Mi Gatita

Que bonita es mi gatita Siamés

Con sus múltiples tonos de café

Café tostado

Café quemado

Algunos tonos

De café bronceado

Sus ojos azules claros

Que resaltan como dos

Estrellitas sobre

El mar

Mira la saltar

Tan alegre

Y cuando duerme

Bien estirada

Sus patitas al aire

Que bonita se ve mi gatita Siamés

R.I.P Saira 09/13/2006-12/10/2009

BdSM

(Soft yellow light center stage shining over bench. Bench is draped with a soft throw)

Claudia enters stage right. She is wearing a black tank top, white tight shorts (aka booty shorts) lays down on the bench. BdSM audio and video footage begin playing at the same time.

(Audio is playing and video footage of Nadine is projected on screen. Claudia begins simulating masturbation or actually doing it depending on how she is feeling that day. She occasionally looks up at the image of Nadine projected on the screen who also looks down on Claudia).

To my butch scholar

what is Butch aesthetic?

Is it when you reflect what you see before you into words?

If so then you have to talk about my big boobs.

If so then you have to talk about my tight ass

and how you salivate at the thought

of your fingers

sliding up and down your keyboard

as you recreate me, separate me, turn me upside down

and label me.

ME-your idea!

For you to relive every time you, she, I read.

Butch aesthetic?

that captured by your eyes

digested by your mind

and ends up on everyone's tongue.

If you reflect what you see before you into words,

please include the smells.

Is that hot wax or the smell of hot skin?

Shhh listen.

It’s your heart beating in MHz at the sound

of the whip against my back,

Um, my moans.

Butch mystique?

that surrounding my butch Papi

who stirs fag/boi/tranny fantasies

like you fucking me in your mind

as you witness

gender fucker

fucking

gender fucker

performing Butch identity against what is Queer/Butch.

Gender fuckers gender fucking,

performing Butch identity against what it means to be a chicana/butch

butch violating butch…

This is butch to me…

I feel the marks of my identity

I've been the butch top in this femme-butch matrix

where my desire IS draped in femme fatigues

where my identity manipulates my desires

where I’ve been somebody's bitch

Really, I just want to be ok with wanting to be manipulated by you.

Feeling your cock-hard Domness

makes my cock hard

femme or butch both can top me the same

as long as I get spanked the way I want to be spanked.

The personal is political

but the political is not always written on the skin

I know you see me as a cabron ladies…don't deny it

can you tell I like to fuck boys/bois?

Yes

I am

one of those butches that flew over the coo-coo's nest

the kind that fucks other butchas.

Go ahead and say it "where are all the real butches."

Act surprised that I'm really down with getting down butch on butch?

(Claudia lifts herself from the bench and straddles it, begins gyrating on it (i.e. she is riding the fuck outta that bench, sensually of course))

Hola Papi,

I was thinking about you, how the other day you stretched yourself out before me, slid your hand under your boxers and touched yourself. You scooped some of your juice up! I know cause I saw as you first smelled your scent then ate it.

As if nothing you slid your hand down there again. You face twisted this way and that with pleasure and lips parted with your moans. You got the legs twitching, chest heaving types of motions. I watched until your eyes rolled to the back of your head with satisfaction and closed with bliss.

Here I go again

Talking all that little boy fetish

I like short hair,

peach fuzzed, tittie tottin' cara de niño

The prettier the better

I'll say it

Son mi cochinita pibil

Carne tierna y picosa.

Won't I ever quit

Shed this skin

(Here Claudia thrusts harder)

Step into the post pony-tail dyke

Post-drag king

Post-andro

Post-trans

Post post

Post Pomo (Claudia simulates reaching orgasm, ass tremors she and leans forward onto the bench, breathless)

all I want is to step into my post-heroic masculinity

Stop suppressing mine to uphold others'

Does it make you feel good?

