Visiting Home

Visiting home 1

From the busted radio sitting on the living room to the plastic-coated sofas…

See, we don’t need radio down here, no one ever really does.

You just open the window and everything is music, even the fuzz

you hear from downstairs or the baby from upstairs crying out her lungs.

 Its morning. My tía is cooking up some breakfast.

Just like she did every time I’d stay with her or go to visit.

Here come her famous huevos con jamonilla…Mm!

They are so precious, so delicious,

even the next-door neighbor comes and eats them in less than a second.

I’m staring and admiring while everyone fills the small apartment with moans

and I finally feel loved again, I finally feel home.

Wow…and now I wonder, why the fuck did I ever left…?

If this is so much better that sticking my ass on a desk

 or reading words written by people who don’t even know we exist

 or trying to teach ideals to people who are long gone mentally dead.

I pray…Even though I don’t believe in God.

Cause I’m sick of living in the island we all now is ruled by fraud.

 I pray I could stay here with my tía and make a difference.

She said I could, I always knew, but out there I feel indifferent.

This is where I was raised.

The kingdom I want to praise.

Where streets call out my name,

and we all the fucking same.

I swear, no more, I can’t abstain.

My mind is creating all this commotion cause my thoughts just can’t restrain.

 I pray I can forever hear that distant clacking of the train.

’ Cause the thought of leaving (once more) has me drowning in this thick, red pain.

I’m writing on my notebook while my cousin’s playing on the street.

cause I’m afraid to stand up and be walking like old times, bare feet. 

Institutionalized, systematized by the time I’ve been absent.

Why did you ever leave? Is what my cousin’s always asking. 

I’ve been trying to find the reason that doesn’t make my head spin.

¡Coño! ¡Qué bochorno! Nothing but shame burns like acid on my skin.

I’ve even forgotten how it felt like to play on the basketball court,

and to stare down form a rooftop to Queens or Harlem and feel like the queen of the world.

My familia always told me that leaving would give me a future.

But I wish that future involved staying here, not on that island full of luxurious losers.

Anyone would understand If they could just see the magic of this place

the way I’ve always seen it since I learned to keep my head up straight.

Raw magic wonders through our streets just like through our veins.

It’s what keeps us all alive,

 it’s what keeps us all untamed.

But I promise, from here on out, I’ll always do my best.

I’ll go back to our small island and my eyes will never rest.

 I’ll slaughter every obstacle and pass every fucking test

Just to finally see nothing but pride in my bandera while she hangs, waving through the musical winds of my home, oh, The Bronx, our home.