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.

http://www.chicanocoloringbooks.com

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.

 

http://www.chicanocoloringbooks.com

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.

 

http://www.chicanocoloringbooks.com

mexican jazz part 60

there is a place in the inbetween. where we become the traffic of narco trafficantes

there is a place in between where we become the traffic of libro trafficantes

there is a border in between those borders. where we are trying desperately to save

our children our selves and the real story behind these smoking mirrors

tescatlipocatl , xochipilli and coyoxauhqui walk into a mexican american bar

this side of tijuana. listening to manu chau and some chente remix. for the sake

of trying to awaken the seventh stone. inside the premise of chican@s and non chican@s alike

this is our immigration story. this is our migration story. this is the place where the border

meets with native history. native herstory. all the parts native gone buried

under the notion that we are all neither mexican. nor american. nor a set of papers

that we are the notion inbetween that one. that we are the notion. that comes back to the

center. of aztlan. we are the ghosts nobody is talking aobut

we have and don’t have papers. we are and are not bullet proof

we have been stripped of any certifiable native paperwork

waiting along the frontera. smudging. praying. dancing. coloring.

saying and re-membering. “we didn’t cross the border the border crossed us”

we are this border canto. walking and waking with tonatiuh. embracing

singing to tonantzin. looking for the shadows underneath the paperwork.

when

When

When a poet that struck our soul dies. we are always left
with a gap of dreams and ghosts
left behind by words not written. not spoken
the gathered winds of their breath
no longer present.

we are left with the layered presente notions
of what does that vacuum inside of us
mean. in this now and then. in this then
and when. in this when and what
we are left dancing in our own skin
with the tears fears everything dancing becoming

the oldest of ghost start crawling back inside of us
the youngest spirits start guiding us
another ancestors came and went

what is this trail you leave behind francisco alarcon
what is this trail you leave behind john trudell
what is this trail of tears of poems
what is this trail of fears and words
stepping into the light of your grace

what is this trail of imperfect perfection
que somos humanos cantando y llorando
el puro reflejo del sol
mariposas sin fronteras
hombres y mujeres con alas
en las gargantas

we are the stone song left when all the steam
is gone . when all the water has been poured out
and we are pure bone song dust again
we start to feed the earth back all the songs
and all the colors she fed us

we become the journey. the best part of the journey
when the human condition. when the human contradiction
fades.

but as always we are the ones left dying
because we miss you. we miss you. and we miss you
and nothing was ever enough. this is our testament
to the human condition. that it was never ever enough
despite all the touch. despite all the opportunities
it was never enough. never ever enough. to be by your
side. to hear your words. to fight with you. to be at peace
with you. to love you. to listen to you. to be heard and seen
by you. to laugh with you. to cry and fear with you.

to hope with you

it is never enough. when you are finally gone

when the material is finally gone
when the body goes back to the four winds
to the seven directions
to the 13 generations.

in that sage of smoke
in that breath of cedar

in that one final tear
right there

when no one is looking
when no one else but you
is listening

its that song of grain of sand
its the final flor y canto

cuando todos los pajaros te llaman
para regresar.

cuando todos los latidos regresan a tu sol
cuando todos los latidos te regresan
al lugar donde nacio la agua
al lugar donde vive la madre
de quetzalcoatl

a la boca del universo

alli en ese silencio
que inspiras en este vacio
digo que pues haci es no?
nunca fue lo suficiente

la forma que una alma toca al mundo
la forma que una alma regresa al fuente

te queremos
te escuchamos
mas que nunca
poeta mexica
poestas mexicas

poetas lakotas
somos las variaciones
de las mismas lenguas
desde el centro del universo

tonantzin tlalli
pueblos de la madre
tiahui tiahui
mexica

tiahui a todos los vientos
hasme un campito
alli

te veo no tan pronto
pero igual hasme un campito
en le fuego eterno del comienos
en la agua eterna del comienos

mexica
tiahui tiahui
tiahui tiahui