los ángeles

los ángeles
donde he perdido, ganado y amado...

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Bag with Cherry Print


He’s devoted his life,
to collecting the past,
antiques in every corner
of his house.
Drink out of antiques,
read out-of-print books,
use antique appliances,
framed antique art,
makes his walls worth
hundreds of thousands. 

Ironically,
the past haunts him,
he wants to escape,
the memories,
of abandonement, violence,
loss, death, racism, and the wonder
and confusion of a six-year old,
en la frontera, then travelling
around the country in migrant camps. 

When I sold my house
and moved into my condominium,
he cried.
“Apartments are dangerous,” he said,
wiping tears and sweat from his face,
“you don’t know who lives there, and
you see terrible things. I don’t want
the boys to experience that.”
“But it’s a condo Dad,” as I thought
of my underground parking, central AC,
pool and gym. 
“It’s dangerous m’ija, it’s dangerous.
You don’t know the things I’ve seen,
where so many people live together.”

This weekend, before I left,
he brought me this heavy antique tray,
inlayed with abalone, with ornate handles. 
I will add this to my collection of items
he has gifted me in the last year. 
I put on my lipstick, fix my hair, put
on my designer sunglasses, and get ready to
leave. 
He walks toward me,
big, ole’ white grocery bag
with a cherry print in hand,
and starts to put the tray in.  
“Dad, I’ll just carry the tray
on the train like that.”
“No, no. You need something to carry it in.”
“No really. It’s cramping my style.  Look how
sharp I look and you want me to carry this
ugly bag with a cherry print? The tray is pretty.
It looks cool just like that.”

He wouldn’t have any of it.
I got in his truck
and put the bag on my lap,
and as I sat on the bench,
waiting for the train,
I discreetly took the tray out
of the bag,
folded the cherry bag
and put it
in my backpack.  

Monday, April 18, 2016

The Sizzle


The Sizzle

I can speak for
at least
five generations
of Mexican children,
who know the sizzle,
by heart. 

Whether you were in the corral
playing with sticks in the dirt,
or gathering leña for the next day’s stove,
or sitting in the kitchen in Whittier,
cleaning beans,
or sitting outside on the steps,
with your ghetto-ass friends,
talking shit,
or reclined on the designer sofa,
IPad in hand, playing Roadblocks,
we all knew/know,
the sizzle. 

It means,
that someone who loves us,
even if their version of love,
doesn’t meet our standard of love,
is making us
some kind of
sopita. 

Wherever we are,
as soon as we hear the sizzle,
we know what happened just before,
someone was frying rice or noodles,
and we knew what was happening in that moment,
someone was pouring water over sizzling noodles,
and we knew that now,
the person was adding tomato sauce, chicken bouillon,
maybe some potatoes, perhaps half of an onion,
and they were bringing it to a slow boil,
until the noodles were tender
and our sopita,
was ready to be served,
with warm, corn tortillas. 

Once, when I was in the jungles of Petén, Guatemala,
this Dutch vato says to me,
“So what do Mexicans do to their rice?”
And instantly, I said, “We fry it.”
“Like the Chinese,” he says. 
“No.” I casually answer,
“We fry it, like the last five generations,
of Mexicans have fried it.”



Saturday, March 26, 2016

The Trim



They come to her.
In trucks.
Ropes, ladders, chainsaws.
In boots and uniforms and masks
and baseball caps.
and
they
cut
her down.
Strip her,
to her bark.
They rob me of her shade. 
Suddenly,
I can see
everything,
outside of my window. 
And I feel exposed.
And sad. 
But this morning.
I sat at my desk,
bay windows wide open,
curtains thrown back,
and she greets me,
with bushy blooming,
wild patches of new pines,
and she whispers,
“aquí estoy mujer,
siempre, estoy aquí,
siempre renazco..."

Cora at Burke Williams


Burke Williams in West Hollywood.
Face down,
on the massage table. 
Breathing in,
my life,
and all of my new millennium decisions.
Este lujo,  
so far from your motherland,
and the dirt floor,
of a remote ranch,
in the Nayarit jungle. 
When I turn over,
I see your face,
your brown face,
eight years-old,
matted black hair,
tussled on top,
rugged braids hanging to the side,
thick lips,
and your eyes,
intently hovering over me. 
And then you were gone! 
The massage therapist asks me
to take a deep breath in,
I do,
and then I breathe out,
wondering,
why you appeared to me.
Como te extraño.   

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Reloj



Hace tiempo.
El tiempo me hace,
me distrae,
me ocupa,
me roba,
el tiempo. 
Pero todos están
esperando,
y yá no puedo
culpar,

al tiempo.   

Monday, January 18, 2016

Gloria Chapter 1




Atrevida.
Self-declared,
conjurer of words.
Pilgrimage to the mundane, to
find the sacred.
Owner, of
la palabra.

Plumed serpent
Cortez
Mestizo
You capture our continental narrative
like a feather in your palm
and then,
you breathe it back to us,
and it falls into our hair,
tucked, behind our ear.

We may say,
in the new millennium,
“Who cares about the US-Mexican
War and it’s colonial legacy?”
And you say,
            “Listen kids. Connect the dots.
            Find the source,
            to your history of struggle and exile.”

Anglo terrorism.
Mass lynchings of Chicanos
and their families,
for daring
to resist annexation.

Land
stolen
not by the US government,
but by
predatory gabachos,
looking for any excuse
to take the Tejanos land,
rob them of their livelihood. 
And they DID! 

Disguised today as corporations,
Maquiladoras – new thieves.
Stay south and die, or go north and live (half-dead).

y la mujer…
¿Dónde está la mujer en todo esto?
violada. capturada. abusada. abandonada.
silenciada. traficada, deportada.

La gran mojada.  La mujer. 
Indocumentada. Invisible. 

This is her home, this thin edge of barbed wire…

Intellectual de la tierra,
in possession of the analysis,
on colonialism and its legacy.

Santa de los atravesados –
the troublesome. 

Witness to detentions and deportation,
Nahuatl, el ombligo,

You take
what we take
for granted,

And you give it back to us,
            wrapped, in our own silver and gold.

And we realize,
that all along,
we’ve carried our treasure,
with us. 

Gracias, Gloria.

For my father...