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.

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