Dear Wigleaf,

I wrote you a found poem. It's based upon a family video my Uncle Louie put together some thirty or so years ago. All the familia had gotten together for my Great Grandma Anita's eightieth birthday party at Steckel Park in Santa Paula. Louie had his youngest son, Ron, do most of the camerawork. Some of my favorite parts of the video are when Ron inserts himself in the middle of all the action. When he records a bunch of the cuzzies playing horseshoes and he starts talking shit to my dad. Mostly because my dad's a smartass, and would cut a fart mid-argument to see if you'd lose your train of thought.

There's some gold though too, when Ron's just a fly on the wall. Like when he puts the camera on my Grandma. Grandma, puffing on a cigarette, running shit and delegating while wearing her old cowboy hat. I cry when I see Grandma clutching the hand of her wheelchair bound mother, the two of them listening to Big X Montes and his harp fill the summer air with corridos.

Anyway, the poem goes like this:

This is Mama's family. This is a toast. To primos! But not with Coors! This is to not wanting to be in black and white, ese. It's to wanting to be in color. Natural color. Did you know Abuelita sang herself to sleep once? She'd only heard it on record: Veracruz music. Jarocho music. Mexican harp music. She told me it was like doves. Singing, bamba, bamba. Bamba, bamba. 

Wishing you the best,

Vincent