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Recuerdas aquel di­a en el parque
Cuando el sol con panza cólica
Estallaba sobre el prado
De irradiantes verdes?

Ese dí­a solo nos pensamos
Nos miramos
Nos besamos
Y yo con mi insolencia feminista
Aborreci­a afeitarme las piernas.
Agarrando una punta de tela,
Te mostré.

Tú miraste.

Yo seguí jugando tiernamente
Acariciándote afectuosamente
Llevando un filo de pasto
Entre arrugas, gruñidos, e imperfecciones
de mis pie hasta la rodilla,
Te gustan o no te gustan?

Tú miraste.
Luego tocaste.
Después sonriendo aclamaste, “Me Gustan!”

I see brains Pinky, I see brains!!!
Which one is sick? Which one is healthy?
The frontal lobe is lit, does that mean it’s a mental patient?
what were they thinking?….ah, exactly

is color a reflection of their emotion? or their mood?
I wonder if the people can pick out their own brain, if they colored it…
which one is color blind?
Do you think they took this brain picture and told them to feel love?

Haha, comedy is that brains fall upon us,
yet we are still so ignorant to so much knowledge.

Can you see the eyes? Are they looking up or down?
I like the bright yellow green, how about you?

How nonchalantly and tactfully vulgar can you get…
It’s no longer: Hey, your epidermis is showing!
or drop trout for Brown,
Now you get to see my bear brain, GRRRR!
Feel the wrath of the brains….

I wonder why I wanted to go see somebody else’s naked brains.

I wish I’d been born
With a silver spoon in my mouth,
A legacy of doctors,
That I’d wanna follow,
And a wardrobe of shades,
Neutralities of gray,
But when all is said and done,
I wouldn’t change a thing,
All I’d hope,
Is to still find you here.

I’ve kissed and I’ve stumbled,
Been bruised and I’ve stuttered,
In my dreams words fly,
In narrow pastel ghettoes,
And I still don’t know who I am.

Everywhere I turn,
I’m cast in foreign molds,
Half numb as not to feel,
Unknowingly, I paint,
Bar codes on my neck,
Hide as not to face
But the shadows still haunt me in air.
With the reality
That I still don’t belong.

Strung out on a dream,
Of cobalt black lips,
And my fears pierce my side,
Like my ghosts live in corners,
Survivor before crusader,
And yet, when all is said and done,
I wouldn’t change a thing,
All I’d hope,
Is to still find you here.

From the vault of my teenage years.

5% of some poor study said that only
5% of Latino students graduate college fluent in both languages

Does that mean there’s 95% left behind?
95% of a people abolished of a tongue and race?
Does their language and soul just evaporate?
95% create their own identity
with no amenities,
no one to support their singularity
So that they are left to view themselves as an anomaly
And lables of Latino, Hispanic, Chicano, Mexican…
Doesn’t even speak to them.
It seem that whatever doesn’t fit,
Society in haste inoculates,
acculturates,
incarcerates
or obliterates

But turn this tortilla upside down and reverse it:
To be Latino is to be a rainbow of colors
And a myriad of experiences
So what are we not doing to educate ourselves?
Even if the border did move over us
It doesn’t explain how we forgot
the ingenuity of the Toltecs to keep discovering,
the survival of the Aztec to keep conquering
or the diplomacy of the Mexica to identify ourselves
as one cosmic brown race?

Language lost is
power taken and
isolation resting
Because in silence, insincerity can exist
while apathy maliciously awaits

5%
Pass it on and empower this
Inspired by God, endorse it
work within education to change it
grab a sheet of paper and pulse it
because this 5%
cannot exist.

Art work from Mark Pinon

This is a neat project by 3 Harvard students on the views of the immigrants and the minutemen, check it out at borderfilmproject.com

Why the guns? What are they shooting at and do they have the right to shoot at a human unarmed? Isn’t this considered militias and aren’t militias outlawed in the US? What personal satisfaction is there to this job? Desert deer, perhaps.

One of the most beautiful pictures in the exhibition.

Two brown hands holding the camera, one pair you can’t see…
could be my own and those in front of me my father’s.
The camera is looking at me, looking at you,
looking back to the horizon at cars that don’t stop,
on a single road
that breaks and can’t be fixed,
that run because we ask them to
that come because we profit from it
money exits with the same facility it enters
so here they come again,
what is it, 20th may 25th time?
Go home! Go to Canada!
Fix your passport on hold for 7 years minimum,
Pay taxes and contribute!
Why? You don’t want me anyways…
Is it really worth it to run or to fix the problem?

Smokey mirror of truth–
How is the migrant helping their family/generation by migrating and not gaining an education?
It’s not important where you are,
but where you’re going.

So where are we moving to in this issue?

Nothingness is the beginning
And end of all beings
Therefore, it’s easy to get lost
Standing in the middle of oceans
Waters of virtue
And waves of sin
Vacillate onto shore
Like lunatics on high tide,
It’s so easy to get confused

And even science can’t explain
Witnessed from conception
Until first full breath
2,999,999 sperm die
In search of the Golden Egg
One success
And from that one microscopic thread
We are all born the same,
So if we were birthed from triumph,
why do we regress to failure?

So we walk, stretch, grow
To the beat of the timbales
That clank contrapaso
Swinging to the beauty of life
Praying in solace
For an unabridged passions
That seed into family trees
Leaves that watch the bark wilt

And so we die,
Only to begin again
Where our seed takes off
From the nothingness
Beginning and end of all beings

Art work by Mark Pinon for his closing exhibit: