La Cigarra en los Retoños is a collection of poetry, paintings, film, photographs, installation & undocumented fragments. A formulated manuscript that gathered the unprecedented times, magnetic revolution, The Jack Kerouac Summer Writing Program, and great resilience Artists continue to endeavor. I would like to recognize the great inspiring Cecilia Vicuña, for her work has been a leading reflection to my own and has exhilarated me to many depths. The movements Vicuña sustains a dismantling of the patriarchy, oppressive systems, a release of indigenous culture, and expanding language that moves to those realms of liberation in its purity. This manuscript is an unveiling, an archival document that follows the ideas of private & public, it is an intimacy as something that presses upon like a letterpress machine leaves an impression, a wound, womb, a surveillance, an idea of inappropriate intimacy, an art as gift & a suddenness of isolation. It is a private act coming into public, an attempt to liberation. 


My great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother have felt this. A heavy burden of a woman’s heart. Once I read somewhere about adult beetles beginning to emerge in May, males earlier than the females. Anticipating. Newly greenery. A thickness appeared overnight. Strong impulses against the wall. Then. There.  How much growth occurs at night? Wall emerging from I within confusion. How much growth must occur in darkness? 
  En Los Encinos 

Silence of an oak tree. A glance of something. A thought without seeing life. A death painted in three days. Infinito. Los claveles de un funeral. And so how does one heal surrounded by family? Straining in confessions. Time limited to the moments I hold myself. There is this fear that I will leave without pieces of writing. Debajo y entre las rocas los gusanos. La mirada arriba y entre, en / tre, in / grained in the wholeness of los encinos. 

Hand of Stone 
                   A ring of Autumn on the leaf. Rain her eyes of stone. Stone. Stone. Stone.
                                  A ring of rain collected. [Not Mobile]. Sand in her eyes. Sand eyes turning stone.                                               Autumn Ring leaving rain on a stone. Dry. Dry. Dry rain. Eyes of rain ingrained in stone.                                  Sand ring into Autumn. Picked by wind leaf sways to stone. Intrusive sense remaining                                    on stone. You go everywhere. Sand picked by wind goes every. Leaf. Leaf. Leaf eyes                                       of stone on Autumn. This is a moment of transition. Rain submerging into sand.                                     Realization ring of Autumn on stone. 
El Nido de Retoños (No.2) 
Installation made by palm 
Summer 2020
El Nido de Retoños (no.1)
Installation made by palms 
Summer 2020
Fragment 68 

With infection. With his presence. Lace itself.

   re to ños 

                    re to ños 

re to  ños re to ños retoños 

re to ños to ños to ños to ños 


 ños ños ños ños ños ños 

nos nos nos nos nos nos nos nos nos nos 



Water leaving a vessel disperse at a certain speed. Mathematical ways sequences ecstasy rhythm. The reality of an unsolved piece of math inside your mouth. Temperatures remain stable and so it becomes easy to. Mind as water inside a vessel. Warm stream touch spine. Sliding through the interconnected complex system of body. Water leaving a vessel disperse at a certain speed. Mathematical ways sequences ecstasy rhythm. The reality of an unsolved piece of math inside your mouth. Temperatures remain stable and so it becomes easy to. Mind as water inside a vessel. Warm stream touch spine. Sliding through the interconnected complex system of body.Water leaving a vessel disperse at a certain speed. Mathematical ways sequences ecstasy rhythm. The reality of an unsolved piece of math inside your mouth. Temperatures remain stable and so it becomes easy to. Mind as water inside a vessel. Warm stream touch spine. Sliding through the interconnected complex system of body.Water leaving a vessel disperse at a certain speed. Mathematical ways sequences ecstasy rhythm. The reality of an unsolved piece of math inside your mouth. Temperatures remain stable and so it becomes easy to. Mind as water inside a vessel. Warm stream touch spine. Sliding through the interconnected complex system of body. Water leaving a vessel disperse at a certain speed. Mathematical ways sequences ecstasy rhythm. The reality of an unsolved piece of math inside your mouth. Temperatures remain stable and so it becomes easy to. Mind as water inside a vessel. Warm stream touch spine. Sliding through the interconnected complex system of body.

