Chicana in the Midst

"On Top of a Treetop" from My Manuscript, Kissing Dreams from a Distance (A Novel)

2012-01-18T18:20:00.000-08:00

One of My 2012 Projects—Finish the Novel!

The birth of "On Top of a Treetop" began in late December 2011 after I was mourning the loss of my USB drive, which held the latest version of Kissing Dreams from a Distance. Words I have learned I can reconjure but my mother in flesh—never. Many thanks to Zachary "Zak" Pugh, who rescued a few vignettes. I am especially greatful for Zak finding "Aurora in the Time of Dreams." ¡Gracias Zak! And many thanks to Arduizur Carli Richie-Zavaleta for reading "On Top of a Treetop." And Carolina Feria, my former Upward Bound student now attending UC Santa Barbara, who requested that I share a vignette from Kissing Dreams from a Distance with her writing class. ¡Gracias Caro! And A. Don Juan for the inspiration!

On Top of a Treetop

Whirlwinds of muffled sounds came from their chainsaws shearing at the long branches of the barren mulberry treetops. Piled on top of each other, the dry branches spread across the dirt like fallen soldiers. These were the trees and branches of well to do folk. What had looked like blazing matches surrounding the estate—long after the trees were heavy with sweet white mulberries—were now skeletons with signs of a biting winter well on its way.

For Julian’s father, el señor Cipriano, with fifteen years of tree trimming experience climbing trees required less effort than balancing himself on top of treetops. And although Cipriano believed his old chainsaw, El Chango,[1] would never fail him on the job, he warned his amateur son.

“Cuidado con E-l C-h-a-n-g-o muchacho. Es muy traicionero. No te confíes. Un minuto piensas que estás seguro y el otro—pácatelas,”[2] Cipriano assured his son, who looked closely at the chipped paint and even closer at El Chango’s jagged teeth.

That’s what Julian needed to remember: life on top of a treetop was dangerous. And he had heard the stories his uncles shared—of falls, concussions, and broken bones that required a hospital visit or two, equivalent to thousands of dollars no family of five could ever afford.

Julian was wearing his steel toe boots—perhaps he should have worn spurs that Christmas Eve. On an outstretched mulberry’s arm, stood Julian’s meager body doing the job of his uncle Alfredo who was well in his twenties.

On top of the tree, thinking about what his hard-earned money would buy, Julian imagined the crisp dollars running through his fingers, knowing he could now afford a gift for Mariela, the girl in his history class.

After a precarious step, Julian fumbled with the chainsaw, and that’s when El Chango gnawed deep. With the sight of white flesh exposed, Julian toppled off the mulberry tree like a lifeless rag doll falling from a tree house. His warm blood seeped into the dirt.

“¡Chacho pendejo! ¿Qué hiciste?”[3] Cipriano screamed as he rushed to his Julianito.

Ciapriano, with his fists clenched onto the steering wheel, pressed on the gas as he drove off in his 1959 Chevy Apache truck. Fastened and asleep, his son didn’t moan nor showed signs of pain.

Bewildered, Julian woke up past the local hospital and past anywhere near home, across the border on a table, where it looked like a hospital—but was smaller and held the sounds of barking dogs.

[1] The Beast
[2] “Youngman careful with The Beast. He’s very backstabbing. Never trust him. One minute you think you’re all right and then another—boom.”
[3] “Dumb kid! What did you do?”

Sergio Vásquez: The Painter and His Aura/El pintor y su aura (Tecolotlán, México/Los Angeles)

2011-12-18T18:35:00.000-08:00

Self-portrait with Monkeys

Colonial Cholo

The Different Moods of Eddie

The Jungle of Memory

Through the Window

Like Father Like Son

Windows of the Past

José Lopes and Sergio Vásquez

The painting, Eufemio y Emiliano Zapata, is a collaboration
piece by Sergio Vásquez and José Lopes.

To see more of Sergio Vásquez's work, visit Sergio Vásquez Art, facebook, or e-mail him at smonosolo10@aol.com.

Martín Camps: El espacio de los poemas/Martín Camps: The Space of Poems (Tijuana, Stockton)

2011-11-18T18:35:00.000-08:00

Petición a la NASA para incluir en su próximo viaje al espacio a un poeta

Porque falta probar el efecto de gravedad cero en ciertas palabras.
Porque nadie ha leído “Muerte sin fin”
a todo pulmón en la noche del espacio.
Porque tengo una hipótesis:
Los sueños gravitan lentamente
como una burbuja de agua en la boca.
Porque si al ingeniero corazón de hierro
la tierra a trescientos mil kilómetros de distancia
le provoca una lágrima pequeña
como una astilla, el poeta es posible
que lo entienda todo de una vez,
la función de los hoyos negros,
la llamada de auxilio de los pulsares,
el corazón roto de una supernova,
la curvatura del espacio y la antimateria.
Porque hace falta llevar un barril de cerveza
y brindar al mutismo de Neptuno,
acariciar con la lengua el brillo del sol
y atraparlo con los dientes como una gragea.
Porque la luna es abundante
en un material precioso y no renovable: silencio.
Por eso la NASA debe enviar
en su próxima expedición a un poeta,
para que todos los demás mortales
que nos quedamos viendo las estrellas
desde nuestra calle, sepamos qué pasa allá
arriba cuando los astronautas
se meten en sus sacos,
después de un día de experimentos importantísimos,
como quien duerme bajo el agua.

