we sing along the side of the road
waiting for another mexican american jazz hit
to come along the intergallactic radio dial
waiting for tonatiuh to show us the way back home
we are just sitting here knowing that the inevitable is
evitable. ghosting away the silence of lost generations
we have become both the bridge and the border
a metaphor of metaprose waiting to break open
another song. waiting to become the poems
of trilingual gibberish open to the word of the world
there are scribblings inside children’s notebooks
in the back of the classroom. mayan azteca mestizo
graffiti glyphs that will be crumbled into the pockets
of lonely chicanas waiting for something other than
wordsworth or chaucer. waiting of cisneros and rodriguez
to pour through their veins . Popul Vuh tatooted in their D.N.A.
they’re waiting for the ghost to arrive somewhere in a dead end
back alley. waiting for the walls to scrawl their names etched
in their spines.
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WaterHummingbirdHouse 