el nuevo latino fm
dj eddie q on the spintable
broadcasting live nationwide
scratching hieroglyphics
heterotexts and hi-hy-
bridities for the contemp
orary american mind
free mix remixed
from the shanty barrios
of tj/san diego to
the rich surf and turf of
santa barbara, nuevo mexico,
miami and nueva york
to the heights of
macchu picchu.

come go with me
oye y ven, vení
y ve como es
s/he who searches
will not find the mind,
a paradise, in ashes,
but will find my
mi familia in time
of azuuucar and butterflies
in an inevitable revolution
built from the bitter sweat
of mango streets that feed the nation,
of mami’s and papi’s
gmoms’ and gpops’
odyssey al norte,
never losing tenderness
hardening us
strengthening us.

pow-pow power
poetry for the people
prose versification
lyricism turntable-ism
land that borders us
in an other checkbox space
for which it stands
to brand us ni de aquí
o allá for all, pero que
no nos tragó porque

our lighter/darker shade of
brown/black/yellow/red/white
i am uncle sam
this land,
your vinyl re-cd-fied.
this samba pa ti,
bamba, la bala, tango,
muévelo muévelo
cuz you ‘member
or must know by now
how i like it like that,
cumbia, merengue
memory mambo no. 5
cr-cr-crabbin’ it like
sopa de caracol,
boricua, boludo, borena
dominicano, tico, chapín
chicano, latino.

some of you don't know
what's happenin' qué pasa,

time to get a new watch and see,
flip the switch sap asap,
stereo surround sound
cucurrucucu mi fcc.
cc your hdtv
redial your radio
and listen to latin lingo
baby funky bilingual,
que ya bua’ ver
que sí se puede.

####

diverging lanes
I see you in the next lane
driving your new silver car,
holding in a laugh while I wave
crossing my eyes.

I remember you walking away
abruptly, without a word, selfishly
I thought, taking from me
our candlelight in-n-out dinners

before work, my waking up
to your not-quite-there renditions
of sabor a mi, my two-left-feet salsa
dancing past your white chow-chow,

our close-to-dawn conversations
about our white picket fence and tree house
that awaited us, our parents’ blessings,
my smile, your laugh, our destiny.

All you left was a post-it on our fridge saying
I’m sorry. Someday you’ll understand.
And I did. Or as much as I possibly could

when four years later your mother found me
lost in the pharmacy, hugged me,
and tore open the scab on my chest
by whispering to me cervical cancer.

I see you switching lanes
slowly crossing your eyes back at me,
smiling, whispering sabor a mi
as you take the next off-ramp.