Request to NASA to Include a Poet in Their Next Space Shuttle

Because it’s necessary to demonstrate the effect of zero gravity in certain words.
Because no one has read Shakespeare, out loud, in the night of space.
Because I have a theory:
Dreams gravitate slowly
as a water bubble in the mouth.
Because if to the engineer with an iron heart,
the earth at three hundred thousand kilometers of distance
provokes a tear
as little as a splinter, the poet would possibly
understand at last,
the function of black holes,
the call of help of pulsars,
the broken heart of a supernova,
the curvature of space and antimatter.
Because it is necessary to take a beer barrel
and drink to the silence of Neptune,
to caress with the tongue the sheen of the Sun
and to catch it with the teeth as a tablet.
Because the moon is abundant
in a beautiful non-renewable resource: silence.
That's why NASA must send a poet in the next journey,
so that all the rest of mortals
can continue seeing the stars from our street,
knowing what happens
up there when the astronauts
get into theirs sacks,
as if sleeping under water.

(Translation by Anthony Seidman and Traci Roberts)

Petição à NASA para incluir em sua próxima viagem ao espaço um poeta

Porque falta provar o efeito da gravidade zero
em certas palavras.
Porque ninguém leu Carlos Drummond de Andrade
a todo pulmão na noite do espaço.
Porque tenho uma hipótese:
Os sonhos gravitam lentamente
como uma bolha de água na boca.
Porque se ao engenheiro coração de ferro
a terra a trezentos mil kilômetros de distância
lhe provoca uma lágrima pequena
como uma farpa, o poeta é possível
que o entenda tudo de uma vez,
a função dos buracos negros,
a chamada de auxílio dos pulsares,
o coração partido de uma supernova,
a curvatura do espaço e a anti-matéria.
Porque faz falta levar um barril de cerveja
e brindar ao mutismo de Neptuno,
acariciar com a língua o brilho do sol
e prendê-lo com os dentes como uma drágea.
Porque a lua é abundante
num material precioso e não renovável: silêncio.
Por isso a NASA deve mandar
em sua próxima expedição um poeta,
para que todos os demais mortais
que ficamos olhando as estrelas
desde a nossa rua, saibamos o quê acontece lá
em cima quando os astronautas
se metem em seus sacos,
depois de um dia de experimentos importantíssimos,
como quem dorme embaixo d’água.

(Translation by Shawn Stein)

Historia del poema astronauta

Cuando la revista neoyorkina de poesía The Bitter Oleander (Adelfa amarga) publicó una traducción de mi poema “Petición a la NASA para incluir en su próxima expedición a un poeta” (La traducción estuvo a cargo de Anthony Seidman y Traci Roberts) en un arranque de emoción decidí mandar la revista a la NASA. Diciéndoles que sería importante mandar a un poeta al espacio para que hiciera experimentos con metáforas en gravedad mínima. Lo mandé como una broma, imaginé que algún ingeniero con buen humor leería el poema, después lo tiraría a la basura o lo pondría sobre un aparato lleno de tornillos. Pero no. La NASA lo tomó en serio.

Un mes después me llegó un sobre manila con el sello de la NASA. Por un momento me imaginé la sorpresa del cartero que pensaba en quién habitaría esa casa donde reciben correspondencia de la NASA. Adentro del sobre estaba la revista y una carta donde se me decía que debía llenar unos formularios para considerar mi propuesta. ¿Mi propuesta? Si todo era un divertimento poético hecho con la misma emoción con que se escribe un poema: para ver qué pasa.

Pasaron meses y en la Universidad donde trabajo conocí a un señor que nació en el valle de California (en French Camp). Sus padres habían trabajado en los campos. Me preguntó qué hacía, le dije que daba clases y después le pregunté lo mismo, él me dijo que era astronauta. Era nada menos que José Hernández, un modelo de esfuerzo y dedicación. Empezó recogiendo fresas hasta llegar a orbitear la tierra en la Estación Espacial Internacional. Nunca se desanimó cuando lo rechazaron del exigentísimo programa espacial. Cada año añadía una habilidad, un año aprendía ruso, otro año aprendía a bucear, todas habilidades útiles para los astronautas. Cuando lo conocí le platiqué de la historia del poema, le regalé una copia y le dije si lo podía llevar al espacio cuando fuera. Dijo que sí.

Meses después recuerdo escribirle desde “tweeter” a la estación espacial. Y se acordaba del poema y me deseaba suerte educando a las juventudes. Me mandó también su foto, firmada.

Siempre me han interesado las historias que acompañan los poemas, cómo encuentran su propia vida y crecimiento. Creo que la creatividad humana es lo que nos ha llevado al espacio, a imaginar posibilidades. Esta anécdota no es sólo para animar audiencias en lecturas de poesía sino para recordar que la poesía tiene su propia vida.

The History of the Astronaut Poem

When the New Yorkian literary magazine, The Bitter Oleander, published the translation of “Petición a la NASA para incluir en su próximo viaje al espacio a un poeta” (Anthony Seidman and Traci Roberts were in charge of the translation), in a sudden burst of emotion, I decided to send the poem to NASA. Telling them that it was important to send a poet to space to do experiments with metaphors of minimal gravity. I sent the poem as a joke. I imagined that an engineer with a good sense of humor would read the poem and then throw it in the trash or would place it on an apparatus filled with screws. But no. NASA took it seriously.

