhere.  As much as I try to see beyond this tunnel, there is no light, there is not a happy ending.

Love should never be silent,
My grandma said give enough hugs because one day you will run out, ******* grandma! I thought, but now I am here, holding myself wishing she was here to hold me as I allow myself to break.

I have known you from before, I’ve known you from my father’s abandonment and emotional manipulations, I’ve known you from my darkest moments, I’ve known you, yet I still believed in that glimpse of light I often mistake for love and potential,
I was so wrong.

You said your hands will one day touch my flesh,
Leave marks over my skin so that I can always remember…
I wish it was poetry you are talking about,
I wish it was a word, yet words are so scarce nowadays, words… even words resist the temptation to fall out of my lips.

When will I speak, again?
So I perform, act on a daily basis
I look forward to the day when I will wake up again:
On my own,
Or maybe with someone brave enough to hold me:
Even at my worst.

We were supposed to make poetry,
A kingdom of illusions falling into pieces as I slowly await universal restitution.

I am not trash
I am not clutter
I am someone who thought “maybe if I” the issue was that I forgot to see beyond I and I ignored the obvious.

I woke up this morning again,
On my own.

She hated her mother's voice, her strong accent thick like champurrado.    Her defiance, her identity.    

  She didn't fit in, and her mother's voice was a reminder why.
A constant reminder.   She hated the moment she crossed that border, maybe “I would have been the popular girl at school with a mother in the United States”. But here she was just an illegal.  

  So many postcards, pretty pictures of tall buildings:   “Las Vegas, city of lights”. She dreamed of one day being a tourist,   like them gueras on TV,   with their flashy credit cards, ordering coca light and rare steak. But here, she was just an illegal.

  Her resentment grew like a cactus: green, slimy, tall and filled with thorns. Each microagression a thorn,   each mispronounced word a bullet.

  She remembers that one day   when her English teacher made her read. She caught her as she was about to leave the classroom,   “Miss Cuellar, it's your turn!”   “Dang this pinche vieja is slick!” she thought...   For cacti can't speak, much less read. But they remember. They remember each day they went without water, so their roots grew deep and profound in hostile ground, and they kept themselves strong, they hid themselves,   they stood tall and vulnerable in the middle of nowhere.

  “I am a cactus” she wrote as the first sentence of her English paper about identity, she then deleted those words, what the **** was her teacher going to think? Now this crazy *** illegal thinks she's a plant   so she wrote her name instead. But deep inside she knew she was a cactus in the middle of hostile lands, far away from that precious lake of healing waters where the wind sings and hills are green; far away from that country of dreams, colors and stories. Stories where her existence made sense, stories where she belonged. But here, she was just an illegal.

  So many things would trigger her, the sunset, the heat, people starting conversations,   “don't talk to me, cacti don't talk”   they grow thorns, they grow green, they like to be left alone. But she knew that that was not her natural state, she wanted to be free. Her spirit wanted to run out of that cactus. Why couldn't she be a bird? Un tzentzontle or a humming bird, even if they didn't live as long, they at least get to fly.

But instead there she remained, rooted, guarded and defenseless, no matter how profound her roots were, she was still an illegal: wrong countried, wrong bodied,   multispirited.   One day her skin began to cry,  a deep beautiful wound  from which a flower sprouted.  She had found poetry and realized that while cacti didn't speak they still flourished.
  To be continued..

The border to me
XUAN CARLOS ESPINOZA-CUELLAR·WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2015
  
The border to me is a constant anguish,
A big pause button,
Often in dreams I dream of Mexico as my lover
And he waits for me,
And waits.
The border to me is my grandma’s rosary,
She said she’d hold on until I could go back,
Until she couldn’t.
I recently found out that for years she’d scold my cousins for using my table games “he’s coming back, and he’ll ask for them…”
And she’d save t hem in her old, rusty closet.
The border to me is a big pause button,
I often dream of going back,
Who will I be then, when I hit play?
Who will I speak with to recover my grandmother’s prayers,
To collect 12 years of unclaimed hugs,
All the wrinkles and gray hairs I missed on her hair,
And every step I couldn’t walk by her.
But one day I will cross back,
In the middle of songs and candles I will conjure her spirit,
And I will look in the back of that old closet
Where she saved my table games
And there I will find her love
And her songs, her advice, her songs,
And the little pieces she left for me, hidden for me,
When she envisioned the day
That this pause would be over.

