te pregunto- hermano latino, hispano, latinoamericano- por que te llamas así?
por que crees en la unidad castellana y portuguesa?
o fue lo que te dijeron en la escuela?
por la iglesia católica romana?
la que se nos metió a la fuerza?
bueno...
es importante que se estresa... que la situación de nuestra gente empeora si se pierde la historia,
digo lo etnico es donde hay qu ejercer la memoria...
por que estamos aquí?
nuestras madres y padres por que les toco huir?
les desarraigaron su vida y se fueron pa' poder sobrevivir.
esto, viene antes nombrado neoliberal
desde la llegada y la despedida de las coronas colonial
los blancos criollos de norte al sur quedaron igual
por que hoy... las empresas transnacionales
al igual que los gobiernos son potencias mundiales
que nunca terminaron de saquear nuestras riquezas
desplazándonos de nuestras tierras
inculcandonos con tristezas....
y miedo
de una economía chimbo
de pocos y malos empleos dejándonos en limbo...
y que nos queda?
pues, si la lucha se responde con represión
y los que se atreven la migración
se quedan como presa en una casería fatal
del mismo estado blanco, criollo que es lo verdadero ilegal
esa USA
que nos usa
y nos abusa
es mas complicado que el pensado sueño norteamericano
la falta de trabajo, salud y familia no es nada bacano
sobrevivencia diaria
se vuelve la tarea básica
o si no, se vuelve otro cuento trágica
dos años se vuelven veinte, y uno nunca volvió
ni de aquí, ni de allá, hasta le teme al regreso
las crías nacen acá, sin tierra, poca oportunidad y cultura
aunque las cárceles si abunda
ya pierden la lengua
and dey can barely rememba
we 4get abuelos stories
always in a hurry
learned from parents who working in a flurry
and now da kidz say dey spanish
and im kind of embarrsed...
te pregunto hermana latina, hispana, latinoamericana...
por que te llamas así?
whether you came or te quedaste
the question is, si luchaste
we are in todas partes and need to be fighting backs
and know that we dont owe any thanks
to those with power from inherited colonial ranks
africans e indígenas, pure-bloods or mestizado
must come together to fight for our poblado
que nunca... sera borrado!
hermano, hermana, de la tierra, llamado latino o hispano...
do you get this??
jueves, 12 de noviembre de 2009
jueves, 22 de octubre de 2009
miércoles, 21 de octubre de 2009
como el viento
somos como el viento, que tratan de controlar para crear riqueza
pero seguimos luchando día tras día en contra la pobreza
que se encierra tras una frontera
que mamera
esa barrera
que no es esta esfera
como el libre comercio
solo para el precio
del capital que yo no aprecio
pero si, me atravieso
por encima de cual quiere raya aunque me dices necio
la tradición?
el del estado ha sido la traición
como han hecho por medio de la despareción
pero basta, seguimos acá en nuestra reivindicación
de la pluri nación-al, ancestral, siguiendo fuertes y fijos en nuestra ubicación
donde creamos el empleo
y el estado responde con el bombardeo
y la fumigación aéreo
en contra la mama coca
esta loca
el salvaje que la envenena blanca
y se lo mete por donde sea hasta la boca.
toca
cuestionar el desarrollo
y entender bien ese rollo
por que si no, esa mentira nos va dejar en tremendo bollo.
pero el pollo...
con hormonas no es la razón
por la cual su hijo salio gay, pero tu maricon.
es mas saludable comer un mamey, 100% organico, natural
como todo amor que se siente, incluso lo carnal,
que no es nada pendejo como lo paternal
esa guevonada hetero no incluye lo bocal,
como cuando me quedo colgado de ti con un mordisco labial.
pero para mi, lo mas bestial,
son las cosas que pa´ nosotros son penal,
pero para ti me enfrento ante lo mas genocidial
la homofobia de esta sociedad hipócrital
nos vería muertos antes que felices y esto ni trata de lo conyugal.
soplo como el viento
y este atrevimiento
de una rima no tiene mucho entendimiento,
pero lo importante es saber que el encasillamiento
por raza, genero, preferencia sexual o pensamiento,
es algo que se debería acabar en este mismo momento.
