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1100 main
that's where he lives
the one boy with big dimples
the size of apricots

his big juicy smile
talking to me
he puts his hand over my thigh
and digs
as I dip my tongue between his lips.
I miss your voice in my voicemail
I miss the feeling of your nails running through my hair
I miss when you push me away
I miss your ***** fits and the even how you made kool aid

I miss how you complain about how much curtido I put on top of my pupusa
and how you stare at me like a lechuza
I miss you Mondays 11:30 am...
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
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
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.
They tell us of places and theories
speak of the radicalness of our flesh
say that we must take responsibility of ourselves
as they sit behind their hard earned desks

they speak of their authority
and empowerment through words to the point that I wish to acquire such audacity

isn't that what our liberation is all about?
Recreating patterns of oppression
reach elitist capacities
sound … well structured and become one of the prodigies they can throw in their collection of so called advancement

I no longer seek validation of my processes through your bureaucratic systems
my knowledge does not emanate from intellectually justified sources but from las historias passed down to me by my fore-mothers

keep your favors, sympathy and unreasonable accommodations

yes, I will move on
but con un nuevo entendimiento:
de que ustedes no dictan las bases del feminismo
ni la capacidad de mi criterio

resisto sus juicios
y no acepto sus terminos
no firmo
por que mi educacion
no tiene fecha de expiracion
ni es un producto o contrato
al mejor postor.
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…
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.
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
Because i'd rather avoid you, delete you, ignore you
because the last thing I wanted to was to find myself in the middle of the night before a full day of MEChA activities and workshops writing you a ******* tragic melancholic pathetic love poem
which makes me angry and sad at the same time
talk about intersectionality

because it's hard to survive
and I want to live
and feel loved
and I feel you take me for granted
and in order to honor the love I have for you
I need to let you go
until I can love you as a friend

you taught me to love you without limits
and that's so hard to unlearn

because I learned to wait, to listen, to save, to not expect, to serve, to accept

because I refuse to go on and pretend this love doesn't exist
because I can't be your best friend
comadre, sister or whatever the ******* call it

because you make me feel little, ugly, betrayed, silenced, guilty, unwanted, dependent, anxious,

and because you always expect a reason from me
mientras como de tu plato hondo de soledad y silencio

because I want you to cry like I cried
feel what I felt
believe what I believed
know what I once thought I knew

because I need me whole
and you taught me to love me in fragments.

Because I love you, and love like that is so hard to unlearn. Any theories for that?
I rest my case
I cannot win
Against your face
your lips...
you're beautiful

Left standing here
I eat my words
Losing my cool
Winning your warmth

Who cares if I look down
if underneath it all
its you.
love: i split my tongue
language feeds me

desire: i offer my thoughts
imagination heals me

you: i lay in bed naked, next to you
your hands pleasure me
He walks with chains
his brown skin, his tired, old, tired, old, tired, old-tired hands
his heavy *** memories of lost, dead homeboys, his fear of loss, of inadequacy, of a multiple choice exam, it's easier to hold a gun, to act bad ***, than to be called a ***, after all **** are real men, cuz they know how to take it ... but no, he don't like them looking in his eyes as they dive into his flesh, he flies away and just lets his body there, numb, hot, sweaty and convulsing, filled with pleasure but soul-less, spiritless, without identity, it's just flesh and ***, all mixed into one.
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.
Something so small
Yet I feared it for years
Silent fear
Fear of laying there, motionless,
No meaning,  no emotions, no catching up, no "I love you dads"

Got off the car, entered the room in the little motel in Anaheim
My mother's voice
And suddenly, him
After 16 years of silence
He didn't called me son
He called me by my middle name
Me hablaste de usted

a broken river of pus
an exit door
I laid on the bed
Motionless
In tears
And I said that word I only reserved for you "apa".
she's crazy about him
head over heels
but he's clueless
she awaits his eyes
and thinks of the day when he'll hold her in his strong, white, hairy arms
she wants to know how it feels like to be loved by him
she does not mind to wait
as long as it's real
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
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
You are beautiful to me
your eyes, you hips your lips
the warmth of your smile
the subtle of your embrace
your skin
your laughter

even when you're a mess

you are beautiful to me
you are beautiful too
you are beautiful
you are
you
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.
Nail polish residue is dangerous
So are your memories
But I still bite them away
As if they were my fingernails

Left over mascara
Bad make up
brake up letters
Tacky drag jewelry
I save them all in a big Walmart bag
Just in case, you know,
Just in case...
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.
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!”.
I walked aimlessly
Vulnerable and afraid
In the middle of the night
Luna llena!, a vieja shouted
Es la noche del amor!

