And it ain’t weird.
Not like that.
I’m a rapper, boy.
I was raised by a negro soul.
My own.
I come from tropic to the storm, the huracaines, the fires, the meteorites, the heterosexual good old patriarchy… go patritots! Half of what it’s now know as United States of América, as of now part of a bigger thing than my Johnson, or our respectful president’s onw. Air force uno.
People didn’t get.
But some did.
Here’s hope.
I want to reclute you.
New América.
A new postnationalist concept.
The next thing to move one.
One by one.
Uno a uno.
Leverage of transference of goodness you.
My goodness.
You are coming here.
You want to come.
You are wet.
AS I.
It’s not a shout, silly. I’m just mexican.
This line: nine new mexican cowboys from south of the border with a real special crew on horseback ride. Los Jinetes de Villa. Llenaban pinches estadios. Un pinche nueve juego, cabrón. Sólo que era para humor mexicano, pues. Y los gringos le entraron. No todos. Pero los que le entraron… no mames, ca-ga-dí-si-mo. Serio, güey. Te lo juro.
Un chavito fresa está bien.
LIndo.
Todos queremos ser un fresa mexicano.
En algún momento todos los somos.
Fresa no es un color de piel.
Piensa; tu color de piel.
Tu consciencia de sí ver colores en la escuela. Y pelos. Y estaba velado el cuerpo. No nos conocíamos desnudos. No es natural, salvo en el baño, y en la playa del capital urbana de las nueves ciudades capitales de la urbanidad liberada de todas las pinches mamadas del pasado. Van y chingan a su puta madre todas y todos. Ahí tienen su pinche paridad.
¡Malparidas!
Feminista.
Checa.
Mi lista de afirmación como feminista (mi lucha):
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
Y ya está.
Ese es todo el examen.
Ustedes verán… aquí el profesor soy yo. Ven este cheque. Pues este es otro; a mi me depositan. Pero si le agarran la onda. Lana. Sube y baja. Tienes que poder sobrevivir sin varo al menos nueve años seguidos. Y luego debes revertir la manera en la que ganas varo. Y ganas cabrón. Te vas hasta arribototota, ka.
Ay qué oso.
Ay, ya.
Eso es literatura. Ven.
Cada renglón un libro.
Estírarle a la mamada.
En lo estético.
En lo ético.
En lo relevante.
En lo estratégico.
En lo comunitario.
En lo municipal.
En la familia.
En lo personal.
En lo sexual.
Y ya.
99 palabras en cada capítulo.
Esta será la nueva norma.
Lo que el procomún asista a escribir.
¿Qué pueblo fue en la contienda el más apuntado a la creaión espontánea del procomún?
¿Qué onda?
¿Empezamos?
Los chavos recitaban la canción y acababan teniendo sexo con la capacidad de interpretar la más sublime de las sensaciones de un ser libre: su sexualidad en ese momento de comunión con el estado más presente de la graçia divina que sin duda Jesús no se autolimitó a simplemente no entender lo que se refiera la atracción sexual tanto por un joven pescador cachillas con unos ojos de una profundidad inversamente proporcional al tamaño de su semerenda polla. Ustedes me perdonarán si de repente meto un taco donde no toca, en un sitio inesperado del espacio público en el que no se está acostumbrado de escuchar a un insolente mexicano en su punto más cautivador: chaterbox Armando Gallo Pacheco.
Un chiste fácil, hermanos. La buena literatura es un chiste fácil. Ya si podemos llegar al momento del último giro. Luego sales de la historia y te vas a tu casa pensando en la audacia de Quentin. No piensas en aquellas cosas que lo relacionan con su vida privada y los momentos en los que él y Harvey solían contar aquellas historias de terror. Las palabras que salieron de su boca. Y el gesto de su cuerpo y poder encimoso. Y luego, claro: paycheck. Show-me-the-money. Really. Where’s the fucking money?