Quiero salir de tu cielo
A otros mundos más felices
Volar como las codornices
Con nervios, pero con vuelo

Quiero salir de tu cielo
A otros campos más bonitos
Andar descalzo y solito
Lejos de cualquier recelo

Quiero olvidarme un momento
De serpientes y puñales
Y dormir entre nubes blancas
Como las de las postales

Quiero salir de tu cielo…

Mujer de la falda larga,
Grande, dulce, poderosa
Diosa
Diosa

Tu falda como el manto de la Guadalupana,
Cúbrenos a tus hermanas,
Y entre llantos y despedidas
Sabemos que las grandes como tú nunca se olvidan,

Que cada llanto es un poema de vida
Que allá en la casa del cielo
Tú sigues cambiando vidas.

Mujer de la falda larga,
Grande, dulce, poderosa
Diosa
Diosa

Fronteras de piel y construcciones sociales
Madre de los desacatos radicales
Eterna reina
Entre adioses terrenales
Te conviertes en santa solidarizada con nosotros:
Los marginales

Los pobres, los inmigrantes, los jotos, los que no somos “normales”

Mujer de la falda larga,
Grande, dulce, poderosa
Diosa
Diosa

Confidente y adversaria
Mujer revolucionaria
Mujer de la falda larga
Cúbrenos bajo tu manto
Y llévanos a ese mundo
Ese mundo que tú imaginaste
A esa tierra por la que luchaste
Grande, dulce, poderosa
Diosa
Diosa.

Los dioses moriran, lo dijo un viejo sabio, con un tono de agravio y un poco de ansiedad
los dioses moriran, porque no hay sacrificio, y solo por beneficio se mueve en sociedad
los dioses moriran, y sus conocimientos, sus treintamil ascentos y su conformidad
los dioses moriran, un tanto por olvido, el otro por descuido de la ingrata humanidad,
los dioses moriran, que dioses tan humanos, quizas algo mundanos, y un poco de maldad
los dioses moriran, entre piedras del rio, escencia de rocio y fragancia floral
los dioses moriran, cantaran los ateos, suplicandole al cielo que vuelvan a brillar,
las estrellas del cielo, el sol y su cautelo, la luna y su desvelo, las corrientes del mar,
lo alto de la montana, el verde de las plantas, pero sera muy tarde
los dioses moriran.

Tu y yo en la noche fria

Entrelazados bajo cobijas

Como tamales de dulce

En una olla gigante de barro



I want to keep you forever

Become the water to your river

The vision to your spirit

The light to your progress

I want to stay in this beautiful uncertain moment

Court you, engage you, and inspire you

I want your heart to beat faster as I get closer

I want to become that one emotion that overwhelms every other

Your resting place, your peaceful love, your regenerating space

Your warm Mexican blanket

Your eyes like your destiny ever-changing

I was getting to know you

I don't know you anymore



Leftovers, unfinished conversations, longing, wanting, needing,

You wanted to be selfish, self centered, goal oriented

I wanted to be held, caressed and felt



You left slowly, fading away like a spirit after a séance

leaving me with the need to cleanse myself

of your leftover emotions, your demons, your denials



Agua con añil de la palangana, flores blancas, colonia...

    " Me voy a limpiar, me voy a limpiar, con el agua del rio, con el agua del mar... "



I rise above my wants

my needs and my desires



While I am made of flesh

spirit never expires

you do and so do emotions



I will hold on to nothing that's not worth waiting for

you eyes forever changing

my eyes forever brown.



