we are the ones waking up to freejoles, pan dulce and mexican american dreams

caught inbetween paperless borders. more ghost come into the mexica landscape

pheasant feathers start to fall next to crumbles of copal. the sidewalk littered

with glitter, papel picado and notions of what it means to graduate roosevelt high

in this post chicano militant era. post consequence of coincidence. 24 hour michoacan

is still serving up the best carne asada fries in a city trying to fight gentrification and

cholesterol. what is worst . the mexican condition. the american condition. the overpriced

apartment. or the shot to the ego that very few brown faces will ever own land here.

whats the point any way. there is a set of chicano dreams drowning in the amnesia

as the set price for buildings is going beyond our own metaphors. our own conditions

who wants to live here anyway. its the same conquista. just taking on new parameters.

ofcourse we do want to live inside this almost broken mexican american dream. its

the boyle heights before the city that is was cool or hip to be a part of this pueblo.

this is the city of nuestra reina. and it has all the blood pumping. all the life living.

that no hipster or chipster is going to get. somewhere along this condition. we look

for the score to be settled. for the price to be free. for the euphoria to continue. we just

have to keep walking our east l.a. we just have to keep living our east l.a. without anybody’s grants

without anybody’s permission. without anybody’s late notice. or eviction. we are

the cities concrete river. railways and broken alleys. our semilla is embedded underneath

the concrete. no one can take away the sidewalk, the sage, the street lamp, the

hamburguesas, elotes and first street mariachi stuck, jammed, embedded in our d.n.a.