they say these houses are made of stone
they say these house are made of adobe
they say these houses are made of dust
and bones rattling sacred snake songs
they say these houses are made of barrios
bellowing out the bliss of their memories
between gentrification and spanglishized tongues
layered in culturas trembling with the tonantzin
we the home of us. breaking into the dance
and building temples these size of small islands
building houses inside houses inside the breath of dreams
building dreams inside of dreams inside of temple songs
building these houses made of fire
stone, air, water, ehecatl. kneeling in surrender
building in the chest. the memory to create
a home made of watercolor prints.
a home made of self published poetry and arte books.
with the ridicule of laughter of those saying its worthless
unless its somebody else calling out the shots
saying you are worthy of being an artists.
unless its somebody else calling out the merit, worth, praise
saying you are worth of being a poet.
this house is not made of somebody else declaring our worth.
this like Supaman and his “Prayer Loop Song”
follows another lineage. Where we say
i am made of creator
i am creator
i am made of goddess
i am all the waters making waves in my body
Ometeotl is my publisher
She said. He said.
Go build a thousand pyramids to arte
of sacred motion. of palabras. watercolors.
poetry. children books. coloring books.
books of memory. and re-membering.
Ometeotl is my publisher
She said. He said.
Go be you.
En Lak Ketch.
Eres mi otro yo.