There you were, man of stone
Darkest lips, thickest hips, deepest soul

Honey, herbs and songs
Honey, herbs and songs
A ritual of love
Under the full moon
Bajo la luna del amor

Brujo, curandero, heal within
Conjure every star inside your soul
Call on every guide, sing every song
It is ok to live with a broken heart
Brujo, the journey is long
But filled with love
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...
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..
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Diabetes, babe
Why can’t you be kind to me?
I appreciate your sweetness and all.
Setting my life on “reset”
And making me feel like ****

Diabetes, my love
Can you please be nice to me?
Give me a few more years to live
Stop making my mouth dry
Stop making ‘ama cry

Diabetes, chiquito
Tratame bien corazon,
No me metas tentacion
Por que de ver los tamales,
El pozole, el salpicon
Se me olvida que el suicidio
Se esconde en un chicharron

Diabetes, mi rey
Anda pues no te hagas wey
Que la dieta sea mi amiga
Librame de la fatiga
Y de la azucar maligna

Diabetes,
Let me live
I want to eat cheesecake again
Life without sugar is lame
And equal is not so great

Diabetes, babe
Let me be…
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.
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.)
He has all the wrong signs,

Every red flag,

Says every **** scary word on my  “Girl ruuuun for your life” dictionary,

And yet I desire him.


He is everything that is wrong with me,

He is me 10 years ago:

Surrounded by spirit,

He is music without lyrics,

He is all that is wrong with me.


The embodiment of NO,

He’s a bird with no song,

Wingless, dreamless and plastic,

His standards are elastic,

And he won't let me breathe...

He is everything that is wrong with me

And yet

Object of my desire
trigger, strong language

Soy un puñal
certero al corazón
de la construcción social

I am a ******
flaming ******
***… (repeat after me…)
fagggggg
faaaaaggggggg:
soy una fogata
I am fire and heat
I raise from the ashes
of hundreds of years
of silence, love and tears

soy joto, maricon, rarito
I am queer
poderoso, vulnerable
soy “bonito”
soy pajaro, pato, ****
I can fly, i’ve got wings tu sabes
don’t **** with me
soy astuto
soy perra
soy una fiera
mi cuerpo
cruza fronteras
como si fuera coyote
as if I was a pollera

soy de la mano caída
mi mano apunta a la tierra
por que soy fuerza divina

I am multiplicity
survivor, resister
soy grande
como mi madre, como mi abuela
I am all powerful, sublime
if I wasn’t
why would you feel so threaten
at the mere sight of my eyes…
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...
The last poem you wrote me

I folded.



A drop of honey at the center

a small piece of cinnamon

A red ribbon

a good bye…



then, left it in the freezer

all the way in the back

behind the popsicles and the personal pizzas



hoping my love for you will freeze

and be kept there

safe and cold

until is time

to snack on it

again.
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
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
quiero escribirte mil gordas,
gordas formadas en líneas,
gordas tiradas en el pasto,
gordas con sus lonjas libres y sin fajas ni pantalones dos tallas menos que asfixien los tejidos de mi piel:
quiero cantarte una gorda canción.

gordas pinches gordas,
gordo el culo gordo el corazón,
gordas las piernas y los muslos,
las caderas.... tentación.

gordas !gordas son las anchas glorietas de la avenida gorda de la ciudad gorda donde todos los gordos y las gordas bailan un son que dice:

tu eres golosa golosa y glotona, tu eres golosa golosa y glotona,
pinche gorda poderosa
tu eres fuerte tu eres diosa
tus curvas son deliciosas
templo lavado con miel
para mi tu eres sagrada
dulce, fuerte y cotizada

gorda tu eres toda gorda,
vos sos toda gorda,
amante gorda,
gorda estudiante,
gorda madre,
gorda hija,
gorda espíritu santa.