A month later a manila envelope arrived with a NASA seal. For a moment, I imagined the mailman’s surprise as he would wonder who lived in that house that received correspondence from NASA. Inside the envelope were the magazine and a letter informing me that I would have to fill out forms for my proposal to be considered. My proposal? Everything had been done for poetic entertainment—written with the same emotion as one writes a poem: to see what happens.

A few months went by, and at the university where I work I met a man who was born in the California valley (French Camp). His parents had worked in the fields. He asked me what I did. I told him that I taught and then asked him the same question. He told me he was an astronaut. He was the very José Hernández, a model of effort and dedication. He began by picking strawberries until he orbited the Earth at the International Space Station. He never became discouraged when he was rejected from the exigeant space program. Every year he added a skill, one year he would learn Russian, another year he would learn how to dive—all useful skills for astronauts. When I met him, I told him the story of the poem, I gave him a copy as a gift and I asked him if I he could take a copy to space on his next voyage. He said yes.

Months later I remember tweeting to the space station. And he remembered the poem and wished me luck with educating youth. He also sent me a signed photograph.

I have always been interested in the stories that come with writing poems, how they found their own lives and growth. The creative imagination is what has taken us to outer space—to imagine possibilities. This anecdote is not only for poetry reading audiences but to remember that poetry has its own life.

(Translation by Sonia Gutiérrez)

Martín Camps y Los Tigres del Norte

To learn more about Martín Camps, visit University of the Pacific.

To purchase Cruces fronterizos: Hacia una narrativa del desierto, visit Libros Latinos.

America Is Burning / Life through Our Eyes (Libros Cartoneros)

2011-11-17T23:10:00.000-08:00

A warm thank you to Olga García Echeverría, author of Falling Angels, who introduced me to Libros Cartoneros!

Olga García Echeverría reading at UCSD's Visual Arts Facility: Performance Space (Photograph by Tomás Huitzilcohúatl Lucero, April 6, 2011)

America Is Burning, a libro cartonero, was crafted by the Palomar Poets and Encuentros United members at Palomar College for our Biannual Poetic Justice.

(Sonia's Second Libro Cartonero Project)

Upward Bound's Life through Our Eyes Libro Cartonero Summer Project (Poetry and Prose), California State University San Marcos

(Sonia's First Libro Cartonero Project)

July 29, 2011

The History of Libros Cartoneros: Eloisa Cartonero

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Rooted: Through the Eyes of Claudia Hernández/Enraizada: A través de los ojos de Claudia Hernández (Los Ángeles, Guatemala)

2011-10-16T20:44:00.000-07:00

Los nances Guatemala

Descalzos/Discalced Perú

      La espera                                         Guatemala

Resplandor cuzqueño Perú

Los catrines Hollywood Cemetery

El llano y sus flores Perú

El móvil Guatemala

Inocencia entre las pilas Guatemala

Poet José Hernández Díaz and Claudia Hernández

To see more of Claudia Hernández's photography, visit facebook.

Upcoming 2011 Fall Readings

2011-10-16T20:43:00.000-07:00

Literatura Hispanoamericana de Estados Unidos

Participan: Sonia Gutiérrez (San Marcos, CA), Martin Camps (Tijuana- Stockton, CA), Olga García (LA), Carlos Zacarías Gómez (San Diego-Paraguay), José Hernández Díaz (LA, CA) y Gerardo Cárdenas (Chicago, IL)

Moderador: Francisco Bustos

Olga García's Heteronymic Poem Reformularé a mi Padre…/I Will Reformulate My Father… (San Diego, Chihuahua)

2011-09-07T22:38:00.000-07:00

Reformularé a mi Padre…
Por enriKetta Luissi

reformularé a mi padre a sus ochenta:

demente-cadalso demente en cadalso cadalso-demente

a nadie se culpe

le asignaré tres variables espaciales X1 X2 X3 y

X4 relativa al tiempo la mandaré al centro de un agujero negro

he allí el cerebro encogido de mi padre

he allí la espectro-scopía en jirones del cosmos

he allí la cáscara de una toronja podrida
(Fragmento del poemario, IIE)

I Will Reformulate My Father…

By enriKetta Luissi

I will reformulate my father at eighty:

demented-scaffold demented on a scaffold scaffold-demented

let no one be blamed

I will assign three spatial variables X1 X2 X3 and

X4 relative to time I will send it to the center of a black hole

there beholds the shriveled brain of my father

there beholds the spectro-scopy in the tatters of the cosmos

there beholds the peel of a putrid grapefruit
(Excerpt from the book of poems, IIE)
Translated by Sonia Gutiérrez

THE POET

To learn more about Olga García, visit Peregrinos y sus Letras.

Upcoming Reading:

Letras en la Frontera (San Antonio, Texas)
September 22, 23, and 24

2011-08-31T19:19:00.000-07:00

Hugo Romo's Message/El mensaje de Hugo Romo

2011-08-02T08:33:00.000-07:00

Hugo Romo's website: http://www.hugoromo.com/

UPCOMING EVENTS—Hugo Romo will be have prints for sale and will be doing live portraits for $10.

