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Mauricio Moreno
September 2023
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Mauricio Moreno is a 1st generation Colombian-American artist and writer, originally from Elizabeth, New Jersey. He moved to California to fulfill his life mission of being a writer and sharing his and others’ stories to bring readers closer together and heal the world.

His works have been published in Conchas Y Café, Intercultural Press, Resurrection Press, No Tender Fences, Rigorous and has featured at several open mics throughout Los Angeles. He is currently working on his first novel.

When he’s not writing, he can be found in Long Beach donning his Hogwarts robes and steampunk goggles, tending to his growing collection of fur babies with his wife.



Dele mi tarjeta, pobresito.

The man with the cheap suit handed his sympathy

in the form of a 3x5 business card.

The card had been folded at the edges.


The man with the cheap suit handed me his sympathy

a handout for a poor Lano boy with no future.

The card had been folded at the edges,

his number scribbled illegibly.


A handout for a poor Latino boy with no future.

Standing in line at a conference in college

His number scribbled illegibly

on the contact list for the U.S. Army Reserves.


Standing in line at a conference in college

I met the keynote speaker of The Peruvian Business Association

once on the contact list for the U.S. Army Reserves.

Dele mi tarjeta, pobresito, he commanded his assistant without looking at me.


I ripped the business card in half as I walked away.



El colibrí doesn’t care about how fast

your car burns dead animals, or how big

his carbon footprint is. El colibrí

doesn’t worry about the color


of its wings, or whether they’ve lost their sheen,

nor does it chase youth at the bottom

of flower beds, or try to dye its feathers

in chestnut-colored hair color. El colibrí


just worries where he’ll get his next

meal, which pink hibiscus he’ll feast upon,

whether he’ll taste gold or brown at

his beak. El colibrí flaps his wings


at the speed of thoughts, each flutter

the lifespan of a dream. His wingspan

reflects the universe, infinite motion,

a nebula in its breast. El colibíi, only knowing


how to fly and kiss, to soar and hover, can’t

dwell on the past. He doesn’t mourn missed flowers,

or dead leaves on the ground, doesn’t remember

his first kiss or which heliconia tasted sweetest.


El colibrí only knows the smell of home, the

orquídias of Medellín, the kaleidoscope of

home, shades of all spectrums that decorate the

gardens where El colibrí can feast and frolic,


where onlookers who worry about their

canas and arrugas gander at the blissful

ignorance of El colibrí. If he knew the world

was burning, would he still hover and take


his time on this torch ginger flower? Would

his wings still put on a show to the

spectators whose lust for more poisons

the flowerbeds? Would he still inch closer


if he knew how close he was to extinction?

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