pero seguimos luchando día tras día en contra la pobreza
que se encierra tras una frontera
que mamera
esa barrera
que no es esta esfera
como el libre comercio
solo para el precio
del capital que yo no aprecio
pero si, me atravieso
por encima de cual quiere raya aunque me dices necio
la tradición?
el del estado ha sido la traición
como han hecho por medio de la despareción
pero basta, seguimos acá en nuestra reivindicación
de la pluri nación-al, ancestral, siguiendo fuertes y fijos en nuestra ubicación
donde creamos el empleo
y el estado responde con el bombardeo
y la fumigación aéreo
en contra la mama coca
esta loca
el salvaje que la envenena blanca
y se lo mete por donde sea hasta la boca.
toca
cuestionar el desarrollo
y entender bien ese rollo
por que si no, esa mentira nos va dejar en tremendo bollo.
pero el pollo...
con hormonas no es la razón
por la cual su hijo salio gay, pero tu maricon.
es mas saludable comer un mamey, 100% organico, natural
como todo amor que se siente, incluso lo carnal,
que no es nada pendejo como lo paternal
esa guevonada hetero no incluye lo bocal,
como cuando me quedo colgado de ti con un mordisco labial.
pero para mi, lo mas bestial,
son las cosas que pa´ nosotros son penal,
pero para ti me enfrento ante lo mas genocidial
la homofobia de esta sociedad hipócrital
nos vería muertos antes que felices y esto ni trata de lo conyugal.
soplo como el viento
y este atrevimiento
de una rima no tiene mucho entendimiento,
pero lo importante es saber que el encasillamiento
por raza, genero, preferencia sexual o pensamiento,
es algo que se debería acabar en este mismo momento.
Hacen la guerra para hacer el amor - They make war to make love
Memoria del fuego: Nacimientos (I Libro)Eduardo Galeano
1599
Santa Marta
Hacen la guerra para hacer el amor
La rebelión estalla en las costas del Caribe y los truenos sacuden la sierra Nevada. Los indios se alzan por la libertad del amor.
En la fiesta de la luna llena, bailan los dioses en el cuerpo del jefe Cuchacique y dan magia a sus brazos. Desde los pueblos de Jeriboca y Bonda, las voces de la guerra despiertan la tierra toda de los indios tairona y sacuden a Masinga y Masinguilla, Zaca y Mamazaca, Mendiguaca y Rotama, Buritaca y Tairama, Maroma, Taironaca, Guachaca, Chonea, Cinto y Nahuanje, Mamatoco, Ciénaga, Dursino y Gairaca, Origua y Durama, Dibocaca, Daona, Chengue y Masaca, Daodama, Sacasa, Cominca, Guarinea, Mauracataca, Choquenca y Masanga.
El jefe Cuchacique viste la piel del jaguar. Flechas que silban, flechas que queman, flechas que envenenan: los tairona incendian capillas, rompen cruces y matan frailes, peleando contra el dios enemigo que les prohíbe las costumbres.
Desde lo más lejano de los tiempos, en estas tierras se divorciaba quien quería y hacían el amor los hermanos, si tenían ganas, y la mujer con el hombre o el hombre con el hombre o la mujer con la mujer. Así fue en estas tierras hasta que llegaron los hombres de negro y los hombres de hierro, que arrojan a los perros a quienes aman como los antepasados amaban.
Los tairona celebran las primeras victorias. En sus templos, que el enemigo llama casas del Diablo, tocan la flauta en los huesos de los vencidos, beben vino de maíz y danzan al son de los tambores y trompetas de caracoles. Los guerreros han cerrado todos los pasos y caminos hacia Santa Marta y se preparan para el asalto final.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They make war to make loveThe rebellion breaks out on the Caribbean coasts and the thunder shakes the Sierra Nevada. The Indians rise up for freedom of love.