CaminArte: Art, Music, Workshops, Teatro, Live Silk Screening, and Much Much More

Date: Friday, August 12th Time: 3:00 pm — 9:30 pm
Where: Mariachi Plaza Metro Station (1st and Boyle) Los Angeles, California

La Bloga's On-Line Floricanto

2011-07-19T01:00:00.000-07:00

Poets Responding to SB 1070 selects “My Heart Is a Strawberry Field” for La Bloga: Chicana, Chicano, Latina, Latino, & More. Literature, Writers, Children's Literature, News, Views & Reviews publication.

alternaCtive publicaCtions Publishes Four Vignettes from Kissing Dreams from a Distance

2011-05-18T15:50:00.000-07:00

To read “Locked Up in the Mind,” “El Borracho,” “American Cats Mean More Than a Woman’s Body,” and “The Day Paco Almost Had a Heart Attack,” visit Dr. Manuel M. Martín-Rodríguez's alternaCtive publicaCtions.

Turle Island to Abya Yala Anthology Promotion Video

2011-05-18T15:04:00.000-07:00

Please donate to the Turle Island to Abya Yala Campaign.

Read at Tijuana's Feria del Libro for the San Diego Poetry Annual 2010-2011 (May 14, 2011)

2011-05-15T13:09:00.000-07:00

Read more about Tijuana's Book Fair.

Photograph taken by Mónica Morales Rocha

Poetic Justice Program Palomar College (San Marcos, CA)

2011-05-04T22:30:00.000-07:00

Poetic Justice Coming to Palomar College!

2011-04-14T13:06:00.000-07:00

My Mother's Passing

2011-03-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

Obituary written for the North County Times
from Sunday, March 13, 2011

La mirada de Monce

2011-03-01T22:28:00.000-08:00

Photograph taken at the Festival
de Arte y Literatura (February 26, 2011)

Upcoming Readings

2011-02-14T15:01:00.000-08:00

The Vagina Monologues Festival
When: February 18 & 19
Where: California State University San Marcos

Festival de Arte y Cultura

" Tejiendo puentes y esperanzas"
When: Satuday, February 26, 2011
Where: Vista Townsite Community Center
Time: 12:00 - 10:00 pm

Black History Month
When: Monday, February 28, 2011
Where: Palomar College
Time: 11:00 am - 2:00 pm

Manuel Libres Librodo's Rosalinda 1 and Rosalinda 8 (Lambunao, Iloilo, Philippines)

2011-01-06T19:33:00.000-08:00

Rosalinda 1

Rosalinda 8

To see more of Manuel Libres Librodo Jr.'s work,
visit him at THroUgH mY EYES...

Rosendo Tanori: Painter, Muralist, Sculptor (Sonora, México)

2010-11-21T23:00:00.000-08:00

La Piedad Moderna/The Modern Pieta

Mural at San Luis Río Colorado (México)

La serpiente que desciende: Escultura Sonora en movimiento/The Descending Serpent: Sonora Sculpture in Movement

Grandmaster Rosendo Tanori at Work!

To see more of Rosendo Tanori's sculptures, visit ELMUSEOVIRTUAL.COM.

Find Rosendo Tanori via facebook.

VIII Festival de Literatura de Noroeste: Trasladando Fronteras (Tijuana, Baja California)

2010-11-14T20:01:00.000-08:00

"Literatura chicana y spoken word" en el Vestíbulo de El Cubo
Tomás H. Lucero, Daniel Charles, Alfonso García Cortez (Moderador), Sonia Gutiérrez y Francisco Bustos

Upcoming Readings—Baja California, California (Las Califas), and Arizona

2010-11-05T01:45:00.000-07:00

Festival de Literatura del Noroeste. Trasladando Fronteras "Literatura chicana and spoken word"

When: Friday, November 12
Where: El CECUT: Vestíbulo de El Cubo—Tijuana, México
Time: 4:00 pm

To read the four-day program, visit Festival de Literatura del Noroeste

Will be sharing the ground with Irene Castruita and Francisco Bustos

Photograph from 30 y tantos, Mujer y Tijuana

Poetic Justice

When: November 18, 2010
Where: California State University San Marcos
The Clarke Grand Salon
Time: 7:00 pm

Poetic Justice Upcoming Performer—Philip Jerge:
"I'm just a spaced out, slowed down Southern Californian."

Coming to CSUSM—Jim Moreno, and Benny Herro

Photograph from the Barton Family Website

CALL FOR POETS, PERFORMERS, ARTISTS
Floricanto/In Xochitl-In Cuicatl, Tucson, Arizona – Saturday, December 4, 2010

Theme: Resistance/Creation in a Climate of Hate and Censorship

Where: El Rio Community Center
Time: 12:00 pm - 7:00 pm

Image from in xóchitl in cuicatl: Flower and Song

Jhonnatan Curiel's poem, "El levantón"/"The Lift," (Tijuana, México)

2010-10-08T00:02:00.000-07:00

El levantón

El día que suceda el levantón
voy a estar arriba de mi hamaca emocional
estaré tranquilo con todos y con todo
no voy a resistirme a sus armas
no voy a perturbar a mi conciencia tranquila

