New Poem

I’m not going to post as many poems here, because I’m trying to get published. And apparently if I publish things on here, then I can’t publish them in other places.  I’m leaving up the poems on here. And I’m going to try posting one poem a week. I might start posting other stuff too.  Just check back every once in a while to say hello or whatever. Also, I’m going to be publishing a chapbook to coincide with my graduation from college.  Also trying to work on a mixtape, but no promises there.

Check the links. I’m gonna use this blog more and more to promote my friends, cause they’re dope.

And since I’m returning to school next week.  I’ll leave you with this poem and a reminder to please consider donating to Haiti. They were hit with another earthquake today.

red line 1.6.09

freshman year
sick with chicago fever
i rode from ashcroft
to harvard and back 10,000 times
in a row
and dreamed
that I was riding continuous
from Boston to Chicago
all the way to 95th.

between charles/mgh and kendall
the red line climbs up
and hoping to see
the chicago sky line
i would stand up
and press my face
against the glass
until the train
dipped underground again.

Peace and Love,
Ze

Poems 12 and 13

Race Poem #6

Gotcho ass!

The minute man pointed his gun
at me and said as strong as he could
“America is for Americans.”

In a voice stronger than gunfire
I said “Fool, I am American,
Mexico is part of North America,

North America, Central America,
South America, all America.
Homeboy you should study geography.”
Race Poem #7

A racial history

Mexican.

Everywhere I go
people get confused
and wanna know what I am.

My parents were born
in Jalisco, Mexico.
My dad a deep brownish red,
Indigenous, Native, Mestizo?
My mom’s skin white
as Cristopher Columbus,
Spanish, White?
But in the United States,
they’re both called Mexican,
Illegal, Alien, Undocumented
though my dad is a citizen
and my mom, a permanent resident.

Gringo

My skin is pale as new moons,
freckled and covered in hair.
In Mexico, family calls me
Gringo lovingly. My blood
thicker than the Rio Grande
that separates us from one another.
They hug me and tell me to visit again.
I see I look different than most of my family
but I do not feel like a gringo or guero.
Spend all my time round family and
feel family first.

Black

Certain Harvard kids confused.
Mixed?
My skin so pale,
paler still by days spent studying,
but something doesn’t click.
Maybe it’s the hip hop I listen to,
the baggy pants, big hoodies
I wear everywhere,
the people I kick it with,
the way I talk or the things I talk about.
On the way to dinner
friend asks me,
I say “no, no,
but I did grow up in Calumet City”
It’s the best explanation I can think of.

Latino

Join Fuerza Latina
and think I’ve found home.
I write poems about
eating rice and beans.
Everyone cheers,
but I can’t fake the funk
and these are not my people.
I feel too hip hop, too radical,
too urban, too out of place.

Spanish

Keylatch and Mission Hill
Junior Counselors say they’re Spanish
call Sergio and I Spanish too.
I say “you’re not from Spain.”
“But I talk Spanish, so I’m Spanish”
“But, you’re not from Spain”
I insist.

Chicano

Yes, I’m Chicano,
but really I’m Chicago.

White?

Huh?
Call me foreigner. I am.
but White?
In Salvador, Black militants
don’t want to talk to me,
White American, White Mexican,
White Brazilian are all equally bad.
I understand and accept it.
I watch from outside hip hop circles
as cats I would normally chill with,
get on stage with, perform their songs.
I nod my head, but understand that
these songs would destroy me if they could..
Still I don’t feel White, know that in a few
weeks I’ll be back in the States,
another Mexican, another young man in Chicago,
broke minority, Harvard student.

Here I am White and there are different rules.
Than one day soon, I will be Mexican
and there will be other rules to follow.

Heard a million times that race is socially constructed,
but now that I am the one being constructed,
I understand that racism is real,
but race is a product of human imagination.

Poems #s 7-11

This is a series, I’ve been working on, not even close to finished.

Race Poem #1

Chihuahua

ohm
ohm
I look deep inside
my salsa tasting blood
ohm
ohm
looking for my
inner animal.
ohm
ohm
My journey took me
back to Chicano mass
ohm
ohm
and in the name of La Virgen
De Guadalupe I sat down to
ohm
ohm
She took a look into
the very soul of my being
ohm
ohm
and said “Mijo, inside you
is a Chihuahua wearing a sombrero.”

I said I always knew I was Latino.

Poem #2

Ever since first A
been dodging
accusations.

“You mean you be doing
your homework everyday,
what you trying to be white or something?”

I’m trying to be
not grounded,
but those blows

don’t stop
and I can’t dodge
all the time.

My cheeks stay scarlet.
The trainer inside
my head like

“Alright champ, keep your hands up.
Let them keep calling you names,
just keep knocking down these tests.”

Being champion student
in Cal City like winning
most unfashionable,

I won
something
nobody wants.

So when classmates started fighting
in fifth grade, trading
punches for respect,

I fought too,
got beat up,
but my friends there

to pick me up,
the small cuts trickling
giving my skin

some color
I didn’t need.

Poem #3

They wanna say I’m acting white
long as I keep acing these tests,
but if I got B’s they’d call me lazy.
Mexican. Start pronouncing my name correctly.

In high school, I start spelling my name
with an accent mark over the “e.”
The message is simple:
Don’t Anglicize my accomplishments.

Let em know:
The salutatorian is Mexican.
That brother got into Harvard is Mexican.
Smart. Hardworking. Mexican.