El Regreso

Last night I dreamt of horses again. I was in Sombrerete. Returning to those places I last saw. La Tierra de Mis Abuelos. Standing where the house sits and the creek passes by. La carretera that seperates the house and the horse stables, chicken coop, fenced goats longing towards an ending. In the dream the land is empty, and there are no animals. Abuelo can not take care of them anymore. I stand and watch still find myself wanting to cross the street. To walk through an unfamiliar lifeless scene. When I cross the street I go into the stables. Papa’s horse is gone. Hay and small specs of ruins lead me to an entrance. A hidden allegory. Impression of a scene. And there are these horses and goats all detained in starvation. Animals still here on la tierra de mis abuelos. But have been forced into isolation. Forgotten and neglected. A hidden allegory. 


Organic Farmosa Papaya. Non GMO. My mother’s nightmare. She called me crying from a colonizing moment. The trauma of my ancestors.  A man yelling AMERICA in my face. A man commenting on my body. Blindfolded I am taken out of risk. Risk to risk. Rehabilitation. Green medicine. The vision of someone else’s death. An ax towards an axel. Center. De / center. Decolonize. Water Droplets persistent on skin. Distorted containment. Water drains and in the empty vessel naked breathing body. I blow on my own skin to dry. 

Blue Linen

Shadows underneath, below instances. I am on an airplane to San Antonio, Texas. How do I touch land? How do I remember my own tragedies without. Ripping. Blue linen cloth. Elevations tasting through winds. Blue clouds in the sky are we made of the same fabric? Prints of a ripe mango in the afternoon. A spot of black coffee from the morning. I only know how to survive at sea level. Adrenaline scatters through sleeves. Ear canals full of earwax. A form of turbulence swaying through linen for the summer to. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. This Summer a commercial region. Assimilated away from that which makes high, or low. Conclusion. Mental illumination. The blue linen cloth has been stained with the remains. 

esta canción de descolonización ción ción ción 
independencia politica 
descolonización impulsiva
territorio a relacion ción cion cion
coneccion de descolonización 
mistico la vision 
la nación extranjera 
descolonización ción 
ionización zación nación ción 
el territorio descolonización 
la nación con relación 
la nación impulsiva a la descolonización 
nacido mi sobrino en la 
Prologue 1 

Retained conviction. Minerals. An eco / graphic surface. The Truth always. Single headed. Time & space. Engineering. The pandemic of these months. Cerulean chemistry. Corruption running. Under constant guidance. Strangers always misunderstand. Fragment converted spirit. Fossils. Corpus. The over-dependence of deer. Grazing. Vertical expression. The patriarchy admitting not a single word. 
Roosevelt Forest One 
Red forgetfulness. Red misogyny. The fennel finds sun. Weaving sounds. Insidious. Aspen tree patterns. Production. Reproduction. No rest. Three ripples of sanity. Erosion. Heat. Moss who survives. Humidity. Faith splits stream. Body. Pine seams. A memory of my mother. An end / A cycle. 
íntima ma ma ma
dar temor error 
  ción con ción on 
    toxico co
el pulso 

el olvido 

la primavera privada 

vida privada 
el nombre del señor 
el nido privado 
programa privado 
la luz privilegio 
privar var dar dar 
privado tus sueños
The Lyrics of a Bluejay 

The swing from the tree. Creaks. Rusted among reality zero. Rooted origin. Levitation. Memorization. Swaying body sits for only a few moments inside a birdhouse. How much sound and well can one do in small spaces? Eternity in temperatures. A bluejay screeching. Contributions into extending issues. Reporting. Evaluating. Breaking down the toxicity of air. A blue crystal vase finding pastels of an afternoon. Realizations into capacities. The belts of Mars. The planet of heat. Hot and humid. I have been sent places I can not recognize. Listening to the lyrics of a Bluejay I begin another path. 


I am releasing what no longer serves me. Dedicated engagement into nourishing vines. She grew while I was away. Decisions shift until find balance. Relief subtract green gold lightness. Fast conform against communication of river. Residue from a couple months ago. Emblematic. Expanse. Realms. An afterlife claiming to understand a Cicada song. Migration operation in manual. The sense of evolution. Middle low expression. The labyrinths. The landprints of my unborn nephew. Big sun drunk. A lover can not ruin these miles traveled. Hidden anatomy. Bones finding cartilage. My brother told me he was Earth & Water. Insisting to come into this chaos gleam. Mud. So you are mud?  Vanishing to empires. Fragile he grows. 