El día que suceda el levantón
cuando me violenten les devolveré una sonrisa
y sabré que jamás odié ni me dejé comprar
y por eso
me sentiré dichoso

El día que suceda el levantón
estaré listo pues todo lo que pude hacer lo hice
amé con oleadas pasión
sufrí como las ramas en el árbol seco
aprendí a dar pasos en la sangre

El día que suceda el levantón
tomaré un profundo y blanco respiro
y sabré que me dirijo hacia una muerte segura
yo mismo subiré a la cajuela
yo mismo me pondré la capucha

El día que suceda el levantón
cerraré los ojos como jamás los he cerrado
cerraré todo el cuerpo como un párpado
dejaré que me cubran las sombras

tendré miedo pero hasta el último de mis momentos sabré
que todo lo que tengo es lo que soy
y todo lo que soy me basta
para dejar de existir

The Lift

The day of the lift
I will be on my emotional hammock
I’ll be gentle with everybody and everything
I will not resist their weapons
I will not trouble my contented conscience

The day of the lift
when violence turns upon me I will return a smile
and will know that I never hated and did not sell myself
and for that
I’ll feel privileged

The day of the lift
I will be ready—for everything I could do—I did
I loved with waves of passion
suffered like branches on a dry tree
learned to take steps on blood

The day of the lift
I will take a deep white breath
and will know a definite death awaits me
I myself will get into the trunk
I myself will put the hood on

The day of the lift
I will close my eyes like I have never done
I will close my body like an eyelid
I will allow shadows to overtake my body
I’ll be afraid but until the last moments will know
that everything I have is what I am
and everything I am will be enough
to cease existing

Translated by Sonia Gutiérrez

Karen Márquez and Poet Jhonnatan Curiel

"El levantón" Colectivo Intransigente Performance

To see more of Jhonnatan's work, visit POIESIS and Ojopoema: Blog dedicado para la creación arbitraria de Ojopoemas

To see more of Jhonnatan's writing Tijuana collective, Colectivo Intransigente, find them on facebook.

Colectivo Intransigente's e-mail: colectivointransigente@gmail.com

Carlos Gómez's Sonia's Power

2010-09-29T11:42:00.000-07:00

La Bloga's On-Line Floricanto

2010-09-28T17:56:00.000-07:00

from Facebook's Poets Responding to SB 1070

La Bloga: Chicana, Chicano, Latina, Latino, & More.

Literature, Writers, Children's Literature, News, Views

& Reviews publishes "Memografía"/"Memography"

on September 28 and "Fishing Bait" on August 24.

Visit La Bloga!

Floricanto Adelanto at Corazón del Pueblo (Poetry Reading at Boyle Heights, CA)

2010-09-07T16:48:00.000-07:00

Organizers: Abel Salas and Francisco X. Alarcón

Em Sedano, Abel Salas, and Francisco X. Alarcón

Em Sedano from La Bloga and Sonia Gutiérrez

John Martínez from Aztlán Media Kollective

Fe Montes

Sammy Carrera

Festival de Flor y Canto by Michael Sedano and "Fishing Bait" from Poets Responding to SB 1070

2010-08-24T08:57:00.000-07:00

Festival de Flor y Canto Yesterday • Today • Tomorrow

This week La Bloga features Michael Sedano’s invitation to the Festival de Flor y Canto. Yesterday • Today • Tomorrow / September 15,16,17. La Bloga also presents six poets: Matt Sedillo, Devreaux Baker, Avotcja, Guadalupe Rodriguez Jr., Sonia Gutiérrez and Amy Ballard Rich, from Poets Responding to SB 1070, founded by poet, educator and children’s book author—Francisco X. Alarcón—and Moderators, who include Alma Luz Villanueva, Odilia Galván Rodríguez, Hedy Trevino, Scott Maurer, Abel Salas, and Andrea Hernandez Holm.

Through the Lense of Pocho1 Fotography C/S

2010-07-30T20:11:00.000-07:00

Bern, Switzerland

Rome, Italy

Visit Pocho-one Fotography.

Alicia Sánchez, life-long Xicana Activist, and Pocho1

Meu amigo—o cão

2010-07-23T21:26:00.001-07:00

Poets' Duel at the Centro Cultural Tijuana (CECUT)

2010-06-25T22:39:00.000-07:00

Organizer: Mara Maciel
Tijuana Poets' Duel: Colectivo Intransigente
Tijuana and San Diego Poets’ Duel : Sonia Gutiérrez, Victor Soto, Lucy Villa and Tomás H. Lucero
Special Guests: José Eugenio Sánchez and Luis Cortés Bargalló

from Café pa todos
"Tijuana y San Diego en duelo poético"

from El Mexicano: Gran Diario Regional
"Enfrentarán sus poesías"

Ben Arnold's Poetry Circus

2010-06-15T17:39:00.000-07:00

“A death defying return to San Diego by poetry impresario Ben Arnold with three rings of spoken word by Jim D. Babwe, Filly 7 and Sonia Gutiérrez."
—Brandon Cesmat, Award Winning Poet for Light in All Directions

Date: June 20, 2010
Time: 3:00-5:00 pm
Where: Hill Street Cafe at 524 S. Coast Highway in Oceanside, California

Felicia "Fe" Montes's "Ranchola Blues" — (Los Ángeles, Chihuahua)

2010-05-26T09:25:00.000-07:00

Fe Montes and D'Lo

To see more of Fe's work, visit
FELICIA MONTES: Xicana Multimedia Artist/Educator/Organizer

My Roots (Michoacán)

2010-05-10T23:56:00.000-07:00

Juan and Santiago Jaimes,
The Jaimes Brothers
(Great Grandfather)

The legendary Fortino Jaimes,
Santiago's son, my maternal
grandfather, was assasinated
while sleeping under a
tree.

