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600 books
—
199 voters
lilia
https://www.goodreads.com/lalilster
“stupid america
stupid america, see that
chicano
with a big knife
on his steady hand
he doesn’t want to knife you
he wants to sit on a bench
and carve christfigures
but you won’t let him.
stupid america, hear that
chicano
shouting curses on the street
he is a poet
without paper and pencil
and since he cannot write
he will explode.
stupid america, remember
that chicano
flunking math and english
he is the picasso
of your western states
but he will die
with one thousand
masterpieces
hanging only from his mind.”
― Chicano: 25 Pieces of a Chicano Mind
stupid america, see that
chicano
with a big knife
on his steady hand
he doesn’t want to knife you
he wants to sit on a bench
and carve christfigures
but you won’t let him.
stupid america, hear that
chicano
shouting curses on the street
he is a poet
without paper and pencil
and since he cannot write
he will explode.
stupid america, remember
that chicano
flunking math and english
he is the picasso
of your western states
but he will die
with one thousand
masterpieces
hanging only from his mind.”
― Chicano: 25 Pieces of a Chicano Mind
“Rise and demand; you are a burning flame.
You are sure to conquer there where the final horizon
Becomes a drop of blood, a drop of life,
Where you will carry the universe on your shoulders,
Where the universe will bear your hope.”
―
You are sure to conquer there where the final horizon
Becomes a drop of blood, a drop of life,
Where you will carry the universe on your shoulders,
Where the universe will bear your hope.”
―
“Be nobody's darling;
Be an outcast.
Take the contradictions
Of your life
And wrap around
You like a shawl,
To parry stones
To keep you warm. ”
―
Be an outcast.
Take the contradictions
Of your life
And wrap around
You like a shawl,
To parry stones
To keep you warm. ”
―
“Chicana intifada
Rocks are our weapons of choice,
indeed the only ones that we have stockpiled.
We never worry about running out of them.
After all, our unpaved streets are filled with rocks.
We have wiped the dirt off them so that they may sail
with a smooth hardness when we fling them into the air.
We shall name each one of our rocks for the family members
we have lost each year of the hundreds of years we’ve lived in
these parts—as indios, as mestizos, as “Hi-panics.”
For starters, we plan to break a few windows
of the jefe’s casota nueva.
I myself will be delighted to land one in each pane:
center, left, right, top, bottom—the exact location
doesn’t much matter.
Why should his fancy house remain intact
while we cannot count on running water?
No one will suspect
that an abuela is la capitana of the Chicana intifada,
with her disguise of hat and gloves,
of shiny earrings and sheer “nude” pantyhose;
with her polite yes, ma’aming.
“We’ll launch the first volleys at 6 p.m.,”
she whispers to us. Smiling wryly, she adds,
“Inside the house at a reception to which
I’ve been properly invited you’ll see me
lower my right gloved hand to the marble table.”
Copyright (C) Teresa Palomo Acosta, 2007. All rights reserved.”
―
Rocks are our weapons of choice,
indeed the only ones that we have stockpiled.
We never worry about running out of them.
After all, our unpaved streets are filled with rocks.
We have wiped the dirt off them so that they may sail
with a smooth hardness when we fling them into the air.
We shall name each one of our rocks for the family members
we have lost each year of the hundreds of years we’ve lived in
these parts—as indios, as mestizos, as “Hi-panics.”
For starters, we plan to break a few windows
of the jefe’s casota nueva.
I myself will be delighted to land one in each pane:
center, left, right, top, bottom—the exact location
doesn’t much matter.
Why should his fancy house remain intact
while we cannot count on running water?
No one will suspect
that an abuela is la capitana of the Chicana intifada,
with her disguise of hat and gloves,
of shiny earrings and sheer “nude” pantyhose;
with her polite yes, ma’aming.
“We’ll launch the first volleys at 6 p.m.,”
she whispers to us. Smiling wryly, she adds,
“Inside the house at a reception to which
I’ve been properly invited you’ll see me
lower my right gloved hand to the marble table.”
Copyright (C) Teresa Palomo Acosta, 2007. All rights reserved.”
―
“Prison Moon
Four a.m. work duty and I begin
my solitary trudge from outer compound
to main building. A shivering guard,
chilled in his lonely outpost, strip searches
me until content that my inconsequential nudity.
poses no threat and then whispers
the secret code that allows me admittance
into the open quarter-mile walkway.
I chuff my way into another day
as ice glints on the razor wire
and the rifles note my numbed passage,
silent but for my huffs and scuffle
on the cracked, slippery sidewalk
A new moon, veiled in wispy fog
and beringed in glory, hangs over the prison,
its gaudy glow taunting the halogen spotlights.
The moon’s creamy pull upsets
some liquid equilibrium within me
and like tides, wolves and all manner
of madmen, I surrender disturbed by the certainty that under
the bony luminescence of a grinning moon
The lunar deliriums grip me
and I howl--once, then again, and
surely somewhere an unbound sleeper stirs,
penitence is dying a giddy death.
I shake myself sane
and as the echoes hang
in the frigid air I explain
to the wild-eyed guard that convicts,
like all animals under the leash,
must bay at the beauty beyond them.”
―
Four a.m. work duty and I begin
my solitary trudge from outer compound
to main building. A shivering guard,
chilled in his lonely outpost, strip searches
me until content that my inconsequential nudity.
poses no threat and then whispers
the secret code that allows me admittance
into the open quarter-mile walkway.
I chuff my way into another day
as ice glints on the razor wire
and the rifles note my numbed passage,
silent but for my huffs and scuffle
on the cracked, slippery sidewalk
A new moon, veiled in wispy fog
and beringed in glory, hangs over the prison,
its gaudy glow taunting the halogen spotlights.
The moon’s creamy pull upsets
some liquid equilibrium within me
and like tides, wolves and all manner
of madmen, I surrender disturbed by the certainty that under
the bony luminescence of a grinning moon
The lunar deliriums grip me
and I howl--once, then again, and
surely somewhere an unbound sleeper stirs,
penitence is dying a giddy death.
I shake myself sane
and as the echoes hang
in the frigid air I explain
to the wild-eyed guard that convicts,
like all animals under the leash,
must bay at the beauty beyond them.”
―
lilia’s 2025 Year in Books
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