La Vida
There are many things about a language.
Words, phrases, punctuation, sentences
All create something powerful to use.
It does not matter what language you
speak
Cause the power of words stretches
beyond
The surface of what language you speak
in.
Mi amor is love. Mi mama is mom.
These words relate without needing to
know
The definition of either for they
Have power all their own to change
people.
It does not matter the la ropa worn
Or the las idiomas spoken, for
There are connections to be put in place
From Spain to Argentina to Iran.
We are all connected through palabras.
Every person has problems or troubles
That someone else has experienced in
Their life time. It is all interwoven
To create cultures, familias, and more.
All the places in the world have drugs
and
Other problemas. They can over take
A city, a school, a country, a home
But the power of words can defeat it
With enough emotion and thought involved
In a simple idea created
By anyone who dares to take a chance.
El mundo includes everyone in it.
From South to North and East to West
every
Corner is brought under one umbrella.
To share the radiance of la vida.
__________________________________________________________________
I remember nights of playing
Lotería w/Mom &
Big Manny
as a way to learn the Spanish they
spoke
to each other but not to their kids
who caught on to certain words
like cállate, cerveza, chicharrón;
little nuggets I ate up
like the pinto beans we used
instead of the blue chips
Mom kept in her Bingo bag
she carried every Friday night
when her & Tia Shirley
went to the Moose Lodge,
her hair & coat reeking
w/the smoke of all who lost.
I remember El Borracho,
the man always holding a bottle
& about to fall over yet never
does
like Big Manny stumbling home
late at night after a payday,
breath & belly full of beer,
who one time took a piss
in our bedroom.
I remember La Garza,
not for the heron it is
but cousin Tony & his kids,
nights of sleepovers & pizza,
PlayStation on a 40-inch TV,
the night he & Lil Jesse sneaked
bumps of coke in the bathroom
& I rubbed numb my teenage teeth.
I remember El Musico,
not the chubby man clutching his guitarra
but my brother Dave loading crates
of records & a dual turntable
case
like a coffin into the back of a van,
the same set I hit my back on at ten
when I fell out of the top bunk bed.
But I prefer to remember La
Sirena
back when her breasts were free
of the seashells she now holds
to cover them in water so blue
cold, her scales so red,
her name clung to the tongue
like dulce de leche.
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