My mother's mother, Aurora Ramírez
de Jaimes, mi abuelita, never held me
in her arms, yet she remains my pillar
of strength.

My tío José Eliseo Gutiérrez,
my father's brother, always sang and
played guitar at family reunions.

My tía Alicia Gutiérrez, my father's
sister, has a mighty singing voice.
In her youth, she had a mano a mano
with the famous Lucha Villa.

Tío Raúl and tía Elvira Gutiérrez,
father's brother and sister.

My father, Francisco Gutiérrez and my mother,
María Estela Jaimes (María Estela Jaimes de
Gutiérrez; Estela Gutiérrez for short).

"Arizona Dream Shoes" for Poets Responding to SB 1070

2010-05-08T23:37:00.000-07:00

I. No Man’s Land

I saw a tennis shoe lying on the
side of the road to América,

Half sunk in the heaviest of desert sands—
shipwrecked, pillaged by the winds
and blazing sun.

II. Childhood Lessons
At age two, she knows what illegal aliens
sound like—she’s been listening since birth.
An illegal alien lullabies her to sleep: “Duérmase
mi niña. Duérmase me ya porque
su mamá se va a trabajar.”

At age twelve, she’s learning what illegal aliens
look like—she’s been trained since birth.
She overhears the neighbors: “Look at their shoes.
Illegal aliens wear non-brand tennis shoes.”

(Not like Americans. Real Americans
can afford Western gods—real American
products—the battlefield and victory
looming at their feet, Nikes manufactured
by Koreans, Taiwanese, Chinese
and Viêtnamese.)

III. The Art Project

For $215 dollars, she sells you a pair
of Brinco Crosstrainers, so you can display a pair
in your living room? So your neighbor
can see them—like the white progressive
couple serving a Wetback Salad
at their wedding.

If you want to cross the comal of death,
she hands you a pair of tennis shoes for free,
equipped with a map and pain
killers … to begin the trek of
senseless deaths with
a thousand crosses,
mounds of rocks to
pave the road like
a North Star.

IV. The Wanderer

He walks in heat like a blazing
match with a gallon of
water to quench the dry
lolling tongue.

A pair of old socks and
tennis shoes melt on his
feet like gum on a
pulsating asphalt.

V. Arizona Dream Shoes

I will hand you a pair of Arizona Dream
Tennis Shoes blessed by God,
the Presidents, and the Virgin
Mary herself. These tennis shoes
will make your feet tireless
like our ancestors, treading these borderless lands,
now painted and encaged
by law-abiding US citizens.

(May 8, 2010)

“UR 1070” for Poets Responding to SB 1070

2010-05-01T10:12:00.000-07:00

You tell me you are not a racist.
You are an Arizonian in your own right—
in your white flawless rights
in your white lawless plights against
the native skin you single out, marring your high-class
etiquette—your Forefathers’ land, your America,
the land of the free, where vigilantes
in invisible white hoods
terrorize me in Georgia, in
Texas, and in California.

Look at me. No, really, look
at me—directly into my eyes.
But without the sunglasses, without the gun,
without the handcuffs, without the whip, without the
wooden or metal baton, without the water hose,
without the DDT, without napalm.

And when you look at me, notice
that you see me through borrowed memories
of our ancestors, haunting your present twisted
state of mind—suffering
from that pathology called
race that in your eyes makes me
look perfectly inhuman.

You are the germinated grandchild of Slavery . . .
of the Trail of Tears . . . of the Chinese Exclusion Act . . . of
Operation Wetback . . . of Viêt Nam. . . of Japanese Interment
Camps, Proposition 187 . . . Operation
Gatekeeper . . .Weapons of Mass Destruction . . .
the Patriot Act . . . of SB 1070.

You want to believe in your own
fantasy—your own twisted logical
fallacy—you are América, “The Beautiful.”
¡Y sin acento!

You always write words that make
you look as the victimized—always the
victim—in a muddled pond of
racist rhetoric: “White revolution
is the only solution.”

But who is really stealing your
job? Your money? Who is really shattering your
American Dreamland?

You are 1070—a legacy of hate. You
relish and smirk when you see your
labor: when the handcuffs click
and the jailhouse locks,
when you single out and say, “Hey you!
Over there!” and label and then tag colored people.
Selective seeing and hearing
has made of you a simpleton
who wears blinds and carries
a magnifying glass like
Georges Cuvier.

“Round them cowboy!”
childhood play’s not over for
you. Your cowboy and Indian
patterns never left you! You are the good guy,
the self-righteous ambassador and protector of Arizona—
of your country—my world, from
sea to shining sea. I am the son,
the daughter, the father, the mother,
the grandmother, the sister, the teacher,
the carpenter, the gardener,
the architect, your potential
son-in-law or daughter. I am as free
as the air that you breathe.

