Orange que te quiero verde, that's Poeticah
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Aztlán in New York Times
When blankety blank words on Monday
clickety click up railroad tracks
reminding me of media frenzies
from muckety mucks
who yackety yack on the tube,
it's time to sing with mariachis
on Mexican TV.
As these words grow big and burly,
forcing me twice from house and home,
twofold draining me of vim and vigor,
double crossing me from safe and sound,
I pray the protein in menudo
will triple my strength to resist.
They cross me over places
I care not to be.
Longing for Cancun.
Cast me on Long Island's Northshore.
Rather be dancing polkas.
Trap me in the Eastern Division
of the NFC.
Pinch my lips when I speak Spanish
even in my own home.
Yank me out of Mexican grooves
to throw me into the past
in New Amsterdam.
Slide me on Buffalo's ice
away from the spices
of southwestern suns.
They are paper pushers
who plaster me under piles of pulp
keeping me from evening's Margarita.
who never bring piñatas to fiestas.
too proud to play cantinas
but cheap enough to pilfer
from pill peddlers in border towns.
The puns keep playing
as peace fights in la música
when palabras from Aztlán
cross swords with cross words
in New York times.