A childs game. A break in from the southern frontier. Our wall has been forsaken. Prepare for… ARMAGEDON9! COMING TO YOUR TOWN!
BUY THE FUCKING TICKETS HERE. (Put in shopcart securely. Just click. Thank, you).
It the fairest price model.
The NOU model.
NOU means nine in Ticatalán. And new. Two meanings. That’s a ticatalan language thing. When we decided the new language was going to just steal the other nine languages, ticatalán burst up.
The hole holy nine shit. Oh, man. Oh, wo-man.
Sorry, let me rephrase: oh, wo-man.
There.
I caught the motherfucking dickheads from the fricking bandwagon.
Fuck off, neighbourg.
With all due respect.
I am just a speak speaking yours.
I can dribble the ball and score the goles. Cause Golman means both futbolart and basketstreet.
21st jump street had street on it. It was a new kinds of cops just coming out of school really dealing with the bad guys. The glambling heroes of the good old hidden ways of trafficking the goods. It’s called commerce. Trust me, I know.
But this time it’s taken to the street level of basketball as it is understood in free space. Public space hoops from the new capital of the NINE CAPITAL CITIES of this one big new developed country in the jumping dimension of our social transformation capacity to emmerge to a single outreach of our collective countdown histeria. But we allow time to just fly at its own pace. And in the mean time, we allow our characters to interpretet the best motherfucking night out in town. And you take the mood of the night into your club: into a new scene. Nothing has ever been quite like this: Mextizo, with your host tonight, GOLman.
I have the night for you and the kitchen to deliver the motherfucking show. Each one of the 99 clients with the 99 ticket launch. Life ain’t that awesome elsewhere.
I have already had money problems with rich motherfuckers.
Money. It’s just money. Lot’s of it. Capitalism nailed it. Bum.
White people are like that. Happy capitalist. Great.
Brown people, there’s a story worth hearing.
Suddenly those nine forasteros come into town after horsebackride from NEWDF to NEWLA.
I can get you hooked to a new idea you’ve never heard of.
Bad fiction writers feed you with a hole bunch of rubish you eat because it’s there.
But you haven’t read Camus.
What’s your excuse…who cares.
I treat New Américans like grownups.
First thing I had to do was to rebuilt the whole perspective from where we started sucking our dicks off with your sorf bolony of bullshit. I’ve understood you nine local tribes. The diversity that you represent. We have been fucking listening. It’s you not seeing farther than your belly let’s you. (Throw all those selfie six pack girls and boys). I told you I was a feminist.
If I give you a taste of a new industry…
Would you come take a peak…
No question mark; just time taking space.
I am a poet like Morrison crossing the boarder to expand the cubic faggotty strecher in your felatio right brain as the left so solenmly lays there naked with her natural ways to shine into the water as the night unfolds…
I feel the need to explore. Thruths from today. I just explore inside first. And sometimes the story I was supposed to write about never gets written. There goes my literature. That’s my kind of tribute to all those jew writers and filmaking and bank managers and BH gear providers. I travel to interact with the other. As we can allow one from our own to go explore the outskirts of the expansion of our limited brain. Our social collective aknowledgement can only go so far. This far is what we are going to measure. This is the new rule. The new policy. The new collective action of the free people of this brand new model. The place to be. ALLS.
ALLS buildings
I could break up ideas into separete areas. People could understand me better. I would be just more thoughtful. FUCK OFF!
Sorry, mate. I just snap sometimes. I have no fucking regrets, mate. I fucking love it. It feels great. You should try it too.
I have a few of my own crew in this side of town. The begginings of shipping and trade and insurance are up and about the same time in history. The story goes like these: in a pub somewhere in London some people in the lowest corner of the stinking port city from the Thames, the cocksucking London, 1899. Around the time. NEWLON.
Like Julicio Ceasar, convince the town to mutiny. It’s because everyone is pissed off. And this other one died. And every local face, in counterpick. The greatest challenge. Today. In public space. Private space. ALLS.