Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano


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Grateful to the universe, my ancestors, my parents, and the tender souls who have held my hand through the years, I greet you: bienvenida... y tú, bienvenido.


I offer this site, a vague example of the chaos, irony, and fervent lust for possibility in my life. A morsel of weather-torn cybertrails and reveries I leave behind.


Born into a generation destined to come of age without the abundance of literary codices we deserved, I am committed to document the bloodshed of my own desire, the fragments of my sanity, and the grocery list of dreams I carry with me. Having aged more than too many of my queer brown ancestors, I pray the generations to follow will know: we were here.


I am a poet rooted in the legacies of the brown men cast aside, left to die in the shadows of a flag, of disease, and of families far too tormented to see beyond the cloudiness of their teary eyes, that their children —their sons—, were the incarnation of the sacred essence that is hope.


I write for them: my fathers, my brothers. For you, perhaps.


My veins are but a sheet of memory.


My face is but a queer brown shroud of Turin.


My pen is but a rusty sewing machine.


A lover of men who sometimes love me.


I am a writer, a poet.


Nothing else.