During the festivities of the full moon, the gods dance in the body of the headman Cuchacique and give him magic in his arms. From the villages of Jeriboca and Bonda, the voices of war arouse the earth of the Tayrona Indians and Masinga and Masinguilla, Zaca and Mamazaca, Mendiguaca and Rotama, Buritaca and Tairama, Maroma, Taironaca, Guachaca, Chonea, Cinto and Nahuanje, Mamatoco, Ciénaga, Dursino and Gairaca, Origua and Durama, Dibocaca, Daona, Chengue and Masaca, Daodama, Sacasa, Cominca, Guarinea, Mauracataca, Choquenca and Masanga quake...
The headman Cuchacique dresses in jaguar skin. Whistling arrows, burning arrows, poison arrows: the Tairona burn down churches, break crosses and kill monks, fighting against the enemy god that has forbidden them their customs.
From the farthest of the times, in this land who ever wanted to could get a divorce and love mas made by brothers whenever they wanted, as did woman with man, man with man and woman with woman. That is how it was in these lands until the men of black and the men of iron arrived, those who throw to the dogs those that love as their ancestors loved.
The Tairona celebrate the first victories. In their temples, called houses of the devil by the enemy, they play flutes made of the bones of those they have vanquished, they drink the wine of corn and dance to the son of drums and conch shell trumpets. The warriors have closed all the paths to Santa Marta and prepare for the final assault.
miércoles, 30 de septiembre de 2009
for danilo
i cried for brickell the other day, i rode my bike through, but i couldnt see anything i knew
no street chickens, nicaraguenses, or bahamians, just cold, bare sides of condominiums
i thought of the sky blue, lime green and hot pink wooden plank houses on stilts... fishermen coming in from the bay with catches of red snapper, stone crabs and skrimps
coastal hardwood hammocks overlooking forests of mangrove, but now this progress and development has decimated places like coconut grove
sobe-... u mean south beach´s circle on lincoln road is where street kids would go dream... but after fashion and mtv this space is only fit for a monied gay stream
overtown, wynwood, they were once waaay more hood, and because so was deemed no good
this was long ago when crook and crome where arrested for tagging as the popo tried to restirct... but now... well with the midtown tumor miami growing, the performing arts center gleaming and the invasion of 4 dozen art galleries, they´ve turned the hood into an arts district.
miami's sweet water has turned bitter, yet we still think the expansion of concrete and asphalt is something better
tekesta... was once the name of this place and then miami as a colonizer came into replace
and as i said--i cried for brickell the other day
and while watching over the cracking concrete banks of the river maybe i shouldnt say
it left me waiting for miami to turn its full circle and watch all this bullshit sink into the bay
no street chickens, nicaraguenses, or bahamians, just cold, bare sides of condominiums
i thought of the sky blue, lime green and hot pink wooden plank houses on stilts... fishermen coming in from the bay with catches of red snapper, stone crabs and skrimps
coastal hardwood hammocks overlooking forests of mangrove, but now this progress and development has decimated places like coconut grove
sobe-... u mean south beach´s circle on lincoln road is where street kids would go dream... but after fashion and mtv this space is only fit for a monied gay stream
overtown, wynwood, they were once waaay more hood, and because so was deemed no good
this was long ago when crook and crome where arrested for tagging as the popo tried to restirct... but now... well with the midtown tumor miami growing, the performing arts center gleaming and the invasion of 4 dozen art galleries, they´ve turned the hood into an arts district.
miami's sweet water has turned bitter, yet we still think the expansion of concrete and asphalt is something better
tekesta... was once the name of this place and then miami as a colonizer came into replace
and as i said--i cried for brickell the other day
and while watching over the cracking concrete banks of the river maybe i shouldnt say
it left me waiting for miami to turn its full circle and watch all this bullshit sink into the bay
sábado, 26 de septiembre de 2009
What I’m from
i ride miami ave's west side just north of el portal. First the B, then a train ride and either the 9, 10, or 2 to get home after school. Jitney rides are always fun too. I come from those late 80s-early 90s gangs of citrus stealing west miami shores street children. the ones with anole lizard earings and afternoons spent in the Nispero tree where we were consumed by the savory, perfectly pear textured brown fruit.