" Se van los seres, se van los seres... "

Loving you is a political act

A radical act of revolutionary love,

Loving you in the morning, in the middle of the night,

Loving you in a time of war,

Loving you: your spirit, your skin, your depths,

In a historical warfare where we are not meant to be wanted,

But gunned down in the streets,

Detained, criminalized, displaced.



My tongue, which is supposed to remain silent

Turns into poetry at the contact of your lips,



My accented language turns into lullabies of love

Asking your body to rest, your soul to rise,

Your spirit to become one with mine,

As we shield each other from this world of ****

And whiteheteropatriarchalcitizenist normativity

That we love to interrupt as we breathe

Against each other’s flesh.

let your fire burn through me

mark me

be the drum that never ceases to play

the sound that makes life happen

the melody of love



let your rumble be the change that we need to see

let justice rejoice

let us dance at your pace

let us be free with you, my king



the king came back as thunder!

Be the thunder that calls our hearts to fight against injustice

Be the song that reminds us how to struggle

Be the fire within our souls, and have mercy over our enemies.

Ashe.

Challenge



Nobody wants an easy love

You say

There needs to be a challenge



Like not calling you for days

Like pretending to not care

Like being a dismissive/distant ****

In order to make you feel like you should really want me



Boo, that’s not challenge, that’s buying into the same ******* we are told to do as men:

Do not be intimate, vulnerable; do not surrender to love,

Pretend to be numb, strong, emotionless, and cold, be a man, be loveless,

Be a challenge, so that you may want to conquer me, conquer my flesh and colonize my spirit,



But neither my flesh nor my spirit needs for you to claim them

I need not to falsify my emotions in order to attract you

I do not want to pretend to be a cold lifeless chimera

I am not what you are looking for, but I am what you need.



Challenge:

The real challenge is interrupting old stories of masculinity

Letting me enter you, letting you enter me and surrender to each other’s flesh without guilt or fear of eternal damnation

Standing by me, standing by you even when it does not feel safe

And yes… it’s ok to tell me you miss me, think of me, are triggered by me, hurt by me, impacted by me, I want to know, silence is no challenge to me, knowing you and learning to love you as you guide me through the streets of your inner city heart is.



Vulnerability, communication, surrendering: challenge.

My body

My rules

My territory



I wish I knew the words to express what I’m feeling beyond tears

Beyond feelings of betrayal, abandonment, inadequacy,

Silencio que la memoria va a hablar:



I usually remember in Spanish



My uncle, he said that those things were normal and done to little kids,

“It will make you pretty and I will play with you”

So I let him dive into me because I believed that in order to be loved I had to let men hurt me,

And I saw my father beat my mother unconscious several times, but “he loved her”

So I learned that pain, invasion, abuse was a normal part of love

It has taken me years, broken relationships, years of putting up with abusive elders, friends and partners

And I remember that the only thing, the only place I felt safe was in bed, next to my teddy bear.



Decades later,

This man reminds me of my uncle,

This has not been the first time we’ve seen each other,

But it’s never been like this

I asked him to stop, this time I didn’t have to be in pain, I didn’t have to be hurt, I didn’t have to do what I didn’t wish to do, my body is my political space, my spiritual temple and I decide who will worship in my body

In my temple

And I don’t need to hurt in order to be loved

So he decided to go forward and violate our bow of consent

Decided his pleasure was more important than my well being than my ability to write poetry, my endless debates about activism, the love I have for my mother, the times I lay on the ground in worship as I ring the prayer bell, waking up early to go to work, singing in the shower, going out to random restaurants with my best friend, smiling, he decided I was not worthy enough of safety, and he felt entitled to me, my health, my consent, my body.

I confronted him, he responded with indifference and anger.



I went to the hospital, felt silly asking for a **** kit, and sat in a room for over an hour.  I felt exposed, vulnerable, opened, disrespected.  Like the goats in ritual offerings, I felt lifeless, I felt broken.