You—again—have
reduced me to a thing—incapable
of feeling emotion like a shipped and caged
African slave—unconnected to this
country that serves you
on a silver platter, so you can see
those shiny white teeth reflected
in silverware before you
take a bite in your sweat-picked
tomatoes and lettuce, USDA Grade A
meat from those “illegal aliens,” mis paisanos,
working in Colorado and then you think:
life is good. Then you toast and sip your California
wine.

Yes, of course Arizona I’m
beginning to see your master
plan brewing. No illegal immigrants (other
than white-complected ones,
preferably of European decent),
no ethnic studies, no accents.
POOF! Como los judíos.

(April 29, 2010)
http://www.azleg.gov/FormatDocument.asp?inDoc=/legtext/49leg/2r/summary/h.hb2281_03-18-10_houseengrossed.doc.htm

"Green Dollar Dream"

2010-04-17T00:11:00.000-07:00

The man held onto the roof of La Consentida, uncle David’s RV, as if his life depended on it—and it did.

Tired from spending the weekend in Rosarito, uncle David flew north on I-15 with a full tank of gas. This time he made no pit stops. He was going 85 listening to the usual, the crooning of The King of Mexican country, Vicente Fernández. Ever since the day Padre Homero had blessed the family RV in front of St. Rose Church for a twenty dollar donation, La Consentida had never given tío any problems.

On the RV’s top, the man’s muscles had become taut from the burning sensation making it impossible to fidget because he had told them to remain clasped, at all costs. If they disobeyed and listened to the cramps, at any sudden stop, his body would shoot like a human rocket and plaster itself on a real American freeway. His face stooped low to avoid the wind from whipping at his face and drying out his eyes. The memory of his wife and children’s smiles fleeted at the thought of his body hitting the black asphalt—his family would never find out if . . .

When La Consentida arrived in Vista, as usual, the family unpacked the camping gear and looked forward to a hot shower and Mexican chocolate. And then, as if he were drunk, the man stumbled down the ladder. The family could see his body and feet were limp from the metal rungs pressing against his body.

Bewildered, uncle David stood at the incredible sight and the thought of an immigration officer back in Tijuas catching a paisano on his registered owned vehicle. Who would believe his story—of a man holding onto his Consentida—for an opportunity to join the masses, working for green dollar dreams?

The man with a sun-beaten face with hollow-dark eyes bemoaned, “Señor—”

Not giving the man enough time to speak, uncle David reached for his pockets and found foreign coins, a few dollars, and spare change. Avoiding eye contact with the stranger, uncle dropped the American money into his hand. With a deep-cutting tone, uncle David interjected, “Tenga. Por favor, váyase.”[1]

The man silenced his plea and disappeared on W. Indian Rock St.

[1] “Take it. Please, go.”

Photograph taken by Esveida López for forthcoming publication, La última confesión (Defina Acosta, Carlos Zacarías Gómez and Sonia Gutiérrez)

2010-03-26T00:40:00.000-07:00

Manuel Lozano's "Ode to Adelita" from Seeds of Rebellion (Texas)

2010-03-24T08:49:00.000-07:00

Ode to Adelita

I see you standing there
With your braids down past your shoulder
Combative in the strange nightmare,
Holding the stance of some brave soldier.
I never knew the concept of unbreakable laws.
Your rebellious nature was your cause,
And that is just how our eyes first met.
Through the dust I saw a silhouette,
It’s curvature seemed quite explicit,
And if there’s one thing I won’t regret,
It’s facing a hail of bullets not to miss it.
The smoke cleared just a bit.
I was looking from underneath my sombrero.
That dangerous form perfectly fit,
The wild dreamscapes of any pistolero.
The horizon curved at your hip.
I charged the bulls without a whip,
And every horn just went by grazing.
Through hell fire I went racing,
Then reached a lone standing adobe wall.
The gunslinger was forever bracing
To that fate that will entice us all.

My spirit revels in the whirlwind,
And the whirlwind picks up dust.
By far the best place I’ve ever been
But never one that you can trust.
The dry clay flew in bits and chunks.
Streets were filled with monks and drunks,
And they fire well I must add.
This was the best nightmare I ever had,
For it involved some dangerous curves.
That soldadera was bold and bad.
Gun powder never really rattled her nerves.

The streets are dirt and loose gravel.
The village is deep in the desert’s heart.
I saw all sense of peace suddenly unravel
When they ripped the sacred land apart.
The peasants crossed their bandoleers,
The sky shed its many tears,
And we united against the corporation.
We defend the soul from the creature’s invasion,
And this is where I picked it up.
Adelita will never lose her concentration,
And she’s aiming at those who are corrupt.

That adobe wall is still growing smaller,
Our rifles blast through the arena,
The peso drowned along with the mighty dollar
In what is now the ruins of the cantina.
Reflex grows so quick to hustle,
She is fast at flexing that muscle,
And it triggers more uprising.
Her brown eyes are also quite enticing,
And that pin-point precision only allows you to hear it,
Adelita knows that nothing can be surprising
As we share in that revolutionary spirit.

Mamá Licha and Manuel Lozano

"Ode to Adelita" on YouTube

To comment "Ode to Adelita," visit http://xicanopoetrydaily.wordpress.com/2009/05/24/ode-to-adelita/

To see more of Manuel Lozano's work, visit Manuel Lozano: Xicano Writing

My Brother, My Daughter

2010-03-17T22:07:00.000-07:00

Holy Mother of . . .

