Menos Pan, Mas poesia

Francisco Orozco


NOTE (to be read while listening to the above link by Miles Davis)

**Allegory of Barbes Metro

It’s in this kind of space I can deal with defensive souls.

Sometimes you take offense at why we are looking at each other in the mirrors

Of a barber shop across a suspicious police station.

Really it’s the hurt that affords me this plane ticket to Paris. Why are you in Paris if your

Distaste makes you desperate. You’re playing your arabic music too loud. Maybe Islam is not

The answer, maybe it’s barbershops that give hope to young Algerians, work and brotherhood.

4 Algerian men, some more or less frantic about life. “The French are no good…” the

Algerian barber tells me.

All day life is not that complicated in Paris, just reinforcing our childish ways and

Cementing our adulthood careers. A little Algerian flag at the corner next to scissors and clippers.

Look around, we are at least 3 kilometers from sacre ceour church. At least,

Too many generations away from pretty French women to want to sit down to have

Coffee with you. Waiting for you to lose that Arabic. Starving angels will eventually

Eat the delicacies of a voluptuous desert.



**possibly california is a myth i tell her

Me: possibly this romantic relationship is making me more drunk than mexican workers swimming in their jaded hopes of freedom. Short brown men that contrast sharply with “American” men yelling at them

California Latina: love will fall and fall

Me: she pushes her cages down the world

Me . :she applies a thick layer of makeup

California Latina: possibly you can see that the hunter puts the gun to his arms

Me:i  had dream of hugo chavez, i tell her.

there is a moment when  hugo chavez is running around Port Au Prince, Haiti as a hero. he understood how to transform a society

California Latina: how did that make you feel? you believe in men fighting for freedom?

Me: she wraps herself in tamale leaves, her back to mine.

California Latina: why don’t you believe in america?  at least in California

Me: I am leaving California. To europe… So, i can’t write about painfully sweet memories from far away

California Latina: We need to break up.

Me: I arrive in Spain around midnight, after the sunset. enough time to drink wine and put myself in the embrace of a woman that never sought out exploitation.

Sometimes history is an aphrodisiac


SEDUCED BY MEMORY by francisco orozco

1. My family traces our origin to Jaslico, Mexico. My grandfather was illiterate. But knew how to read corn. I am glad that I still remember Mexico like that. I am glad I remember humility like that.

I’m proud to deserve to be seduced by my memory. My memory lets me beat into it like a Pinata.

I think I can still play you my favorite music as the world goes to hell.

Always plan B poem
I can brush my teeth. I can get on an airplane for another country, again.
I can smell good. I can speak almost three languages. I can make you laugh.
I can sleep in that woman’s bed again . I can live in Chile again.
I can listen to Miles Davis in the park while drinking one dollar wine, again.

I can write why I am happy with life, again. I can remind myself that I have a bachelor’s degree. I can be grateful, again. I can fake it ’till you make it. I can email Noam Chomsky, again. I can meditate, again. I can remind myself that California won’t change, again

I can laugh at hardship, again. I can move to Amsterdam like my friend tells me to.
I can watch videos of famous Latin American writers, again. I can run down the Mission district with loud music, again. I can take criticism, again.

I can fall in love with a woman, again.

I can speak Spanish always. I can use the diminunitve and not take life so seriously, now.


The subject(me) in reference to various sites

Me, sitting on a plane sipping wine, as the blonde Portuguese woman smiles at me
Me, waking up at 5am to wash dishes to pay for my bachelor’s degree
Me, sitting in a cafe in Madrid while a woman asks me if i come from a privilieged background
ideally in the poem.
I got my feelings hurt when she didn’t listen to my poem.
What is a primary emotion?

2. I think I understood what it meant to be Mexican when I was five years old. Being Mexican translated into being alcohol

a false sense of hope in California, and the truck running out of gasoline and walking along the highway.

Nothing romantic about it. It’s like trying to convince me that there is something romantic about being Arab… in France.


3. I am glad I am in Europe now.


4. I don’t stay in my place.


5. How it felt sneaking my memory across the barbed wire of lust.

I don’t know where I just came from.

Sometimes you have to reflect and think “wow, I am working class and I am in Europe.”

