books

from out the shell.

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from out the shell.

the country where i’m from birthed, baptized, and labeled me american, but this was just an act at the beginning.

soon all masks became removed, and i discovered my parents were resident aliens, so i became a son of immigrants-

a hyphenated mexican american.

raised to believe this history was mine, george washington and revolutions, but this isn’t mine just makes for good story.

if stories ever happen to become part of mine, will be as parts of total human experience, not as this corporate entity known as america.

flip it from nixon to malcolm, from material to spiritual.

a good old saxon mentioned the other day, “you’re so lucky to still have such a strong connection to your culture. i don’t even know what i am.”

and i respond, “what makes you think i do.”

besides, the anglo saxon do have a culture in america from humanist apologists and yuppie marxists to mickeydee’s, starbucks, slavery, atomic weaponry, protestants, plastic, pilgrims, and pioneers.

who holds more humans in prisons than communist china? who?

the country where i’m from birthed me american then abandoned me, left me an orphan son.

displaced because i had no land, returned then to aztlan to remember my heart.

but. but. but i am the son of immigrant parents, so i choose to lay roots or continue migration.

am a descendent of generations of human migration always in search of a more perfect land, where we can make more for the next generation. a child of the tribe of illegals crossing borders of colonists, of french and spanish imperialists, with moorish features, of all of these am i.

and this country birthed me american, probably because it thinks united statesian sounds stupid, or because it prefers short cuts. but i guess i am a child of the americas, but so is every canadian to argentinian.

so what’s it really mean to be american, mr. president?

and some united statesian stood up, revealing a machine gun because he’d been having a bad day.

but i am not this. this is not me.

am the son of immigrant parents, i choose where i’m from or where i’ll be. am the descendent from the tribe of people that decided to keep on moving.

there ain’t no label to identify me or a category for my identity. so stop asking what i am.

to escape keep on moving. some battles do have to be fought though, and many a revolutionary has gone down for history, preferring death than allow anyone the ability to imprison them.

my country tis of thee. my country will eat me alive.

am oedipus the worm coming out from the apple, and my country knows it.

11.09.02.

anything for the masses.

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anything for the masses. 

art, bleeding from its orifices. 
no, revolution, fleeting through space in search of 
       inspiration for the feeling of god. 

anything to be loved by the masses. 

why not be a christian humanist, and hold out a god on 
       a stick as an unreachable goal? 
and inform humans of love, which won’t be practiced, 
       but only held as an imaginary ideal. 
and accept homosexuality, so as to represent the ideas 
       of today’s population 
otherwise 
god will not be able to attract the masses to      his  
              churches. 
go out, convert all the heathens and savages, which 
       still remain. 
anything to be loved by the masses. 
the people do need heroes and idols, but their faith is 
       kindah lacking, come on god 
let’s get a cracking. 
or the masses will begin to worship political identities 
       that promise material property. 
oh, one might as well become a rock star and make the 
       little girls 
shake 
their groove thing. 
appear on m-t-v to be cool, b-e-t to be down with 
       blacks, and v-h-i for the rest. 

anything to be loved by the masses. 

but does anyone else miss the good ole’ days when the 
       village shaman would just 
                    hand out peyote and let us speak to 
                                          god directly.

06.26.02.

a passive poem.

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a passive poem.

I.
want to watch me die on tv? want to watch?
there’s a rumor that i began
going around
about my dry sense of humor.

a mute with no fingers
can’t say fuck you
unless they piss on you.

suffer from a disposition
that prevents me from participating,
from talking to angels or laughing
at our limitations.

still awaiting a transmission from my planet’s space station.

i only like the songs of suicide,
lonely liberty lives lost like a slave
to the notion of ideas.

who needs action, who? anyone but me?
lack the energy to laugh at the absurdity,

want to watch me die on tv?

II.
not an angel anymore. wings were washed away.

where are all my happy songs,

locked up in a forgotten dream?

not really comfortable being so dependent on everyone.

please, give me some space and a few minutes to travel through time.

III.
songs of suicide, murdered on reality tv to watch someone die,
to watch, watching to watch-
everyone as spectator.

06.17.02.

stolen treasures.

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stolen treasures.

ancient temple, burning city,
heart of tenochtitlan
mutilated and raped into mexico city.

quatemoc says, “we face rainy weather,”
as screams fill the air while his feet burn, and ashes
float through empty heaven.

men in guns and suits of armor riding beasts that travel fast.
cortez, the leader steals the riches for his mistress.

the young warrior wonders,
“father, where do we go now?”
father responds, “follow the sun west,”

“people of the sun have hope until the sun is gone.”
but now, nighttime comes, sun has disappeared,

moans and screams resonate.
sound of spanish leather whipping against the once strong warrior.

the clouds no longer allow view of the sun.

so awake.

aztec blood robbed of its dignity and pride. european blood lost all power.

mestizo blood’s been dying. and so,
now swim in pool of silence with no escape but drowning

that when i look in the mirror, see
an ancient figure, which makes me, feel so sad with its
bleeding wounds and lost ways.

and in the end this empty dance

for rain turns into pain, genocide, mass suicide, more priests-

assimilated hopes and dreams.

1997.

how many jose’s have gotten lost to the city at the age of 23?

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how many jose’s have gotten lost to the city at the age of 23?

the essence of humanity

does not exist anywhere on tv,
despite programming
or what the media’s been saying.
remember, a news show
is after all, still just a show.
so despite the fact that reality based shows and infomercials speak directly to me,
find the voices slowly drowning out my thinking,
impairing judgments on what really is real.
so chose to seek refuge, exiled in self.
some might have sought jesus, but i
much more prefer zarathustra and a personal underground,
thus prayers directed to winter winds.
searched web for truth,
returned as html code and java script,
still some escape towards scriptures.

the essence of humanity

doused and abused in mediocrity.
anything that’s happened or been achieved,
occurred in vacuum pockets all over the world,
but opportunists rise to claim achievements
as cofounders and descendents.
philosophy reduced to existentialists, christian humanists, and /or human apologists
for dreams and psychologies gone astray and betrayed.
history ignores all the plain john does, jimmies, bills, marys, mohammeds, marias, joses.

the majority of history sucked into a black hole.

where are the masses lurking?

exist simply as spectators in our psyches.
is there a mountain high enough to climb where one can continue to meditate without the west creeping in with threats and rhetoric on terrorism?
did zarathustra leave a path? where have all the gods retired or retreated to?
intellectuals practicing zen and the art of
dreaming, drinking new age wine,
discussing picasso, camus, or coehlo,
discussing some exercise in breathing and plans for better living,
while narcissism and cynicism run free on the streets.
everything generic with a feeling of synthetic and me with a taste for something organic.
intellectuals forget that being such does not mean one is not also a member of the masses so
here’s a diploma, now hit the streets and act professional,
lose the swagger and the slang.

some of what is said is not sincere or said in jest,
but some is simply just heart felt. it’s up to you to figure out.

the essence of humanity,
beyond good and evil? rhythms and poetry
originating in witchcraft. sorcerers chanting incantations to see energy transformed
to beat boxes and dropping freestyles as the tribe continues to divide,
sending you off now to find and discover

the essence of humanity.

11.07.02.