Days before the incident I went to a second hand store and I remember spending about 15 minutes looking at stuffed animals, thinking about how I haven’t gotten one in years, yet I have given a couple to guys I’ve gone on dates with… I haven’t gotten a rose in years, I thought, or a teddy bear, something to make me feel safe.



The victims advocate walked in the room and gave me a teddy bear, isn’t it funny how the universe works?



My body

My rules

My territory



My body

My rules

My territory



It has taken me years to learn that love is not the same thing as abuse, that I do not need to compromise my well being in order to be loved or feel accepted, that I love my body and each inch of it because it’s the one I got and I need no one’s validation but mine, that pleasure should always be mutual and that I refuse to be with someone who does not find me attractive, ****, and worthy of respect.



I want to thank my closest friends and family who have hugged me, cried with me, held my hand and guided me through this incident, I love you and I promise you this will only make me stronger.



Friends, never be ashamed, afraid or embarrassed to bring your attacker to justice, for you are worthy of love, respect and no one has the right to violate your body, your desires, your boundaries, your humanity.

Consent is beautiful.

I give up on you

Men of appearances

Men who will crumble as you question their true level of intimacy

Men who will feel forever shamed by their weight, class, **** size, *******

Men who will not think about stepping over you in order to look taller

Men who will never love, but unconsciously choose to live in a constant state of crisis just so they can feel alive

Papi, I give up on you



I give up on you as you tell me you want to be friends,

Then you call me in the middle of the night as you feel insecure because your grindr hookup never showed up, or showed up but left you feeling alone, empty, used, *****

So you come to me for healing, to build you up only so you can leave my bed feeling new and ready for your next fall

I will not pick you up again



You need to learn that love is mutual and something more than laying down to cuddle, love is a deep and transformative understanding, love is not Hollywood or healing **** sessions, it’s beyond that, and it feels free.

And every time you leave I feel entrapped and know that you will only come back

When you fall.

Ya no me gustas, tu piel esta arrugada, llena de manchas de la edad

Ya no me gustas, tus ojos se ven cansados, tus pasos desolados

Tus sentimientos aislados

Tus ganas de llorar



Ya no me gustas, como antes me gustabas

La juventud de tus labios de tanto fuego se quemo

Ya no me gustas, tus caricias de noche no se sienten constantes

Ya no somos los de antes



Ya no me gustas

Me encantas, viejo amante.

Tengo una cajita de secretos

Llena de poemas, astillada,

Vieja, desgastada, pero llena de poemas



Caben muchas cosas dentro de ella

Pudiera llenarla de problemas

Mas la tengo repleta de poemas

Repleta de poemas



Quiero regalarte mi cajita

Y que la llenes de poemas

De frases cursis

De citas comunes de filosofía

De literatura sin esquemas

Ah! Y de poemas, si muchos poemas

I want us to have a little country together

Made up of scratch paper,

Every inch of it overwhelmed with poems and random thoughts.



No wire fences but pens and pencils waiting to be adopted

Taken into the safety of our hands



Not shores or beaches

But open skies filled with imagination and room

Lots of room to think, and question, and ponder

And question, and ponder

And question and ponder



Books will be our passports

Songs will be our visas

No invasions or wars

Only consensual agreements



Our country

Filled with strange people

You and me.

Quiero escribirte un poema malescrito
Lleno de errores ortograficos
Un poema hereje a la metrica poetica
Un poema irreverente a la gramatica

Quiero volverme un rebelde asmatico
Tu amante diabetico
Amor antipatico
Ateo y medio psiquico

Lago en sequia
Freemont street sin puteria
Entre azul y buenos dias
Barrio caliente sin policia

Quiero que resientas todas y cada una de mis ausencias
Como la biblia a la ciencia
Opresor a la conciencia

Ser tu desacato
Tu rebelion
Tu desobediencia
Un beso roto en resistencia
Lo contrario a la decensia

Amor sin contrato
Puta con licensiatura
Medio malo y medio ingrato
Inocente y hasta novato
En eso de pasar el rato
Sin que el corazon se enlode
Igual que cuando pisas el fango
Con tu zapato.