Does it heave your imaginary man pecks

to put me down? To walk around me like everything is cool

even though you didn't play by the rules,

Then I'm down to let you

If you think you're Top enough to top this.

Reflect what you see before you into words….

(BdSM audio stops but video footage is still playing and then fads out. Red light shines on center stage)

(Play track 9 off CD Song: “Only When I Loose Myself” by Depeche Mode )

Nadine enters stage left. She is dressed in a dark button up shirt and tie. She circles around Claudia inspecting her. Claudia is still leaning forward on the bench, breathless, senses Nadine’s presence but does not lift her head. Nadine pulls off her belt, and snaps it once- that’s when Claudia lifts her head and attempts to get up but Nadine pushes her back down. Then the BdSM scene follows, Nadine teases Claudia, with belt, hits her ass a few times, hits her across the back HARD. The scene goes on, more teasing, taunting and slapping.

Nadine ( goes over to Claudia, yanks her by the hair)

Who’s the bad Boi?

Claudia (with a painful look, but also pleased)

You are !

Remnents

Standing with my toes

brushed by the shore

so sure

that I float

in your subconscious

tonight

a night when the moon

has cast it’s shadow upon

earth- swallowed.

I wish for a bottle

long neck, green glass

the color of algae

extra protection on it’s journey.

Una botella para embotellar

estos versos

mandarlos con esperanza

de que lleguen a ti.

Que atraviesen estas

aguas del pacifico

aguas frias, que entumecen

hasta no topar

con las arenas

del atlantico.

Versos que te recuerden

de lo mucho que te echo de menos.

Something Good

“Give you a reading? I will tell you something good.” the lady sitting outside the coffee house said to me as I passed by in a daze. Payday is not for another three days but I was so tempted to give her my last 5 bucks to hear something good. That’s what we all want, just to hear something good even though I know things will be the same, her message of hope was as fake as her powers to predict the future.

Se me pasó

no el día sino la tarea que me había asignado. Pero en fin, celebré en la luna llena, digo en su llenes, no estoy segura que use la palabra correcta pero en fin siento que captura perfectamente lo que he vivido. Llena, como si estuviera empanzada, bloated se dice cuando we retain water- cuando la sal corre como olas por nuestras venas...el agua se veía como sangre, sangre cuajada bien enlunada- digo iluminada

A prayer to Yemaya

Yemaya…

Oh madre poderosa

I surrender!

It is in you

that I place my hurt, anger, and fears

which have burdened my mind

and weakened my spirit.

I toss my problems, insecurities, and distrust

like rose petals

into you waters

and watch them dance

indefinitely on your crests and troughs.

Take them away from me

do as you please with them-

stuff them 1,000 leagues into your core

or let them drift and get tangled in your

jade and golden colored chains of seaweed.

Because I surrender.

I submerge my hopes and expectations

into your blue/black crystalline skirt

knowing that you will harbor them and share

with Coyolxaqhui as she passes you by at dawn.

I come to you on this chilled

lonely night

to have my soul soothed

by your roars,

to empty my body of anymore tears

at the ruffles of your shore

and watch as they are swallowed up

by your hissing waves

that break and shrivel

on the beach,

I come to purify my wounds

with your salty elixir.

Please, Yemaya

take what I give to you tonight as my offering.

No,

not a bunch of flowers or shiny pennies

but mis inquietudes

and my unshakable faith

because I surrender to your depth.

Gang-boys

A tree marked
with a giant 7
and a giant 0
The 70’s came through here.
A stop sign tagged with T-Flats
no longer stops traffic
but serves to warn you
intruder
that you’re entering
Tortilla Flat territory.
Better yield.

I lived in the middle of gangs
sandwiched between
deadly loyalties
to the red, blue, the brown.
My childhood riddled
with gang-boys
who think, believe they are men
but each one
really a man-child.
Sagging pants
weighed down
by the gats they tote.
Glock, revolver in one pocket
bandana representing in the other.
Sporting perfectly pressed
blinding bright white t’s
cut-off dark work pants
with creases cutting the air,
hair shiny, sleek
classic like the filero,
thick white sport socks pulled knee-high
and dark knit gloves in the summer!
I knew some of them
talked and laughed with them
I wasn’t
allowed to befriend them
not allowed to cross
their path to nowhere good.

