Poem

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parca

I know

that smile

will

shine

upon

the lips I once

kissed

or caressed

the moment I caress the calaca. It pleases me to no end to see you satisfied you got the best of this life.

Yes, that smile of yours, that repressed smirk, will have its day,

it’s gaudy day:

when I bite the dust.

I know you await the day my lips are sealed forever.

We

care not
for
pavor
..
2
nait.

’cause
the
tenor
asleep
has
fallen
and it’s
a wake:
we
vigil
pues Lázaro
es.

thou sayeth I ain’th a Xicano

in every stop in your language

thou ain’t

sayeth thou

What is then one to do

with the language wiring

which spreadeth itself like a posin ivy

down

my spiral spine.

Thou aren’th born in Califas but in Tijuas.

’tis true sayeth I.

That Tijuas saw to it fit to mother the I’eth

which constitueth

the I in me.

I then am an illegal alien in a spiritual body

which can not see beyond

its carnal knowledge.

None feeleth the goose bumps

as

they arise

e my

brown skin

as I

hear

the tunes

cheer

for America the blessed one

whilst

mi

head

gets stoned

for questioneing

the status quo

Never
in the course of humanity
has there been
a better time
to be
a
Xicano
ese.

Prouder can’t One be.

One must understand the vortex
Xicanismo
eyes
everyday

If the aztecs counted 52 for every end
Xicanos can hope for less in one generation.

Renewal
is in door

We face an existancial crisis every 30 years

like a blood transfusion

.

My street,
on
this Swedish
Spring day,
painted
relentlessly
grey

insists on
a
blue sky
above
grizzled
hues,

nordic
winds
caress my cheeks

I feel blood rushing.

last autumn’s
now
browned
dried
leafs

leave

brittled noises
on the local
thoroughfare
where nordic winds
rush

at earshot speed
crisply
criss-crossed

echos
of
a now
hardened golden brown
last year’s autumn
green shoot

who once stood out on a limb,
fell, sometime ago
intent on
following
the passing of the fall

I saw it rock and roll

to-day

the beautyful meaningless of the everyday

which tends to runaway from us

I heard it tumbling by, I want to hear it again.

I do confess
’tis was silent
when it made
me
turn my head.

It rolled,
leaving
behind
a moment

I can’t forget.

Dedico este poema a mi amigo Luis A. López, Aztec Poet at large.

I am Xicano mexicano ese
though not del Otro Saite.

with spanish colors
my brown iris paints
la Línea, el bordo,
muros and walls
of my cantón
homes.

I became
what el desierto made out of me.
With the aid of a syphon
The sand blew
Its red stained history
through
my poros borders.

The yaqui and navajo
Me dieron vida
sus voces
of great ones told
Geronimo clamours yet
Resistance
The yaqui still fights the mexican.

Mastico the anglo bard’s tongue
like saucy and spicy tacos de lengua.

With my jainas
and los vatos de la ‘hood
I cruise dauntaun

Con los pachucos, cholos
wainos y saicos
speakeo
spanglish
caló.

I straddle two cultures
I see them all

The Southwest
my house
La frontera
mi home

Mi raza xicana es

cruises
Califas
on
the heat waves of the Santa Ana winds.

Blue red
is the color of my soul
though
it
breath
green,
blanco & rojo

Two eagles apart
Soaring above Aztlán
Mark my heart .

poema en espanglish hecho en paint

h

I pray I find you in good spirits. The Jews and christians call you God, the bhuddists call you Bhudda and the Muslims refer to you as Allah.

So I address you.

I, on the other hand, am but a mere soul. Since childhood I have learnt the way of the loner. I am a lone sentient. I wish not to offend and seek only dialogue with thee.

The long many metal blades caress
the soggy brittle leaves that layeth
strewn about
that a
sudden October gust
of a now long past nordic wind rearranged;
in their grey and misty morrow litteredness
which greets mine eyes
they become entangled in their thin tin nails

It is still warm,
descended dew
covers the brown dotted yard

the fallen ones are gathered
all those damp leaves
in a sweeping motion

the fresh green grass
uncovers a field of joy
vibrant wet savannah for my receiving eyes

I Xican@
Shall nothing to do
About losers and winners
-with
that 1848 date
long ago come to pass it has
That bloody threshold birthing
— Crieth the child hast —
that now Breathes new life
And suckles the milk and honey
Of the magic corn
From whence nurture and nourishment cometh

Strong and vital
Celebrate I do
The foremother/father
Earth Madre cactus desert thy warmth thou giveth me
From running lives like dried river beds that suddenly life gain
Across the orality of their sayings
Fillith my head
Imagination
Pass on their language/words/umbilical linguistic essence
Impregnated in their love for the land
New Mexico, Arizona, California, Tejas, The Southwest, La Frontera;
the landscape our crib is.

Nada

Passively scouring the media
Sifting through human remains
Am bombarded my eyes shot red

Left riddled with half-cooked notions
I trod on in ether all teared
Through the bardwired wide world web

Seeking not knowing what
Respite from the pain perhaps
Of seeing all those deadly aims

I stand idle in oceans of hate
Watching the waves of utter despair
I am but the sum of the day

Western Zilch

My awareness
One moment to another
Measured by the morning sun
Finished by the nightly stars
Skirrs like the wind that fills my lungs

I sense no motion
Only conmotion
I dread the passing of the hours
Making me feel pointless
as I awake and it’s 7 o’clock already.

crunching
metal twisting
engine sounds
that promise
clear blue skies
on a loft out there.

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