As I lie on my friend’s couch in San Francisco he tells me, “Latinos are the most nostalgic people.” He puts a video of some protest on the television and his girlfriend lights up a joint and continues listening intently while typing on her laptop, continuing her  work of being one of the best Mexican-American poets in California.

Everyday they wake up, usually around 9am. They  start talking about the numerous disasters going on. It brings them closer.


6. I can be hurt by the realities of the world.
I am always trying to exploit my creativeness.

I didn’t want to pay to see Diego Rivera’s artwork. 5 years later I gladly took my time out.

My chest is beating against my ribcage which makes me  upset.

My family  always sent clothes back to Mexico in cardboard boxes for Christmas.

It was only a matter a time before my cousins sent money to build the trend.

my poetry is specific to my culture. Never did I try to make it European, because i live in europe.

They reply with no difference.

Meanwhile my pride is in Quebec.

I ran across the Golden Gate Bridge today and still returned to servitude.

Somewhere in Latin America there is a Colombian woman I can marry.
A woman that will take care of me emotionally.

The rich people playing violins, having orgies while she and I, are celibate.

The white people toasted their Côtes-du-rhône

Keep tortillas like these in your fridge.

Is that why tortillas are covered in gasoline . A bunch of upside down latinas ready to hop on an airplane. She even made it across customs. He even got what he wanted.

How do you rate our city?

Go off to have sex with women with higher social mobility.

You want us to pretend that there will be a sequel.

We laughed the other night when that city in your hemisphere trembled.

Many souls left, ranging from 5,000- 45,000 for an earthquake, that’s a lot. 1985 Earth Quake

More lovers got hurt for reading the wrong books, talking about fair wealth distribution

More lovers ended up picking up guns.

I can’t lie to you here

Notes of Latin America and California

Walking around downtown Buenos Aires and seeing the Villa Miseria was deeply disturbing.

What I enjoyed so much were the protests that happened in Santiago, Chile. It was amazing. To feel the energy. I could tell the people there still experience trauma from the Pinochet dictatorship.

Seeing llamas galloping along in San Pedro Atacama, Chile. The countless stars.

Seeing the most beautiful sunsets in Concon, Chile.

Seeing the salt flats during a 12 hour bus ride from Chile to Salta, Argentina.

I would like to develop a more clear economic analysis on what is happening in Latin America, to make sense of it.

The mountains of La Paz, at first sight no breath, I loved it. The mountains with snow. Quito, Ecuador had some nice mountains but this was much more intense.

I am glad that my friend Josh Baltimore was able to financially contribute to my effort to cross into Bolivia.

Valparaiso and Santiago de Chile are special places. So is San Pedro, Atacama. And, I find you interesting Buenos Aires.


Oakland, when will the black and brown plight end? I am upset at seeing mattresses on the side of the streets, buildings littered with bullet holes, and syringes. I don’t like seeing black women  suffering from the effects of this bullshit patriarchal-capitalist culture

Buenos Aires, you hide your downtrodden hopeless masses in the Villa Miseria. I don’t want to dance tango. I just want to make sure that the mothers and children in downtown Buenos Aires don’t sleep on the  sidewalk while the thick necked Europeans and Americans flaunt their wealth while decontexualizing what Buenos Aires actually is.

Santiago de Chile, I could talk about you all day. You just think you are the greatest thing that’s ever existed. I love you Santiago de Chile. I want to walk around Barrio Brasil, I want to hug your neoliberal and communists sky. I want to march around Plaza Italia with street fighting men. Molotov cocktails brightened the sky and everyone knew that the Chileans were too smart to ever accept this bullshit capitalist system. Everyone’s parents knew someone who was tortured.

Mexico City, stop masterbating to Mexico City, and pay attention to the children shining shoes with black shoe polish.

Valparaiso, I think you are the most beautiful city I have ever visited. I am still debating whether to call you beautiful or humble.

Habana, your nights are dark from lack of street lamps and everyone is walking around and everyone is loud and everyone has a chill way of carrying themselves. Habana, I admire your courage.

San Francisco, the Tenderloin is full of people who wanted to grab a bite to eat at some church, to live in a hotel not fit for human habitation. San Francisco, when i used to visit the unemployment office everyone was black or brown. Everyone was speaking spanish. Everyone was an immigrant. San Francisco, I miss the old Mission District, sometimes. I miss the crazy characters outside  Station 40.

