Hogar Amarillo, y otros

Language used will not be spoken. Trying to talk in a language known without using the language. Education in my Spanish is gapped. Elementary colors and little words of a kid. They blended as my identity. Repented Mexicanidad. Sought to claim others. Identity of home. Do not know it, visions of being. Hands, they caress, taught me to.

Earliest memory is in a black car my parents rented. Was a small ball curled up in the back seat, not the middle seat. Window, freckles of snow. The thinnest blanket covered the size of my eyes are tangible. The little of things theyíve seen.

The yellow house, entrance had a panel of thick windows. Learned that chubby architecture is not entirely resembling or necessarily used by chubby architects. Short and stubby columns. The columns, the thickness, theyíre adapted consciously for the environment. TV on the second floor. You get your fingers close and feel the static, nice fat box of entertainment. Skinny fat, the mirror is a hoax. Miss those thick windows. Look inside as we parked the car. A blocky home, the effects of the blockiness. Sharp edges. My dadís anger. No recollection of the first home we drove to in that black car in the snow. No memory of what was behind the snow. TV breaks, not sure of the image of my dadís face, the vibrations of his veins resonate. Explicitly gendered rooms, blue pink with matching toys. Cooking set sister, soccer sports boy, yellow neutral house, red anger parents. Blocky edges.

Enjoyed the curvature of the streets around. Broken concrete connect social circles, elevation dimensions. Lived on iconic mountain. The city looked at us, our middle-class luxury. Remember a picture of the lot before the house was built. Lot disappears soon as there is a home, we drive past the little thick windows. Marriage pictures now torn, receding in memory, his hairline. Was always terrified of that, genetics declare, my grandpa has hair. Was told anger causes hair to go, thatís why he had none. Dimensionality, you go right, you go up, you go left, you twirls down. Dimensions mean hills, they carry a Z-axis. Bike, we crash going down the Z-hard. Remember a laugh. Mexico gave me stitches. Ran into a pole. A friend told me of a different Mexico. Bodies hit, melded. Clashed, bikes bodies. Mexico clashed. We clashed. Crashed our bikes.

My grandparentís home. A collection of bells. Small, little, shake the wooden platform for an orchestra. A plate of her in Hong Kong, patterned shirt and ceramics. Found a collection of porn DVDís. Remember the beach home when they put the frat movie with the tits? Adopted the closet as a home. Enlarging the small intimate space, flourishing dreamscapes in the pockets of grandpaís coats. Pulling papers that feel like the sounds of boleros, farm-hands strum the guitar and lips greasy from the barbacoa, a drop of tequila meet the harmonica.

Gave me a wave, saludos. He gave me words to give to people. Learning English, he read many books. It turned his language into beautifully accented, poetic prose of jargon. He had index cards with words he did not know.

Mexico followed in the form of many men. Learning to be okay with these men. A boy, learning to see. Eyes being passed down. Adopted a dog. Outbreak of bed bugs, he was blind. Blue and green eyes. Cohabitation with empty bottles of Dos X. Didnít see you in a year, and saw you while sick. You took care of me and wonder how you are today, if you made those eggs for your fiancť.