The importance of the brown round table

It wasn't until last summer
that i felt the need to write down
my mother's and father's personal stories

It wasn't until last week
that i felt the value in each
individual piece

I don't feel value
in my other pieces or my work
at my office job which helps
so many people

but what is the value of a life lived
in Chicago, as a woman, as a brown woman
as a woman who labels herself
Mexican and chubby

is it only up to me to build this
value, to build it inside of me
so that others can feel then see
that i do belong here

that my words belong
on this page for you
to read

About house parties and freestyle music

There was a house party at Shorty's on Artesian and 49th. We wore our  butterfly skorts and kswiss shoes, our hair gelled and split, with two thick strands of hair  tied tightly behind our heads. Slick. We pre partied by spending hours looking in the mirror. we looked so damn good at 14. We walked from 52nd and Talman to the party. At 50th and maplewood, we see Moreno making his way, too. We all thought he looked kinda good, but whatever. Once we got to Shorty's she came to greet us at her house door, her lip liner flawless and her curly hair crisp with herbal mousse. Her beeper went off and we walked in, shyly. Prototype played loudly through the mix board speakers, the single floor house was filled with boys. We walked to the couch and sat down, our knees inward. Shorty's back at the door, Mikey!, she says, I turned my head and took a look. He was tall, with a white shirt showing beneath his unbuttoned shirt. He had boot cut jeans that layed over his black combat boots.…


I didn't think he was this bad
I knew he wasn't good but I didn't think he was this bad
why wasn't I told?
maybe because I wasn't good, too. I wouldn't have
been able to help me, though, I like to believe that I would've if
I had the mind to read in between his statements: I miss our times as kids. Remember that time we trick-o-treat on Fletcher street? Time flies by so quickly.
the bottle is the only thing that helps him right now
it's the only way he can stop thinking
seeking shelter in those hard loving memories.
He tries to make everything better by high-fiving all of us now, by pretending he is happy now,
passed out drunk.

(July 27, 2015, 4:53 pm)

In love

Lets be together all the time
so when the day comes where we will be
apart, we both will be fine

because  I will remember how big your
eyes get when you get excited,

and I will remember your big cheeks
when you smile

and I will remember the beautiful line
of your nose

and I will remember how beautiful
your brows frame your face

and how your lips melt into mine
and how your hands mold into mine,
because we are one.

(July 17, 2015 , 7:34 am)

We're porch chillin' people


I don't know who I am because my mother does not know who she is

My mother was never really a part of her mother, except in flesh and bone. My mother’s mind has always told her she belonged among the greenest of mounds, amongst women with head coverings. My mother is not pious or soft spoken. She is loud and filled with imagination. She was born on the sixth day of the twelfth month and the woman who helped birth her stole something from her. “Empuja”, she says to my sixteen yr old grandmother. “Empuja”. Out came my wailing mother with the umbilical cord hung across her chest like a sash. This is a sign of power. A gift handed down to my mother by our ancestors. A gift to heal and to see before things are done. It is known that birth helpers, the greediest of their kind, steal newborns power as a payment for their help and so, my mother’s power was stolen from her. Many things were stolen from my mother at such a young age. At the age of 5, she was left in the care of her uncle, a man whose belly was large like a sea animal care. My grandmother, h…


This is the second time I see you and you are no longer a little boy. You're much taller, your hair, you've let grow. You are a young man with a crown of cornrows. We meet in the city, with your dad, at a sidewalk cafe. You walk away from my view. Maybe to pick up our drinks. 
Your dad speaks to me this time. He's no longer the brooding man on the couch. Your dads much older since I last saw you. His eyes are droopy but they rise when he speaks of you and when he smiles. His freckles show more; on his nose bridge, on the high part of his cheeks. His dreds are thicker but the color is lighter, like brown, smoky, dusk. His glasses are the same thin metal frames from always. He tells me how well you're doing. How well your both doing. How everything is well. I mention your grandmother- I heard about your mom. I reach out and place my hand over his- I'm really sorry. Your dad's bottom lip quivers and he gives me a nod. 
You come back to the table and sit there. I can…