Poetry

barrio sonnet 14

the border is us

breakin all the parts in us

breaking the memory

breaking the hope

breaking the trails

of seven and seven

and seven generations

migrating with the movement

of butterflies and hummingbirds

shifting through turtle island

in sign language

made of stone and fire

sign language made of water and mountain

this is how indigenous tongues

across this turtle island spoke

with hands where words different

with hands that spoke vibration

of sky and pacha mama

the tongue of seeds and trade

of corn and medicines

grown inside each others mothers

for thousands and thousands of years

this was us borderless

and culturally fluent

not perfect

not without fight or warfare

but still

like rivers and volcanic stone

stream and steam rising

between tipis, hogans, kivas

templos, temples, inipis, temescales

hoping inside hopi visions

knowing that we would come

apart like a white earthquake

and eventually piece each other

together beyond the fear of black snakes

with the hope

of our tongues

remembering how to speak

without words

speak

without broken languages

with hands and bodies

in the parts

that we’ve forgotten

remembered

over and over

for seven and seven

and seven plus seven

more generations

over and over

forgetting these broken words

forgetting these broken borders

 

This America” part 6

this america is strapped

with ak47 educational gaps

armed with ignorance

of a common enemy

fear of fear

handcuffing the eyes

placing corazones

on probation

 

“This America” Part 10

This america is black blood white blood

brown blood red blood yellow blood

all blood

drawn

against the concrete

all the protest songs

before dylan and after dylan

all the freedom songs

of american black bodies

Being hung and breathing memory

into slavery

these wars are our wars

trapped in our dna

white d.n.a  of white bodies

along the picket lines

alongside cesar chavez and mlk

black bodies and indigenous bodies

hosed down and attack dogs

burying the memory

burying the bodies

burying the proof

that something

at the back of the bus

needed changing

that something

inside history books

needed changing

this america doesnt want you

to recall white bodies black bodies

brown  red bodies yellow bodies

being put on the line

for our children’s

children’s children’s

children

they want this

d.n.a. to go away

inside this hybridity

of slavery

This america is black blood white blood

brown blood red blood yellow blood

all blood

This America wants to take away

all your mestizo names

all your lineage

not set in stone

all your ancestors

buried

underneath railroad tracks

underneath civil rights movements

underneath a petition signed

underneath queer america named

underneath concentration camp survivors

underneath family detention centers and

japanese internment camps

this america

wants you to forget

all the layers of blood

that have been spilled for you

in all directions

“My Mother Was a Tolteca”

My mother is aztec ghost waiting

to crawl form underneath internet caskets

my mother is mexican truth

dissolving in pancho villa’s

womenizing stomach

my mother is african cousine

being flipped by a hamburger spatula

my mother is waiting

for another mexican

to tell her the joke

of americana

my mother’s skin is the bread winnder

of non american sagas

my mother was never a wet back

she never crossed the rio grande

but if she did. she made sure

to get raft or tire or something

that would never get water

about her waist

my mother smells of livers

dying in mexican american barrios

my mother is waiting to become

the next mexican american idol

my mother is sifting

through this american paradigm

wondering

who won our new mexican

lottery scholarship

my mother is shifting

turtle island aching for breath

 

“My Father Was a Sun God”

my father was a sun god on the weekends

maybe on sundays. maybe actually during

the week. well whenever he wasn’t drinking

out the mexican blues ballads and his wife’s

cancer. maybe it was on tuesdays actually

that he became a sun god. far enough from

sunday and miles way from friday. when

the apex colliding in his throat. the visions

stemming from his chest. about what mattered.

what didn’t matter. he always stole his own drink.

his own breath. he stole his own purpose. he became

a sun god when he stopped pounding his fist

into the concrete. or pouring over the rain.

where tlaloc was always witing for him.

i wonder if he ever met hercules or hunapu.

 

“This America” Part 12

plant the seeds

they don’t want you to plant

make the art

they don’t want to see

place the song

under your feet

sing the prayers

on the bridge of your spine

place the song

under your tears

place the home

under your universe

they don’t want you to create

Because when you create

you are creator

you are the center

they don’t want you

to know all that moves

when you use

your hands

to reach

all four corners

of the universe

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