¡bienvenidos a gordaztlan!
donde mandamos las gordas
y nuestro proceso de colonización conlleva amar nuestras lonjas,
nuestra panza, nuestras chichotas.

¡donde nada es imperfecto!
ni el lunar bajo del labio,
ni los pelos de la panocha.

¡pasen pasen! por las anchas puertas de nuestro gordo destino,
dicen que la vida es flaca
pero gordo es el camino,
en una mano el elote
en la otra mano el pepino,

con tortillas, chile gordo,
gordolagas con tocino.

¡gorda! ¡gorda!
sube tallas
¡y ven a bailar conmigo!
How many secrets does it take to get anywhere near-profound-close to your soul
Silence is your key
Old rusty cells filled with phantom - unspoken memories dressed in white
I walk away
Chewing on words as if they were granola bars
Because I'll rather be a witness of your self empowered collapse
Than the one who secretly pushed you over the edge
With gusto.
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.
Se habla de amor a medianoche
Se hacen limpias y amarres
Se llena el sol de miel

Soy un collar de cuentas de coral
Pegado al cuello de una sacerdotisa
Hija de Yemaya

Se llenan papeles de inmigración
Se hacen reembolsos de impuestos
Se distribuyen palabras románticas en las paradas de autobús

Yo soy el hilo que mantiene las cuentas
Pequeñas perlas de jabón, sangre y miel
Tu nombre escrito en pedazos de papel
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
i’m going to steal you….

In the middle of the night

I’m going to steal you

Like an expensive piece of art

I’m gonna steal you



Like the rain steals the dryness

Of the dessert i cry on

I’m gonna steal you

As you sleep

As you dream

As you mourn



While you eat cookies con leche

While you watch a random movie

As you iron a wrinkled old shirt

As you cook huevos rancheros



I’m gonna steal you



Voy a robarte

A la antigua

A la buena, a la mala



Between sombra y resolana,

I will carry you in my canana

As a bullet for revolution



I’m gonna steal you

While worlds wage war against each other

As the  corn goddess watches over

Little children of a poor neighborhood

In Vegas



Voy a robarte

Y llevarte entre las piernas

Like bootlegged tequila

During the prohibition



I’m going to steal your superstitions

And show you

That words carry such a strong action



So strong

That we seldom belong in our own realities



The realities imposed

By every single law of attraction



I’m gonna steal you

Like la Llorona

El calzonudo

El Diablo blanco

Los gitanos

Or el viejo del costal

As you rest your feet on the floor

Ponderously looking at the sky

In your search for a perfect star

In july’s cielos…



I’m going to steal you…
As each second rises to the sky
I pause
I stop breathing
so that I can hear your heart

then, I refrain from blinking
just so that I won't miss your sweat sprouting as wild flowers after summer rain
I want to witness the ****** expressions you make
as you reach the mountain top
while clasping against my skin, my face

I pause
as you break through my flesh
as you scratch and caress
as you bite
as you call me “papi”
Papi...I pause

and I taste all your flavors
and I lick, and I devour your thighs
we become dark as night
lost in the fire at dusk
as the sun chases us...
I pause... to feel your lips again... pressed against mine... before you walk away... I pause.
Once they told me I couldn’t speak

So I yelled        I conjured love           I sang

            I prayed and moaned

I wrote             I recited healing thoughts

            Then, I also spoke

                        But when I spoke they laughed at my accent:

So I wrote more poetry just so that I could expose it even more

Turned my accent into seeds and planted them deep within my soul



I painted my accent,               made an offering to my Mother Tongue

            Blood offering, feathers and honey and all kinds of foods

                        I praised my tongue, I spoke  

            I accented my existence

Because I don’t speak plainish

            I speak with Spice.
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