Alteration of sky. I return to her because of our skin. The smell of melting glass. Alternative prescriptions. Ingrained momentum. The smell of melting skin. In front of me a tall chamomile plant sprouting. Three newly stems will become tea this afternoon. How do you leave something you have outgrown?  Assimilated large scale. We exist with our bare feet. Speaking predictions of Summer. To be what they are. Predictions. It is memory straining through civilization. Chronological markings. Human residue. Indescribable intimacy. Awake. Awaiting blue light coming in. 5:10am.
Roosevelt Forest Two

Veins of a fallen tree still drinks water. Electric temple. I was never in my body as a child. No moss to hold onto. Glimpses. Straining nights. There are only a few places where I choose to remember. The kitchen. How do you save a soul? Something in me forgives you. A yellow afternoon fabrication. I surrender. Stop trying. Direction. Clean. Cleanse. Purge. Clean. 
White Linen

Hold your hand open. Drawing in hot water. A cloud converting into a blue lotus. My woman hood has always been tainted in green. Surviving tall grasses. Extending melodies. Emotionless white linen vintage fabric. Surrendering. The serrated knife between my vision. Trembling. A quick sudden moment of a rabbit. Olive tree inhaling. There had been many moments where I could not hold myself. How do we continue returning to ourselves? Removal of the next evening. Infrequencies settled in their ways. Building bricks of compassion. Stability and patience. In several months it will gracefully unfold. For it makes space for something else to arrive. Consequences. Freedom without ever having to lose its purest form.
Bath Three 

A beetle flies into the bath. It falls. Within its own wasteland it could not remain. Submerges underneath. Dissolution. Depletion. Notice your own molecules. Clay cloud flowers. In the water it can drown. Purpose will be hidden until. Outside the bath it does not move. Gestures  morphing. Revealed. I blow on it to help it dry. I blow. I blow. I blow. It does not move. Revealed. I submerged myself underneath water. You have drowned. My mother told me she was proud of me. For creating, For seeking help. For seeking to. I place the beetle on my shelf. Fern says its: A vine weevil or dark lung beetle or blister beetle. If it is a true emerald it could be an emerald ash borer. The kale plant on the balcony is being eaten by Japanese beetles. It found out what water is. Plastered away from liberty. Mystery growing inequality. I hope that brings you relief. I hope we all get to experience and try something new right before death. 

Prologue 2

Visiting graves. Implication must die. But also all tthings die without. I tie my tongue to nature. Withered branch.  retoños. A summer night. Happening now. The quiet of universal techniques. Blowing after. Blooming after. Falling after. We gaze. We bloom. We scatter. 

Prologue 3 

My body is political. Oil on panel transferred. Hair cutting scissors. My body is. Landscapes comprised within the window. Erased. Unfinished. My body. A whole century collapsing. Gold. Brown. Red. A dream from last night wanting to. With infection. With his presence. With his living hue. Lace itself. Blood burst bad. Beauty indirectly seeking. My body. Sun stare at each other. My body. Sky turned dark green. 
Prologue 4 

Exact year. Frequent rise. A bit of evolution. Style and thought. The nuclear nations. Revelation. Resemblance. Prophecy. Monochrome Adoption. War of the past. External events leading. The study of background. Slowness hardly half finished. Writing. Reality. Is better to write about the past? We find the stolen Mona Lisa. An exact year. Identity later. Pointed branch. Folded hands. A nation constantly under. Hypothesis. Interwoven Juniper. The world. Frequent rise. The painter who holds revelation. 
Si No Hay Justicia No Hay Paz 

A source of electricity. Above a wooden chair swing and half moon Summer. Anticipation. Antibiotic. Liberation between nothing and the asking of disappearance. Last night I was watching the Northern star. Blue fracture light. A black rumble. How would liberation look like for black lives? When I was younger I did not know how peace felt like. Inner without nectar extraction. A curative medicine. Presented particles. Rough translation. Inner. If there has not been justice can there be peace? Inner. 

Los Retoños que se Mueven  Viento
Acrylic Painting 
Summer 2020
Fragment 137 

False painting of his living hue. 

Cicada Two 

Survivors overwhelmed by purpose. Two wings release submergence. Ten hours of consistent hollering. Echoes of their existence will only be here for a few days. The forest will fall into silence.  Gallons of water reminding you of your home. Tainted the oil pastes. Markings of a mark that can not be removed. Sadness treated with human connection. Bone becoming potential in life. Space for the clock on the wall. Backward brushing wind. You trusted this moment knowing it would vanish. 