Willie, aka Will or Big Slim
with his pet iguana
and his magnetic smile
couldn’t help but want to talk to him
or have him talk to you.
Always very friendly and funny
but fled to the ‘burbs
to get away from the life-
to save his life.

Either on foot,
covered in thick Nike Cortez,
or on bikes
these lost boys
left their trail
of graffiti, fear and loathing.
To see them was to know
they’d lose their life
they’d lose the street battle
leaving loved ones
the community
the city
to continue
living the war.
A war they can’t see from their graves
or the luckier ones, from their cells.
A war
fueled by the push and pull
of la pandilla, la clica, the “set”
with its utter freedom
to roam the streets, incite fear
break the rules,
break faces,
break the bank with their street hustle
gives a young boy
a dose of “manhood” to the head.
To be manly and supported in that
to be protected by your brothers in that.
How cool to be “cool” for all the girls.
Cause, who doesn’t love a bad boy (even secretly)?

Those gang-boys
who think, believe they are men
but each one
really a man-child
pushed by tradition,
cause Smiley
has Baby Smiley and Lil Smiley
looking up to big tough tatted dad.
Pushed by threats,
pushed into throwing down,
blow by blow
dying block by block.
Sacrificing their lives
disrespecting that of their enemy’s
representing their hood hard
just to be worthy of respect.
In the end
after all the fundraising:
car washes
knocking on my door collecting funds
to bury her fallen son
“Here, here is a $5, I don’t want
to see anymore pictures of him,”
can’t look at her bloodshot eyes
After all the R.I.Ps have been sewn
sprayed on, etched on
to car windows, t-shirts, caps
sweatshirts and tattooed on
brown and black skin
After all this
who thinks about
respect?
Who thinks of the boy’s set?
Just a lonely painful
memory, relived
of how a gang-boy
who thought, believed he was a man
was really a child.

My Champ

Ama..
Hearing your steps
cross our shoe-box apartment
slow moving
dragging
like a champ
knocked to the canvas
as the city enjoyed its second dream
made my little heart a little sad.
You’d come home
your body beat-up
by fatigue from back-to-back
eight-hour rounds
at the factories
piecing together
anything your nimble hands
qualified you to.
No belt, no fame, no glory
barely a living
for your accomplishments
for ever unnoticed
blended with the exploitations
of others.
Just a tired body
always tired body
you plopped onto
the sagging mattress.
I’d lay there feigning sleep
didn’t want you to notice me
didn’t want you to exert more energy
to give me a tight squeeze.
I’d watch through squinted eyes
you pulled out your bag of healing
from under our bed
medicines from across the border
brought back by neighbors,
relatives who could cross the border.
I’d hear the swishing of bottles
You’d drench your arms and legs
the sting of the green liquid-
Rue infused rubbing alcohol
burned the inside of my nose.
You’d slap your hands together
smashing and melting the slab,
yellow ointments
thick like lard
applied hands
glide across your joints.
No relief
even for relief
your hands work hard.
You winced from the aches
thin skin around your eyes
folded like fans.
I wanted to massage your feet
hot with plump plum veins
wanted to drape myself over
your wilted shoulders.
Being poor wasn’t so bad
it meant I could sleep
next to your warm body
coiled like a snail’s shell.
No 10 count for you
cansancio always had the upper hand
you were out for the night.
I could smell you smelling
of botanica
felt your hands twitch
with leftover energy.
No relief
even for relief
your hands work hard.
Felt your heavy breathing
I’d stop my breathing
waited
exhaled
with yours.
No hugs at night
no tucking in
the way you used to
but my heart
beat with yours
my champ
my Mami.