No hay poemas simples
Solo poetas nerviosos

Blanco
Que de noche te metes como sabana en mi cama,
Draping between my legs,
Collapsing on my skin,
Falling over my soul as guilt:
          Colonial guilt.

Tus ojos azules como los del jesucristo de mi abuela,
La vieja escuela,
La escuela antigua,
Me pierdo inocente en tu manigua,
Y me desvelas.
(Que carajo diria mi abuela?)

You held on as one holds on to hope,
Como los clavos del cristo de los blancos,
Callado y con cuidado,
With the overwhelming silence of a temple:
          Worship, worship, worship!

Tu sueno colonial desamparado
Sleeping next to me
Y entre mis brazos
Igual como la yerba en los pantanos.

I give up on you
Men of appearances
Men who will crumble as you question their true level of intimacy
Men who will feel forever shamed by their weight, class, **** size, *******
Men who will not think about stepping over you in order to look taller
Men who will never love, but unconsciously choose to live in a constant state of crisis just so they can feel alive
Papi, I give up on you

I give up on you as you tell me you want to be friends,
Then you call me in the middle of the night as you feel insecure because your grindr hookup never showed up, or showed up but left you feeling alone, empty, used, *****
So you come to me for healing, to build you up only so you can leave my bed feeling new and ready for your next fall
I will not pick you up again

You need to learn that love is mutual and something more than laying down to cuddle, love is a deep and transformative understanding, love is not Hollywood or healing **** sessions, it’s beyond that, and it feels free.  
And every time you leave I feel entrapped and know that you will only come back
When you fall.

Malinche
Traitor to my race
As I dig into your white thighs
as I dive into your body
500 years of colonization
Your blue eyes
blue like the oceans your ancestors crossed to invade
invade the land I call home
just like you invade my thoughts, my flesh, my desire

Malinche
traitor to my cause
as you kiss me i keep thinking
will i be one of them?
one of the men of color accused of not dating his own, loving his own, desiring his own
buying into the "pa' mejorar la raza" narrative

Malinche
as you are laying over my chest i keep pondering
if it's ok to desire you
to hold you
to tell you you are beautiful
and i wonder how many times you've been told that
by someone like me

so i fall asleep in your arms
wake up in the middle of the night and asked you to leave

Malinche
traitor to my desire.

Monster

Darkness falls amongst your thighs.
I disappear in the middle of the night to search for unfulfilled fantasies,
Long lost dreams, illusions of water-like love that melts away from my hands into a deep and dark blue sea.
I want you to take me to the bottom of obscurity and show me what it looks like there:
Show me the beast (but hold my hand please)

I lay in bed next to you thinking about tomorrow
Imagining that your skin is made of fertile soil
So I plant poems and kisses and water them with my tongue
My tongue
My slip open tongue, accented, venomous tongue
Sometimes I forget to speak kindly
And I become this monster filled with words/lost in desire
Desire to keep you close forever
Yet with enough words to send you away and never think of you again

But all in all I’m just afraid
Afraid of me and what lies at the bottom of this heart full of knots and unspoken truths
This heart that does not trust
But longs to believe every word you say to me,
So I await your words, the touch of your lips and your callous hands every evening …
Praying away my slick tongue, my quick thought process, my heart full of assumptions and a monster made of memories and emotions, memories and emotions, memories and emotions.

If we were the people of god....
we wouldn't **** our neighbors....
if we were in the promised land....
blood wouldn't be shed....
if god indeed promised the land to all of us (Muslims, Jews and even crazy Christians)....
it might be that he wants us to coexist ....
instead of driving them away and pushing them to the sea....
if Moses was to open the waters again....
who would he guide to ....Eden.... but the destitute of today’s most normalized genocide?....
Those whose rocks are replied with bombs....
Those who we hate, and hate us back....
Those who make a great political slogan (on both sides) even if one side is more ****** than the other.....