10 minutes 

Exhausted in June. The air falters. Away through the acorn trees.
 And you are not here to see it. 

6 Minutes 

Awake. Awaiting. I am thinking about your missed calls. How do I leave something I have outgrown? Gently. And. In. Silence.

5 Minutes

Waiting for light to come in. Gently and in silence. Morning doves. Awake. Are they most alive in the morning? Blue haze. Please come in. 

3 Minutes

I am thinking about you. The amount of missed calls. How do I leave something I have outgrown? Awake morning dove. Gently and in silence. Blue light comes in. 

2 Minutes 

Blue light simmers after an hour. Through blinds. I can see it. Blue skin. How does it feel to leave something you have outgrown? Gently and in silence. Morning dove comes in. 

60 Seconds

Why are they called mourning doves? Do they also feel the blue light come in. Hazy blue on bathroom floor. Awake, Awaiting. Your missed calls through the blinds. 

44 Seconds

Exhausted in June. Blue light. After an hour, simmer in. How does it feel on your skin? Wake of light. Awake. Awaiting. Your missed calls. How do I leave something I have outgrown? Finding silence. Awake light waiting to wake. Gently and in silence. Morning dove also wakes.
Fragment 56

Blood to blush. Lively veins. These last so bad.
Sombrerete, Coahuila Uno 

I am restless of weeks without questions. I dream of wild horses. Roaming. Field winds. Push grasses. Patterns of their gallops. Without consequences. Illustrated freedom ever losing. Form reminders. The state of growth and decay. I have lived most of my life in decay. Vines thrive walls and yet find it hard to survive this heat. 
Sombrerete, Coahuila Dos

I have thought of my paintings as tombstones. The only thing of a grave that will be witnessed in. Decay or growth, Decay or Growth. Decay or Growth. Decay of birth. Colliding bird nest. Hollering in my throat the second dream. La tierra de mis abuelos. Long road remaining. Ending of eternity. Where is the strength of the past? The land is lifeless. I walk the stables. Look for strands of recognition. Easy explorations of hay. A false painting. What if God is everything? A secret entrance. Neglected life. Starvation. Blood in lively veins. These moments last so bad. And I have to remind myself that this image is also sacred.
Womb / Wound 

To forgive. To let go. To forgive. To let go. Intimacy. Stand. Light. White bodies. Black Bodies. Brown bodies. You’re body touching. Lace itself. Tendencies of womb. To forgive. To let go. Tendencies of wound. To forgive. To let go. 


To let go. The Patriarchy has thought it could. Black Hawk. Revolves. Long stream. Tangled yarn. Yarrow at the edges. Predictability. Saliendo del suelo. Los sueños todavia aqui. Steady hanging moss. Last night I asked in the distance Who are you? Filtering tree. A black bird. Black hawk. Waking eyes. A log in water depleted to reveal its layers. 

Roosevelt Forest Three 

I asked out loud: Who are you? Black bird filtering through trees. Papa was a blackbird. Refusing to drink water from the blue bell flowers. Forging into nakedness. A layer of renewal.  Retoños in the shade.
Roosevelt Forest Last Four Hours

A view of twin sisters. Minimal space. Filtering kidneys. The lines of your face from a year ago. Vividly in my throat. If I watched you bleed in the intersections of Wyoming and Colorado. Would you? Comets of gravel. We never made it to Idaho. Time folding into denim. You won’t listen. Staining sap. Exo skeletons. Eliminate. Cicadas. You won’t listen. Dry wheat grasses. Identities of past lives. It all comes back to healing. Dry thunderstorms. Reflections of each other inside a pine nest.
By the end of August 

I do not understand if this is a container of karma or adjustments into a red rolling future. I still have so much to do, to heal. Mi abuela Alicia holds her fragile heart in linen sleeves. I called her a few Sundays ago. I do not call her often, and so when I do she always cries. If I called her often maybe she would not. When we speak I am willing to speak about anything. Fragments of my brother Sergio, life in Colorado, family in San Antonio, and ideas when I will return to visit. Each call she reminds me that Sergio and I are the last things she has from my father. Her son. Her grief furthers. I never know what to say after she says something like that, but this time I say: “Lo se Abuelita, lo se” She begins to cry after I just listen to her.  There. Then. By the end of August, as summer fades, most of these beetles will die. 
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