we are the memory dancing in tonantzin
we are the nobody buried nameless underneath the frontera
we are the thirsty drowning place on turtle island
we are the sun people no one will forget
despite nafta, narco politics, coca cola or all other monsanto
derivatives. we are the wayward luna. dancing.
opening the ghost of climate change before it was called climate change
we are the metaphor sinking into the bottom portion of a mexican american
water gulf water. and all the amnesia still plaguing us.
we are the sentiment sinking into the side of lowriders
still trying to find a set of wings given to them by quetzalcoatl
maybe then they can lowride. cruise control. play the rolas.
and cross the frontera invisible with serpent wings.
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