San Pedro la Laguna, Sololá, Guatemala I wear striped pants Numero cuarentasiete La milpa ama a la orilla Numero diecinueve they all shout and clap fill the afternoon hammock on the cieling los sonidos del pueblo llora llora la bebe el grupo empieza a tocar los chavos a bailar numero cincuenta sies the bus’s pistons[…] See more ⇒

Hola a tod@s, I’m writing from San Cristobal de las Casas, the colonial capital of the Mexican state of Chiapas. Since leaving on the sixth I’ve been following the route that I left off on two years ago: from the Oaxacan coast down to Chiapas. The beach life was good, but the mosquitos are thick[…] See more ⇒

San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas, Mex. “EL CONOCIMIENTO ES UNA NECESIDAD TRAE PAZ Y DIGNIDAD” Hopefully by the time you read this, there should be a new set of dirtyfotos up online. There are several subfolders, be sure to check the bottom of the page. This is thanks to my friend Bartek of Poland,[…] See more ⇒

San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas, Mex. What didn’t make it into the last story was exactly where I was staying in Mazunte. First I headed up to this spot called Posada Arquetecto which has a palapa for hanging hammocks overlooking a huge, beautiful beach. It was still on “high season pricing” (Dec. 1 –[…] See more ⇒

Playa Mazunte, Oaxaca, Mexico AND THEN TO THE BOY THE DAYS BEGAN TO PASS AS WEEKS… I was on the bus for hours and hours from D.F. to la costa de Oaxaca, where the beach faces south and the sun dances a long dance of tag with the ocean and always ends up winning. On[…] See more ⇒

I’ve arrived segruro y (mostly) sano again here in el D.F. (Mexico City) on today, el Día de los Reyes. Stories come later.

Caminante, no hay puentes. Se hacen puentes al andar. Gloria Anzaldúa, 1983 Journey on, journeyer. Camine, caminante. In fourteen hours the plane takes to the sky and takes me with it. Back to D.F., back to the bottom of México, picking up where I left off exactly two years ago. I’ve spent the last two[…] See more ⇒

During full moons on the border, the helicopters are violent in the midnight air, fighting to fly and spy the footsteps that are called illegal in moonlight. My house seems to shudder and move and I’m expected not to notice, no one is ever expected to notice. The border is a breath caged in steel,[…] See more ⇒

but it was not the night that stole you, night wrapped warm around forehead and under your arms, it was men whose shadows have climbed into their hearts. Jalisco verde, a childhood in seabreeze spent naming clouds: libélula, golondrina. Then older, to the north, to work. But it was not the night that stole you.[…] See more ⇒

In October all of the leaves turn to stained glass, they shatter like bombed churches across the sidewalk. The drugs are in the trunk, stuck between gas cans and diapers. Ahead, the border is the horizon, is a line of shimmering coke. Sparrows bathe in potholes, sunlight falls in chunks. The storm drain sighs and[…] See more ⇒