La Pura Neta

Yo soy Mexican. I no longer live on the bridge between my past and present, I am the bridge and my lengua is Chicano.

these words you reading                   are me. if you need more,                         you aren't feeling me.

I like when our home is clean everything piled up nicely like snow

our language isn't broken phrases but limbs of speed handshakes in forms of wings conveying hope in the everyday holding each other up from the grounds mud deep in caged parks

I went to an art show on Friday, March the 3rd. It was a small gallery, with open space, white walls, and rustic corridos channeling from the speakers. ~*~*~*~ The artist "performed" an act of release by pouring water into crystal glasses, dipping her fingers into them, and rubbing her fingers on the rims of the glasses. It was a rubbery kind of sound that, after some time, turned into whistling chimes. ~*~*~*~ As she maintained the chiming sound of the crystal glass she said, "If you will, close your eyes. Think of one word that signifies what you would like to release"                                                        "and take a deep breathe"                         "now exhale." Tears roared up past my throat. My nose flared, my jaw jittered, my teeth bit my bottom lip, trying to keep the rushing waters down. The tears streamed from my eyes and with my hands, I quickly wiped them away.