A las ratas con tres patas y a mis comadres Las Chillonas, Chingonsísimas Mujeres/
To the three-legged rats and my comadres Las Chillonas, Chingonsísimas Mujeres.
Rated G, PG, PG-13, R, NC-17: To all ethnicities, including
white people. Breathe in out. Take breaks in between stanzas.
Read responsibly.
Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock
Note: Her bionic ears
catch a 150’ radius of
whispering voices. The last
time the Super Self broke away
from Herself—the gitano in her
slithered in English and punched
with ¡Paz! ¡Pum! which
brought out the Chinese
in Her with a Hi-yah!
I. Mother and Father Tongue
You say English ONLY
and I fart in your face with Spanish
y no un pedito
un PEDOTE as big
as the Man-fested Destined
United States of the World.
That’s like taking the burger
king out of you
and the jumping
bean in me
somersaulting over 10’
steel walls for a bitter taste
of strawberries, grapes and
oranges so that the governor can
count on his daily dose of antioxidants.
Are you still stuck on the pedo?
Let’s not be so privy, now,
neither the you in me
nor
the me in you
could live without
a pot of Aunt Marie Claire’s
chili beans.
So don’t you dare tell me to
“Speak English Only,”
so you can cackle
in my face and
call me Spick.
‘Cause I’m ambidextrous,
I can punch with my left
Jab with my right
I can hook with my left
And upper cut with my right
Spanish! (¡Pum!)
English (Punch!)
English (Pow!)
Spanish (¡Paz!)
Two colonizing languages
lasso the tip of my tongue.
A Spanish Conquistadora, tearing noses and ears
An English Imperialist, forcing pencil and pen
Was robbed one language
Won’t lose two
But at night voices speak—
Plants, rose bushes
caress my hands and
hips as I walk by;
the Moon and abuela’s indigenous
trenzas unbraid stories
as we lullaby the dead
to sleep.
So don’t you dare tell me to
“Spick English Only”
Not the President; not you!
Easier for the President
to learn Spanish to steal an
election through His Panic
population than me to
forget español—not today, not
tomorrow, not my nieces and nephews,
not the brown buffalo children,
Amig@.
And if I could, I would speak all the languages
in the world
from Swahili,
to Chinese, and
from Sanskrit
to Arabic.
II. Malinche de USA in High Heels
And they ask, “Do your feet hurt?”
She answers, “Did you wear braces . . .?” Let’s just
say I’m not nailing my foot to a cross. Let’s just
say it pained your mother much more to get you out.
Hurt?
¿Dolor?
Pain?
¿Qué?
She was born with flat feet—condemned to peace on Earth. Not
good enough to kill (What a shame).
Learned not to tippytoe through
broken glass but to walk on shattered glass.
You say I can only get so far in high heels. Let
me just show you how far
these high heels can think.
Airport uniform commands,
“Excuse me Mam. Take off your boots.”
“¿Quién yo?” Are you suspicious of my innocent little black boots?”
Fingers inspect, trace the sharp angles and curves.
Officer just wanted to sniff my boots and make sure they don’t
smell like 3” fungatoed bound feet.
And don’t you dare call me señorita
because when you
do, you minimize my vagina to
the size of a señorita’s
sacred glory hole.
This body’s not for
silent potato bags against the ribs
and goose filled pillows over the face,
not for vagina, and breast
mutilation in hieroglyphic
borders, lit allies and toy parks—at
His dispense and pleasure. ‘Cause
at this serial
killer pace, men
will outnumber Mother Nature’s
girl: boy
ratio.
III. On Stares
Is it her hair?
(He)r ass?
Her shoes?
Her oily face?
Her h(air)—
not a bad perm. A black
widow’s nest that
swims in water. More than Queen
Elizabeth in spite
of her menstruation—hair
that comes from a Moorish
past—Africa.
Let’s just say this is not the Virgen de Guadalupe’s hair.
Loose hair that doesn’t
conform to hairspray, gel and
mousse.
Is it the Ass? (No wonder Catholic nuns and Muslim women cover their ass!)
Settle down now, what’s all the humping
Cockledoodledoo , quiriquiquí, growling,
huffing and puffing,
you haven’t even
seen the cellulite on
the right cheek! (By the way, I take after mi apa).
I’ve seen nalgas, asses, culos; I’ve seen dimples and
craters the size of your blind eyes.
Shoes?
Let me fuck you slow,
(“Fornicate Under Command of the King” just
in case you forgot!)
Let me take off my boot and
take the end of my high heel and stab and gouge
your eyeball out
with my pointy
spike, so you
can enlighten yourself
like Oedipus with Iocasta’s brooches.
(Don’t fuck your Mama; ¡chinga tu padre!)
And after,
Strike your photograph through
with my steel heel and nail you on
your wind shield.
The oily face?
You called my grandfather greaser. But
who’s the real Mr. and Mr’s. Taco
with every Adalberto’s,
Roberto’s, Ediberto’s
and Jiliberto’s on Invisible and
Man Street.
Maybe, I’m way off; it’s the Richard Rodríguez negro skin
that tells you I don’t belong; hold on
to your purse; hold on to your brats
cause they call me Llorona too.
Ta ta Llorona. Let’s gulp tequila or sip wine, and green lemon (lime) n’ salt or cheese if you wish.
Cheers!
¡Salud!
Muito obrigada e um abraço!
Hasta la vista, Baby. . . .
Got to read the streets and walk through the books.
tic
tac tac
tic tic
tac tac
tic
