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22 de noviembre de 2005

a faint tick tock from yester burning like hell

I speak english.
I am mexican.
Am I the less mexican for it?
Can the collecive ever realize that in Tijuana, we too speak english?

In Tijuana, who will be the first Spartacus in our rank and file. Who will stand firm ante los centinelas que el Sur manda para cuidar la cuna de nuestra cultura?

When will we assert that which we are?

I am mexican & I speak english.

Yet I am afraid to meet el strange look de mis paisanos. They do not recognize me as one of their own when I speak. I defile that which they hold dear; me.

Though in these words, in these little letters you read now I am the better human being. I understand you, my mexican brethren. Yet somehow I elude you. In the streets (reality) I am a pocho before thee; these written words attest how wrong you are. For I denounce thee not
So in the arcones of yore I hid the forbidden word by looking north, becoming north.

I have learned to be that which is not, in the north. To appease thee brethen mio, I did not face you when my breath spoke uncountable things, gibbirish in your ears.

In my tumultuos youth, when my feet walked the green fields of Aztlán and when Aztlán gave me its air to breath I wrote too about that which demanded the vessel of the written word, I hid meaning in them. I was in hiding.

So I present 3 poems, mexican poems, written in english.

Death thru my nostrils, D-Complex world, Dieslrae.



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