Beloved Mother
What I want to write
is that I am
and I can not stop being
I want to give back everything you have given me, mother.
And thanks to you I am far away again in New York
But I'll be fine. Do not worry
A poem for you, mother
is the least I can do
turning my love into words.
Here's a bit of me and you
It rained in your day today
for you mother. I am ashamed
I can not give you more.
I would catch a milky moon
consuming the mantle of the blind
that maternal moon.
How is it that I can not love
as does a mother with her breasts?
Despite the distance, although I was
dizzy in the Caribbean. Love
that nobody pronounces, love,
nor can be written twice
Three is too much although you know what I mean
I'm already far away again from R-o-m-a.
I wonder the origin
of good and evil
I wonder the origin of my residence on earth
and all of you, all of them
The wonderful story of my father when he met you
and you made love and I was born
You slept atop the sheets in 1981 by the Lopez Mateos
or the tenth of May, for I was born
9 months later in February 1982.
To Live. Mother
life in which there is an end
life in which we must try.
The pink house in which you were born
then, Arroyo de Encinos, your paradise
Those hands that fed mouths
those hands that washed away years
those hands that caressed
those hands that smiled at dreams
and they worked hard
in the mini supermarket named "Strawberries"
near Fovissste Chamizal.
Here is the firstborn of all
he inherited all your evils
but nothing bad happened.
I have improved a lot
Here is the barefoot corridor. Your dreamer:
What I miss of Ciudad Juarez, is
you, my dear mother.
Decolonial Inventory: Impressionism to indocumentados
3 elegant women on
the boat painted by Monet;
The impressionism to
the natural philosophy
The inaccessible cosmos is always
a chaotic phenomenon
The exhausts and
the caprice; ignores
national boundaries
The militarized border
The imperial consciousness
The plethora and
the starvation; give us
a green card
The underprivileged and
the gorgeous;
The building of
a higher wall, without consent, right before us
The helpless and
the hurtful;
The beauty and
the beast; usually they don’t dance together
The photography and
the modernist art (I mix them randomly)
The son and
the contaminated environment; going to his father’s
The clean and
the dirty; in that dirty water
The deported and
the tourist;
gaps between two worlds
The sorrows and
the happily ignorant;
they never laugh together
The U.S. citizen and
the alien; but not perceived as
fallen angels
The criminal and
the respectable;
one will drown in agony
The brown and
the white; pasted into this
collage of watercolor.
The undocumented immigrants crossing
the river.
The Blueprint of the Land
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
in the borderlands
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
it’s a fantasyland
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
in my motherland
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
like in Babylon
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
but only drugs, guns
and contraband
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
but only burritos, narcos
running cheap errands
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
but only
a militarized land
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
but only maquiladoras;
supply and demand
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
but only women
buried in the sand.