in the 80s, zoe pound & crack houses were, and in the 90s gringafied latino newly weds and white gringo gay professionals are. i don't know anyone here. mi mama... is from a long line of strong, steadfast andean women whose lives are synomous to work. mi padre... is 2nd generation of the southern cone. i am the 1st gringo on both sides of this unique sudaka mix. i remember cracking my head open and bleeding in the mcdonald´s ball pit across the street from the olde 79th street immigration building. the one that is now a payless shoe store. the doctors tied me up to stitch my head shut, they said we were playing cowboys and indians and i was the indian. i hate cowboys.
this is where we say hello with either 'sak pase', 'que bola acere' or for my parceros?, 'kiubo pues?'. Weekends on south beach con la familia when still populated by plenty cubanos, boriquas, older jews & the occasional migratory retired french canadian snow birds. north was orlando. divine, are the body hugging bubbles after a dive on the 1st street pier. this is where we'd skip school and smoke weed in the mangroves, barbecue iguanas and where manatees and alligators explore urban canals.
where the guarani indigenous woman is still selling her watermelons by the 79th st. causeway bridge and mama took us swimming at the beach during tropical storms. this is where Port Au'Prince matters more then Washington and we were forced in school to learn 'no Castro' meant 'no problem'. i remember ... after lil haiti after aristide's first coup... the fight for the miami circle, against the homestead airforce base, the embarrisingly hypocritical elian spectacle, and most recently the F.T. double A. i’m from the miami, where the urban, feral, street chickens still roam free.
south, i’m from 32 1st cousins on mi mama´s side, which for most my life, has been the only side. summers nestled in my maternal andean cradle. june was spent in the branches of mango trees the tatarabuelos would climb. you strip the orange leathery skin with your two front teeth as the golden sun shine nectar slips down your lips, round your cheeks, past your neck, onto your chest. the sweet stickiness is cursed with pesky mango hairs that get stuck between your teeth. august closed with us into the canopies of cacao trees, slipping, sucking, & spitting the sweet pulpy seeds of the gods. abuelo claimed each seed was worth its weight in gold.
other foods include big assed ants from santander, yuca bread from behind the cathedral, great aunty fani´s morsilla-blood sausage, and fruits los gringos have never heard of. mmmmm, how about some mamonsillo, curuba, uchuva, chontaduro, granadilla, lulo, guanabana, pitaya, feijoa, o borojo, por favor. where our yuca is not frozen or covered in that foreign, fake, flakey, white, waxy shit.
to be more specific, find a map, this is south of la Jagua’s two waters, east of where la gaitana beheaded the conquistador pedro de añasco and west of the stream where the fire-breathing devil goat attacks nocturnal travelers. My adolescent abuelito included. exactly, this is where the aguacalientes creek feeds the suaza river. fresh picked coca leaf tea is still used for belly aches. from unfortunately, where the youth aspire to leave and not go back.
quality time spent with abuelito was horseback riding, cattle herding, & bloody cock fights. this in and around the town of the rare stork, where all that matters is 'what would would people think'. a place, descendent of a early on colonial raping of the Andaqui or Tama or Yalcon by the Spanish. thats our mestizaje. all this within the land of the upper Magdalena river valley, between the cordilleras central y oriental, a place named for our orange, snow capped-peak.
here a moments freedom can be earned in a 15 meter slow, thorny, muddy, rocky & even slippery climb straight up. its then achieved for mere seconds when returning to the whirling waters below within a slick cocoon of naked skin loving atmosphere pushing to resurface before reaching the rapids below. welcome, to el peñon... the peak. this and campfires with the gang, el parche de los pirobos, a bottle of guaro & a guitarra by the river is always severo plan. the best parties are still... during San Pedro in late june.
this is where the ugly, the dirty, lo salvaje is my preciosura. where multigenerational inherited baggage is to be dealt with tomorrow and everyday violence fornicates with the festive and the tranquil to be a surreal reality. going home is hardest on the heart and only leaving is harder. where family comes first and all else comes second, especially yourself. attempt to respect your elders even though they never practice what they preach. think this is a contradicting reality? im merely am what i’m from.
