Me llaman Luna Lunita Lunera, I was born of no family, yet born of this world. I named myself from the songs people sing ... from sadness to gladness the sun confused the moon, yet I AM . . . . .I AM la feminina la reina de la tiera…the memories of curves...of crescents, always moving to return again…like memories . . . . . . . like memories leaving every man confused, yet I love their love for her love.
Like night, like earth, brown with black, black with brown, the white fire is all that is left in me. . . . . . . my dark obsidian eyes reminiscent of ancient temple worship, I stare out upon my city as the crypt above ground. Broken down streets and abandoned tombs and building, the only solid color is the sky at night. Everything is peeling, rusting, falling away, the earth is alive, it breaths beneath Our Lady’s feet, my mother, my heart, my Ella.
My mother's purifying waters purify us . . . . the pacifying pacific of the west coast that sweeps up the past, the sperm, the algae, the sand, the stone, the torn flags, the dead, the aborted babes…she is the ocean my mother and she pushes and pulls me . . . to conceive me . . . to morn me, her hips quiver and the people of the city smile. She quivers, for the fire that still radiates off the moon, or the dimming flames from her peoples’ hearts. Her breast the great caretaker for wandering men, for she is mi madre, tierra, estrella, luna madre of all our juices, of all our sweat, and blood. Her kisses heal the poverty that makes love so arid, concrete and rustic. Her hips swollen by the foam of salt water, and on those maternal hips fabrics hang, jeans hang, and long dresses hang, rough hands of brick layers hang. She is the fulcrum for release.
I am her daughter.
I walk down her streets in glow as if I am her and she is me . . . . . we wear the sun on our skin. Aztecan arrangements is written in cursive all over me . . . . . . with the ancient to modern souls strung to souls, I am the past of all women and the past of all futures; she is Our Lady alive, ELLA.
With out a robe, but with small tight beach shorts I walk in my huaraches along the broken down tenements of Rosarito. A town south of Tijuana, even further south of that land known for their Nordic raiders who kill in the name of lies. I know that I am alive and it is that, that matters. I sees surenos, surfers, and your regular workers who walk by and look at my waste line before they look into my eyes. But it has been that waste line, that torso that has with stood the tests of time. I am mysterious like my mother, yet as familiar as my city and friendly as a child.
Some times I get lifted and meet short time acquaintances, and burn through them and suck their flame out . . . . in bathrooms, back streets, beach houses, and bungalows. At each residence I absorb the moment of control and releases it instantly so as the present can be lived more fully.
I am a stone that does not perish easily. I move in coarse travel through a world of sand paper, car crashes, and dust storms, but I am the stone and as a stone I am alone in this desert that stretches along the coast of the pacific.
Work starts at eight, as I slide my slim Nokia phone contently in my back pocket. Sitting at a bench alone again, but in the returning of my loneliness there is companionship and welcoming. Alive and alone again, stretching my eyes against the paint that peals off the beach front properties, only to breath a bit easier and in that breathing the sky and ocean breath against me. I shut my eyes and feel that mystic wind guide across my whole body. Finding places to funnel and make the whole thing ecstatic again. I feel it below and under, around my arms, between my legs, I smile and in that smile my mind sings. Sweetness. Succumbed, and embedded.
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