mexican jazz 69

chicano landscapes in a post trump era

we might want to call him a joke but he’s pointed

at the cancer we are needing to sink into

look at examine and reimagine

somewhere along the lines we stopped believing

that this hatred was buried in our passed

that these were all just isolated incidents

and yet here we are looking and staring at the reality

that we are the ghosts standing in the death

of our enslaved histories. all the stories we’ve

tried to bury underneath an american landscape

we are the ghosts of this haunted

waiting for resolution waiting for the comfort

of another set of condtions. to come back

and show us something different. something

outside the mirror. outside

 

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chicano codex coloring and poetry books

 

mexican jazz part 68

we are the bones rattling across this turtle island

we are the names underneath stone tongues

we are all the same dream. awakened passed

any notions of race or creed. but we are born

of lines of d.n.a. that map our sinew, our blood,

our stellae. we are the day keepers  from all directions.

but the ghosts underneath our fingernails

have to be set free. so we can claim our tongues

and our homes again .

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chicano codex coloring books

mexican jazz 67

these are the worlds we occupy between the red and the black

between the american and the mexican

someone might want to say just drop the mexican

you’re american now. and miss the point entirely

is the space inbetween that holds the truth. regardless

if you know spanish. regardless if you know enough english

somewhere in between. somewhere where the tongue bends

inside the different cultures waiting for the ghost of too many

to fade to die to become something else. here inside this notion

we are the ones that become the onlooker. into our own space

and time and the time that is ours this time that is ours to become

something else. despite a trump despite a politic that tries to hide

and become something

else . we are the meaning behind the meaning

we are the tongue behind the tongue

waiting for the ghost to come back to life

waiting for the mexican ghost

waiting for the american ghost

waiting for the jazz to kick in

where we are the ones we were waiting for

where we are the ones that become the song

where the laugh is the tear and the inbetween

becomes all the parts of our meaning.

there is something to claim

something something to become

somos todas estas condiciones.

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mexican jazz 66

we are the stone calendar left in el mercadito

we are the tortilla space ship wandering down cesar chavez avenue

we are waiting for the malignant tumor to disappear from marias pansa

its the milagro we are all waiting for

 

somewhere underneath the sun

we remember we are the ones that came before

our d.n.a waking wailing and walking with the feathered copal smoke

of coyoxauhqui

underneath her white skin

she unwinds the layered mask of tescatlipocatl

jade stone and obsidian mirrors bailando

in the memory of our intention

we are waking sun. wailing moon

forgiveness underneath the streetlamp

that doesn’t let us see all the colors of coyoxauhquis

white skin. all her sisters and brother shine less

under the lights of another city that never sleeps

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mexican jazz part 65

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.

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mexican jazz part 64

they tried to deny centro american women and their children

rights to an asylum case. even though they know that 90 percent

of the women and children fleeing have the right. somehow locking them

up in cages. incarcerating children. becomes the place where we have

spent our money and our resources. this is somehow a poem about this

about caging children. who fled for their life. about caging mothers

who came running to be free. about the spaces in between. the amnesia

to remember why we came here in the first place. and some of us here

in the first place but we don’t remember we’ve been here for 20,000 years

migrating on this land. we don’t re-member the recourse. we are the ghost town

of mexican american wars. centro american wars. american nafta wars. mexican

gulf water wars. american asylum wars. border political wars. nameless wars.

caught in the storm of our condition. we are the mexican american centro american

water war happening. in the form of gang wars. in the form of narco trafficante wars

in the form of all the people forgetting your name. their name of the the names of all

those that came before them. we are the waking song. we are the piercing song.

we are the song waiting to manifest.. in the children. all those that have been caged

will remember. all those that were set free will remember. we are the memory of this

opening to find esperanza. somewhere along side the rio grande.. somewhere along side

the places where the sun meets again with the ocean. and reminds us there are no borders

between them. no borders in the inbetween.

and we hope we can remember our own stone song tongues

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mexican jazz part 63

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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mexican jazz parte 62

there are places in the sun . where we can remember all the parts

that are mexican . all the parts that are pre-american. all the parts

that were placed in slave ships and reside in the wings of our spines

there are places in the sun. where we become the memory of our fathers

we become the waters of our mothers. and watch the blue and red lines

come back to speak to us in tongues before nahuatl or any other two legged

memory tongue. there are places in our singing stone where we can remember

all the parts mexica. all the parts irrelevant. all the parts still waiting for us.

 

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mexican jazz 61

along the frontera my tongue lives there

my corazon lives there. we are the border talkers

between spanish ingles y the inbetween lenguas

someone bought your frida khalo friday portriat

but they hate your zapata bunny feet abstract painting

maybe you should consider reselling your tongue to

mexican american ghosts to see if there will be a sale

on foreclosed burritos and a handful of mexican lemon pies

they are cheaper when you stop to reconsider the notions

set in stone not by azteca or mayan calendars but by

your abuelas molcajete.

 

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