in the 80s, zoe pound & crack houses were, and in the 90s gringafied latino newly weds and white gringo gay professionals are. i don't know anyone here. mi mama... is from a long line of strong, steadfast andean women whose lives are synomous to work. mi padre... is 2nd generation of the southern cone. i am the 1st gringo on both sides of this unique sudaka mix. i remember cracking my head open and bleeding in the mcdonald´s ball pit across the street from the olde 79th street immigration building. the one that is now a payless shoe store. the doctors tied me up to stitch my head shut, they said we were playing cowboys and indians and i was the indian. i hate cowboys.
this is where we say hello with either 'sak pase', 'que bola acere' or for my parceros?, 'kiubo pues?'. Weekends on south beach con la familia when still populated by plenty cubanos, boriquas, older jews & the occasional migratory retired french canadian snow birds. north was orlando. divine, are the body hugging bubbles after a dive on the 1st street pier. this is where we'd skip school and smoke weed in the mangroves, barbecue iguanas and where manatees and alligators explore urban canals.
where the guarani indigenous woman is still selling her watermelons by the 79th st. causeway bridge and mama took us swimming at the beach during tropical storms. this is where Port Au'Prince matters more then Washington and we were forced in school to learn 'no Castro' meant 'no problem'. i remember ... after lil haiti after aristide's first coup... the fight for the miami circle, against the homestead airforce base, the embarrisingly hypocritical elian spectacle, and most recently the F.T. double A. i’m from the miami, where the urban, feral, street chickens still roam free.
south, i’m from 32 1st cousins on mi mama´s side, which for most my life, has been the only side. summers nestled in my maternal andean cradle. june was spent in the branches of mango trees the tatarabuelos would climb. you strip the orange leathery skin with your two front teeth as the golden sun shine nectar slips down your lips, round your cheeks, past your neck, onto your chest. the sweet stickiness is cursed with pesky mango hairs that get stuck between your teeth. august closed with us into the canopies of cacao trees, slipping, sucking, & spitting the sweet pulpy seeds of the gods. abuelo claimed each seed was worth its weight in gold.
other foods include big assed ants from santander, yuca bread from behind the cathedral, great aunty fani´s morsilla-blood sausage, and fruits los gringos have never heard of. mmmmm, how about some mamonsillo, curuba, uchuva, chontaduro, granadilla, lulo, guanabana, pitaya, feijoa, o borojo, por favor. where our yuca is not frozen or covered in that foreign, fake, flakey, white, waxy shit.
to be more specific, find a map, this is south of la Jagua’s two waters, east of where la gaitana beheaded the conquistador pedro de añasco and west of the stream where the fire-breathing devil goat attacks nocturnal travelers. My adolescent abuelito included. exactly, this is where the aguacalientes creek feeds the suaza river. fresh picked coca leaf tea is still used for belly aches. from unfortunately, where the youth aspire to leave and not go back.
quality time spent with abuelito was horseback riding, cattle herding, & bloody cock fights. this in and around the town of the rare stork, where all that matters is 'what would would people think'. a place, descendent of a early on colonial raping of the Andaqui or Tama or Yalcon by the Spanish. thats our mestizaje. all this within the land of the upper Magdalena river valley, between the cordilleras central y oriental, a place named for our orange, snow capped-peak.
here a moments freedom can be earned in a 15 meter slow, thorny, muddy, rocky & even slippery climb straight up. its then achieved for mere seconds when returning to the whirling waters below within a slick cocoon of naked skin loving atmosphere pushing to resurface before reaching the rapids below. welcome, to el peñon... the peak. this and campfires with the gang, el parche de los pirobos, a bottle of guaro & a guitarra by the river is always severo plan. the best parties are still... during San Pedro in late june.
this is where the ugly, the dirty, lo salvaje is my preciosura. where multigenerational inherited baggage is to be dealt with tomorrow and everyday violence fornicates with the festive and the tranquil to be a surreal reality. going home is hardest on the heart and only leaving is harder. where family comes first and all else comes second, especially yourself. attempt to respect your elders even though they never practice what they preach. think this is a contradicting reality? im merely am what i’m from.
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