Poem #4

Let life bloom.

In American deserts, golden
as the American myth,
there are humans
falling
mid journey,
thirsty
for more than water.

What happens to those
people who are caught
in the immense desert
of life searching for an
oasis that may or may not be
a mirage?

Do their bodies dry
under the sun
and shrink
until they too
are just another grain of
sand?

For the sake of their humanity
may their bodies become clay,
may their blood become water,
may they become wells
deep and ever lasting,
may their last breaths
be blessed by God
and transform the desert into
forests filled with life.

Let life bloom.
Though there are vigilantes
looking to spill blood,
who empty canteens
left in deserts,
let life bloom.

They will not succeed.
Life will prevail
and in so doing,
will transform
deserts of despair
into oasis of hope.

Poem #5

Poem for the minute men project.

I hope your children
never have to cross borders
and deserts to seek the happiness
which is their human right.
I hope that in their search
for their own dreams,
they are not called illegal.
I hope that they are never cheated
of their wages
because of who they are.
I hope that they are never denied
entrance to the university
because of where they were born.
I hope that their language
is never considered inferior or invalid,
that they may always speak freely.

But if they do have to cross borders,
I hope they are embraced with love
and that they are welcomed like family
members returning from a long voyage.

Poem #6

Black Fists

Lori was pissed.
Her eyes were two black fists.
Up in front Jamison and Matt led the way,
we had just smoked a bowl together
and were on our way to buy
late night pizza.
Ten minutes ago, Lori had been
smiling and playing music for us.
“José, you’re gonna like this shit
right here.” We nodded our heads together.
Her eyes were two mics.
Now, as we walked through
Leverett courtyard, through
manicured lawns and trimmed bushes,
Harvard’s wealth sprawled out before us,
Lori turned to me and said “I never
forget, José. Never. People think
just cause I go to Harvard that I’m gonna
forget about who I am
or where I’m from.”
And her eyes were two notebooks.
“It’s all I think about
is how fucked up shit is back home.”
Her eyes were two rocks.
“I feel that rage
all the time
especially cause I go here.
All
this
money
is
like
an
insult.”
We cold shivered,
shook the illusion
of music from our bodies
and I sober saw
that Lori’s eyes had always been black fists.

 

Black Fists

Lori was pissed.

Her eyes were two black fists.

Up in front Jamison and Matt led the way,

we had just smoked a bowl together

and were on our way to buy

late night pizza.

Ten minutes ago, Lori had been

smiling and playing music for us.

“José, you’re gonna like this shit

right here.” We nodded our heads together.

Her eyes were two mics.

Now, as we walked through

Leverett courtyard, through

manicured lawns and trimmed bushes,

Harvard’s wealth sprawled out before us,

Lori turned to me and said “I never

forget, José. Never. People think

just cause I go to Harvard that I’m gonna

forget about who I am

or where I’m from.”

And her eyes were two notebooks.

“It’s all I think about

is how fucked up shit is back home.”

Her eyes were two rocks.

“I feel that rage

all the time

especially cause I go here.

All

this

money

is

like

an

insult.”

We cold shivered,

shook the illusion

of music from our bodies

and I sober saw

that Lori’s eyes had always been black fists.

poem 5

Kiss

I went for a swim
at sunrise
and the waves carried your kiss.
I let the taste of your lips
wash over me
as I thought about
how all those miles
between us could disappear
as quick as a morning kiss.

Poem 4

Rich Smoove on the economy

Alua told me the realest shit I ever heard
anyone say about the economy the other day

She said it was like bad sex,
just when you think it’s getting good

the motherfucker
cums

all over
himself

and then has the audacity
to ask you to clean up after him.

She said dudes need to learn
sustainable economic

and sexual development.
I looked at her like,

but you not talking about me
though right.. right?

Shit hurt my pride, my ego,
and my pocket,

I said I know what it feels like
to be unemployed for sure now

and it ain’t nothing pretty.

Poem 3

A Lake Michigan Breeze

My host family closes my window
every night cause they don’t want me to be cold.
They don’t understand that the wind
that blows through my window every night
traveled
all the way from Lake Michigan
just to tuck me in
and say
“Buenas noches mijo.”

 

Poem 2/300000

Some people learn the hard way

One day, my boss called me a lazy Mexican.
So,
I worked hard to whup his ass,
I sweated, I needed a nap afterwards,
I left it bruised on every part of his being
and you think he called me lazy again?

30/30 day 1

this might turn into a rest of my life/ rest of my life thing also, check out 3030 cypher where other poets will be posting their work.  I will be double posting here and there.

Lou Dobbs shows up to apply for unemployment

“Hold up!”
Says Rich Smoove.
“I’ve seen you on TV.”
Lou starts to blush an apology
“It´s all entert—“

“What are you talking about man?
You ain’t a star or nothing,
I saw a report they did last week
On CNN about how old, mad,
white men are trying to flood
unemployment to make
President Obama look bad.

It ain’t workin this time.”
And he shouts
“My president is Black, fool!”
As he pushes Lou Dobbs aside.

Lou’s back is
wet with nervousness
as he walks slowly
out of the unemployment office.

Toast

Toast

Toast after toast
we struggle to find something
worth cheers,
till Emiliano says,
“Here’s to all the awkward toasts,
when the only thing that needs to be said is
I love you bruh.”