Those who we call terrorists as we bravely launch missiles in to their elementary schools....
Because we ought to defend ourselves since we are the people of god....
...But we probably already killed Him on an airstrike.....

he
him, miralo
he has nothing special
he gets lost among crowds

she
her, mirala
she swears we're beyond racism
sexism, citizenism, heterosexism
classism,
and many other isms

they have something in common...

they think they're free
which is very different to
they think (therefore) they're free

because indoctrination has  infected their thoughts
they call themselves patriots as they proudly wear the american flag
on small pins
they even have a yellow "support our troops" sticker on their bumper

i'm telling you
she thinks she's free:
mrs. successful latina
"embraced" by america's corporate world
she "broke through" the glass ceiling
(then sealed it again)
no... other latinas would be too much of a competition
they need to have their own merits
have it as hard as she had it

she feels good about being tokenized
she's glad that "America" gave her such opportunities
"Why her?" out of so many others
she's so lucky
so why bother
**** the rest
as long as "she's free"

He thinks he's free:
"What's with this feminist *******" he says
he raises his fist
but not in an empowering way
instead
he threatens to land it on a woman's face
"that's what she gets
for trying to be a man"

They think they're free
"we're over homophobia
they're just isolated cases of intolerance..."
"i mean as long as you go about your business
and don't bother no body
i mean
don't preach it to everyone
don't show it
don't say it
you're free to be who you are
but just hide it...
why do you want to get married?
it doesn't make sense
i mean it might only be a phase..."

we think we're free
"we do the jobs no body else wants
this is not our country you know,
we need to follow the rules,
be good citizens,
don't ask for too much,
make sure we don't make them uncomfortable,
keep the status quo,
stop...they're starring...
we should wait...
let them set the rules"

today:
they think they're free
but one day
they'll think
and therefore
they will be truly free...

xtp

los angeles, march 3 2008

Tacos fritos oil's drip
     drop by drop
          skin by skin

i eat the flesh of my own
     taste their blood
          drink their sweat

i become the piece of glass
     that cuts their knees
          as they kneel

i am the extra chili on the sauce

     i'm the rock in the beans
          the high pressure in their veins

               the cents of their paychecks

dry cement on their boots

     in their hands:
          i'm the most hurtful cut

i am a sign in their thoughts
    
     i'm a moment in time

small piece of their soul

     the beggar's ***** clothes

           oil stains in the streets

i am the memories of dirt floors
    jalapeños
      pork skins and sour cream
          the pains of poverty...
xtp

el hombre que yo amo

ni sabe que lo amo

he doesn't dream of justice

he's not even conscious

even if i'm meters away

he can not see me

he's blindfolded by social constructions

..

the man i love

doesn't notice

que desde hace tiempo

my love has been receding

he can't look me in the eye

for he is afraid to see his reflection

the man i love

is full of fears and demons

..

el hombre que yo amo

is totally imperfect

he's not even my type

too low for my expectations

easy to forget

hard to keep loving

yet something inside

deep inside

keeps revolting

..

el hombre que yo amo

no sabe que lo amo

tal vez le importa mierda

si me voy al con~o

..

deep inside he knows it

deep inside he feels it

but he's such a ******* coward

weak

and full of *******

..

el hombre que yo amo

..

mas bien

el hombre que quien sabe si lo amo

worships indoctrination

colonized perspectives

he's materialistic

he can't see beyond flesh

sometimes i even wonder

if he has a spirit

..

el hombre que yo amo

como un gran pendejo

vale pa' pura verga

no se ni por que lo quiero

i guess that says a lot about me

very ******* telling

..

i'll turn on a candle

and do a little prayer

para asi olvidarlo

..

