there is a place in the inbetween. where we become the traffic of narco trafficantes
there is a place in between where we become the traffic of libro trafficantes
there is a border in between those borders. where we are trying desperately to save
our children our selves and the real story behind these smoking mirrors
tescatlipocatl , xochipilli and coyoxauhqui walk into a mexican american bar
this side of tijuana. listening to manu chau and some chente remix. for the sake
of trying to awaken the seventh stone. inside the premise of chican@s and non chican@s alike
this is our immigration story. this is our migration story. this is the place where the border
meets with native history. native herstory. all the parts native gone buried
under the notion that we are all neither mexican. nor american. nor a set of papers
that we are the notion inbetween that one. that we are the notion. that comes back to the
center. of aztlan. we are the ghosts nobody is talking aobut
we have and don’t have papers. we are and are not bullet proof
we have been stripped of any certifiable native paperwork
waiting along the frontera. smudging. praying. dancing. coloring.
saying and re-membering. “we didn’t cross the border the border crossed us”
we are this border canto. walking and waking with tonatiuh. embracing
singing to tonantzin. looking for the shadows underneath the paperwork.
WaterHummingbirdHouse 