Los Angeles, I have never seen as much grittiness as I did  when I was 21 and walking through Skid Row. It had a  traumatizing effect.

Madrid, I think you are pretty, I liked walking your streets.

Paris, I liked walking around your streets at 5am in freezing February weather, by myself listening to Violetta Parra, it was almost romantic.

Lima, you traumatized me when I visited your shanty towns. You hurt my feelings. I think it is an abuse of human rights that you allow your 10 year old daughters to sell their bodies to thirsty, fat capitalists.

Guatemala City, you need to visit an award winning psychologist.

San Salvador, what I do know about you is that I don’t want to walk around your streets at night. I am scared of the MS13.

Ciudad Juarez, you disgust me. You kill your women. You are on the border of two dimensions. I feel sorry for you. You need to stop injecting heroine into your veins. You’ve killed yourself, again. Jesus won’t redeem you.

Guayaquil, I don’t like you. You have a socialist president and I hope you get better. You are diseased. Seek cutting edge treatment from experimental award winning doctors. There are too many gringos in your country.

San Cristobal de las Casas, I enjoy your campfires and Zapatistas. I don’t enjoy all the white people that come to appropriate your culture.

Cancun, you have too much makeup on, and you are not pretty.


New York City, I enjoyed hanging out with you and some friends and going to some ex squats and you even had a copy of Open Veins of Latin America on your bookshelf. You are the reason the world is burning though. I can’t sleep in the same city as the devil.

Bogota, you are a special city with your university covered in graffiti and really smart Colombian radicals.

Cartagena,  you are beautiful but not as beautiful as Valparaiso. Cartagena, you need to tell the gringos to go home, to not come here to snort your cocaine, or to talk about their new age philosophy. After all, this is Colombia and it’s fuckin’ crazy here. Cartagena, you need to take care of your children that ramble around the streets begging the blonde haired eastern Europeans.

Panama City, Panama I knew you were going to be ugly  because the gringos dropped bombs on you. And so you are.

In Mexico City, close to plaza de las tres culturas , her hands softer than the corn tortillas that slap against the tongues of Mexicans, she  told me about the last toy her father gave her. She kissed me like I was going to help her a.) escape Mexico b.) escape latin america c.) escape her sexuality.

In Madrid, we walked along plaza del sol, she  talked to me in a lusty Madrid accent. Her face looked worried at the metro stop. She had my suitcase (3 weeks before, we were kissing in a room the size of a closet) her multiple glances seducing me every step of the way. When I opened my arms to her, she fled.

Then I met her sister.

Her sister had just come back from a protest. Apparently, she told me “mi hermana es la comunista, yo soy la bonita.” Luego hacimos el amor, luego nunca te vi otra vez.

In Santiago de Chile, by plaza baquedano, she studied me. “Francisco, me gusta cuando me hablas asi.” Her laughter  filled plaza de Armas while the working class Peruvians served deep fried sopapillas to Chileans with nice shoes and nicer suits on. We walked through the third floor of her soul until we entered an elevator across her chest. She brought me to her kitchen, cooked for me, we ate, then she took off her clothes.

I shouldn’t have gone with the other woman. But I’d have become a father if I stayed with her. She went with the other man, anyway.

In Montreal, by place des arts, we weep for thirty minutes. I slept in the cold airport that night. She was a good lover too, but

In San Francisco, by 24th and mission plaza, we walk and her eyes are dark brown amber and she seems perfect. Besides some differences in personality… well, i guess i have to get married now? Miramos la noche pasar, 1 de enero 2017.
Me voy a Mexico. “Yo te amo tambien.” … Ya no me hables mas.

En el Caribe Mexicano, no paso nada. o sea si solo que no me enamore con nadien.

No tengo ganas de escribir mas de las otras amores.

En Madrid, me dijo que mi poesia le hizo llorar. La mujer de grecia me encanto. No tuve nada con ella.

Le escribi a Sandra Cisneros, una poeta famosa Mexicana. Me dice “me gusta el humor de tus poemas. Ella vino a Europa en los 1990s, para escribir poemas. Yo hago lo mismo en 2018. —————————–

Menos Pan, Mas poesia