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.