in san cristobal de las casas: notions 95-98.

notion 95.

this letter,
which may go on
because words erupt
from me,
and the hand moves
so freely
as if my thoughts
before me.


notion 96.

let us go to sleep.
tomorrow will soon arrive
without a warning.


notion 97.

fire and flames.
energy flowing,
and the universe


notion 98.

vamonos pues,
a repartir charola,
a todos igual.


in san cristobal de las casas: notions 93-94.

notion 93.

my country and continent
is something for Europeans and tourists
to come exploit and visit.
“at least they shop and consume.”
and my people have become trained
to submit
to the will
of the buyer.

and then they bring in
the walmarts,
and everyone’s fucked.


notion 94.

and at dawn the pen moves much quicker.

i couldn’t be a wanderer. i yearn for common faces. and the desert seems too cold or wicked. i’m not ready to confront it. i couldn’t be a hermit. i really do love listening to stories. i’d much rather watch them pass by, and sometimes i’ve no desire to even try or get to know them- just to acknowledge their existence and they mine- that is enough, at least in my head. it’s all in my head, no? couldn’t get lost in the jungle cause the city lights would call me in. but how do i love the ocean? but sometimes it’s almost like drowning.

towards you i hope the stars may guide me and ease the traveling. and getting lost in crowds won’t be so scary cause you’re there with me.

and at dawn, the pen moves much quicker.


in san cristobal de las casas: notions 91-92.

notion 91.

how i’d like to meet
the person that makes sushi
here in chiapas.


notion 92.

i’m not just a teacher.
i am still searching,
and am still learning.
i know so much less
than i could even imagine.
i am your humble servant,
but i am not a slave.
i’m not just a teacher
though i’m a member of the union.
the state doesn’t own me.
the state doesn’t own us,
and we dictate how society goes,
or at least should,
so how have we allowed it
to have gotten so far,
out of control.

and i’ve only been here
for a little bit
over a quarter of a century,
and will not settle
into being content
with a middle class slavery.


in san cristobal de las casas: notions 88-90.

notion 88.

vibras y vida.
piedra y tierra.
corazón y libertad.
sol y luna.
madre y padre.
mar y montaña.
fuego y agua.
abuela y abuelo.
estrellas e hijos.
pasado y futuro.
y el presente sigue rolando.


notion 89.

“suerte carnalito,”
y el rastitas me pasaba
buenas vibras bajo un canto
en náhuatl.

“suerte carnalito,
nos vemos en rollo,”
este el salvador me decía.


notion 90.

i am like my red and brown brothers,
people of the sun,
children of the corn.
tortillas are my bread.
i miss the ancient world
before the conquest.
i still have memories
of which i dream,
but in the city,
the turtle is a bandit,
raccoon rebel.


in san cristobal de las casas: notion 87.

notion 87.

my past was colorful,
and my people wore bright colors
even though they have/had
what the west considers nothing.
(how can i not get sad or angry,
but what will these emotions
“set things straight?”
but the north has set me cold.
how can i let it happen?
to the other children?
thanks to capitalism,
we are all children of the streets.

my country and continent
is something for europeans,
for their descendents and tourists
to come exploit and visit.
an economy dependent on the money
some pale face may bring.
my past was colorful
like the flowers of xochimilco,
but the north is so cold,
and murders it all with
its society
now spreading globally.


in san cristobal de las casas: notions 85-86.

notion 85.

buenas vibras,
aquí todo es leve,
hermanos relax.




notion 86.

so i thought i’d write a sonnet just cause
i’m of ideas of eternity,
way past beyond the sense of human laws,
and at some point, i’ll finally be free.

in my country, it was hard to find me,
had to leave the chaos and confusion
cause all that noise was simply distracting.
i yearned independent disposition.

thus then travel unraveled some secrets,
our third became open to see way past,
letting go of our shared ancient regrets.
all blurred towards a future which will pass.

so why the fuck then are you so worried
when we’re not part in the story in (his)tory?


in san cristobal de las casas: notion 84.

notion 84.

when one discovers
who one is,
what one wants,
to not want, not desire,
and all the things make sense,
and signs appear,
to not want, not desire,
be content,
and you realize your path,
keeping to the left.
some would call this god,
buddha, jehovah, the
universal unknown,
the order of pi.

when one is lost
of who one is,
confused and robbed,
feeling so lost,
a star astray,
and all seems chaos,
a rolling, random
but even rolling stones
collide or crash
beyond the crossroads.


in san cristobal de las casas: notion 82.

notion 82.

i am the turtle,
so must enter mazunte.
let’s be the ceremony.
ceremonies begin.
ceremony benign
be night while the sun erupts.
given space to breathe
without evaporating atmospheres.
i must head out to sea,
to japan, australia
towards the caribbean
through a dark tunnel.

i came out into a forest,
and only a raccoon
appeared to guide me
to where all power grew.
it signaled for me to drink from the water,
from the fountain,
which soon became a river,
until the waves engulfed me,
and limbs like branches
extended out from within
towards the clouds
cause ancient nature
was where power
has come,
and then i was a tree
growing out from the river,
so i asked the raccoon
to travel back through the tunnel
with me.
it agreed,
and told me,
“you are the turtle, but in the city,
you are the raccoon,
the rebel bandit.”

as i stared into st. michael
at san juan chamula,
where st. john the baptist
is revered over christ,
and coca cola utilized to expel spirits
through burping,
and i’m reminded,
i should go,
slow and steady.
i am the turtle, but in the city,
i must be disguised
like the raccoon,
the rebel bandit.


in san cristobal de las casas: notions 79-81.

notion 79.

quiero que me bendigan,
ser bendecido,
hacia lo eterno.


notion 80.

if you read my book,
might understand a little.
my mind is still small.


notion 81.

hijo de ixtlilxóchitl el viejo,
nacido en tetzcoco,
estudiando en el calmécac
de madre méjica,
huyendo azcapotzalco
y los de tezozomoc.
el poeta
que seria gobernador,

terminal del metro,
basurero de la cuidad,
garbage dump.

the densest area in la cuidad de méxico.