el hombre que yo am

que piensas de la noche..
cuando yace callada
eterna y desvelada
como bohemia dormida
;
las estrellas colgadas
en aquel libro *****
son iguales que versos
son como una caricia
;
los arboles ya secos
alzan sus pobres brazos
intentando tocar
un pedazo de cielo
;
las aves se acurrucan
en las tristes palmeras
los carros pasan secos
como aire en primavera
;
lo opaco de la noche
me llena de cenizas
los techos y las luces
luciernagas que pintan
;
pintan mi invierno triste
lo llenan de resina
y yo me sueño libre
como la noche fria
;
la noche nunca pregunta
siempre llega campante
invade cada parte
sin dar explicaciones
;
la noche se destaca
por ser bien libertina
la noche es un poema
repleto de caricias
;
las estrellas colgadas
del libro de la noche
vamonos a lo oscuro
vamonos a otro mundo
vamonos en un verso
al lugar mas profundo
al ***** de la noche
al lugar mas oscuro...

I wanted you to be welcomed, part of my flesh; I wanted you to be Him
But every single movement repulsed me
I imagined traveling in a bubble and moving up and up and up away…
And there you were, looking up, trying to save me.
Except I didn’t wanna be saved,
I wanted to escape my mistake,
Tell you I secretly hated you without making you hurt or cry,
But I am bad at these things,
I’m so rusty at loving someone,
And even more at pretending to.
So there I said it
Like a silent secret prayer in the middle of the night
Fist to my chest
Forgive me, for I have sinned (not really)
Except that this time, I made sure there was no penitence, just a quick good bye and a pack of cigarettes.

It’s 2014 and they’re still talking about the feminine mystique
Gurl es que no puedo mas ya
So I am gonna throw some shade
I will pray to Yemaya
To wash them with the 4th wave

Llora palestina, llora
Llora gaza
Lloran las fronteras
Supuran sus llagas llenas de cantos de injusticia
Largos cantos de dolor que emanan de las entrañas

Llora Honduras, llora El Salvador, Llora Nicaragua
Tus hijos los más pequeños montados en bestias
Huyendo de otras bestias, rodeados de bestias
Hacia la bestia padre
Padre de todas las bestias (solo basta recordar para entender)

Llora México entre plomos y promesas
Llora el indio en la sierra
La mujer en costa chica
El campesino en la huasteca
México un plantío de drogas y de sangre
Donde los ricos se hacen más ricos
Y los pobres valen menos que las balas que los matan

Llora la Tierra, Onile, la Pachamama
Entre lenguajes hegemónicos y pueblos sublevados
Hace mucho que nadie la escucha
Solo los indios y los brujos con sus hechizos
Pero pronto volveremos a poner la frente al piso
Para oír de cerca lo que reclama.

Honeyed voice
Your throat is filled with stories about old days, old days when love used to be tangible and real.
Tell us, vieja,  tell us again about the one time you fell in love, en aquel portal de ladrillos, tell us vieja about the one time the priest threw holy water at you both and said that word that you now say with your honeyed voice: lesbiana.

I defy you
As I continue to rise
I belittle your curse, your gossip, your unexplained hatred of everything that is me.
I defy you
As I ****, as I ***, as I moan
I rebuke your negativity and I reclaim my body
As mine
Sacred temple where many decide to worship,  and yes, I do perform miracles.
I defy you
Because I understand that no matter what I do you will still dislike me, so I choose to give you the best reasons to hate me, and one of them is not hating the irrelevant.  
I defy you
And until you love me again, your hatred will slowly crumble at the sound of each "I love you" I say.
What is written cannot be erased.

Salt Lake city what the ****
Dancing with a spider, a cow and a hawk
Vino, whiskey, cerveza, maricones con destreza
Perdiendo la cabeza

Jotas de hoy

Igual que San Lazaro bendito
diambulas las calles vagabundo
Un trago de vino
Para apaciguar el recuerdo profundo
La memoria opaca
Vas viajando por el mundo
Tembloroso e inaudito
Igual que San Lazaro bendito