2010-03-08T17:10:00.000-08:00

Lizzie Stark's "Interview with Sonia Gutiérrez"

2010-03-08T15:05:00.000-08:00

To read "Interview with Sonia Gutiérrez," visit Fringe Magazine at
http://www.fringemagazine.org/blog/interview-with-sonia-gutierrez/

Camécuaro, Michoacán (México)

2010-02-20T13:33:00.000-08:00

Luis Ángel, Clavadista

2010-01-23T09:32:00.000-08:00

For one, two or three U.S. dollars, Luis Ángel bears his body and

plummets into the shallow waters of El Parque Nacional de

Uruapán.

Turtle Island to Abya Yala Benifit Show

2009-12-20T00:24:00.000-08:00

Photo taken by Ishmael Agnimitra Elias

From the Machete to the Shovel

2009-12-04T12:12:00.000-08:00

San Diego Poetry Annual:
The Best Poems from Every Corner of San Diego!

The siren blares the whistle. A powerful
two-hand grip takes hold of the machete. He
reaps the sugarcane fields until a dusky breeze
dabs his skin. This man is nine.

Two grips hold the shovel, the left
closest to the heart, the right near the belly.
Feet set apart, the entire force of the body
presses down on the right foot. A shovel
unearths the earth—a smooth slit, a healing
wound. He is now forty-nine.

The hands of my father smell of tierra.
Small sporadic ruptures erupt through. Purple
mountains protrude. The hands of my father—
smell of toil: of sweet lemongrass, of salted sweat
and damp soil. Moist calloused hands
sprout the earth.

Del machete a la pala

La sirena estalla su silbido. Con dos manos,
un fuerte puño empuña el machete. Él
trabaja los cañaverales hasta que la brisa del atardecer
estrega su piel. Este hombre tiene nueve años.

Dos manos sostienen la pala, la izquierda
cerca del corazón, la derecha junto al ombligo.
Con los pies apartados, todo el peso del cuerpo
empuja el pie derecho. La pala
desentierra la tierra—una apertura, una cortadura se
cicatriza. Él ahora tiene cuarenta y nueve años.

De tierra huelen las manos de mi padre.
Esporádicamente brotan pequeñas rupturas. Montañas
moradas se encumbran. Las manos de mi padre—
huelen a trabajo: a dulce hoja de limón, a sudor salado
y a tierra humedecida. Manos callosas y húmedas
florecen la tierra.

Contributing Poets: 2009-2010

from Reneé Weissenburger's Madwoman Series

2009-05-12T11:32:00.000-07:00

Woman Who Knows Her Colors (2009)

2009-04-28T17:03:00.000-07:00

El cowboy mentiroso

2009-04-21T00:59:00.001-07:00

Ephemeral Fish

2009-04-19T23:33:00.000-07:00

"Imagining Work and Poverty in Tomás Rivera's novel . . . y no se lo tragó la tierra / . . . And the Earth Did Not Devour Him"

2009-04-16T04:43:00.000-07:00

To see the lecture, visit http://www.3cmediasolutions.org/pages/programming/Archives/CampusExplorationsSpring07.html

Wieslaw Sadurski's Creative Street Art, Poet

2009-04-10T02:18:00.000-07:00

Wieslaw Sadurski, Polish artist, based in Berlin presents photography, poetry and 40 years painting and graphic artworks on Art Canvas Prints. For more information on the artist, visit http://www.wisarts.com

The Laundry Mat

2009-04-06T00:24:00.000-07:00

http://lavanderiahome.net/

“ . . . Girls — to do the dishes
Girls—to clean up my room
Girls —to do the laundry
Girls —and in the bathroom . . .”
—The Beastie Boys

There were two chores I hated the most about being a girl: ironing and washing someone else’s clothes. The piles and piles of dad and mom’s dress clothes on top of our clothes seemed endless (thank God father worked in construction or else long sleeve dress shirts would have added more to the pile). As soon as mom started setting up el burro—the ironing board—in what should have been half a dining room, but we used as a bedroom instead, I began my whining.

“Mamá—pero, ¿por qué tengo que planchar—yo—la ropa de mi papá?”[1]
“¡Ay! Sofía eres tan floja.”[2]
“Es que no entiendo. Yo no me pongo la ropa de mi ‘apa. Pero, ¿por qué yo?”[3]
“¡Ay! Sofía, ¿ya vamos a empezar? ¡Eres una contestona! Esa boca. Esa lengua tuya. ¿A quien salistes en lo contestón?” [4]

When I nagged, mother’s facial gestures expressed her disappointment in me as she turned her face away. What had she done to deserve such a lazy daughter like myself? With a cold bitter laugh, mother would respond, “Porque es tu papá,”[5] which I never understood.

Because we couldn’t afford a fancy steam iron, mom was practical; instead of using a spray bottle, mom sprayed dad’s dress shirts including other garments with her mouth. She gracefully spat on each garment lying on el burro.

Ironing was always an all-nighter that seemed endless and agonizing for a third grader. I hated ironing dad’s dress shirts—or anything that required special care and required mom’s supervisory instructions.

Having to live in apartments also meant we needed to fight over laundromat visitation rights. If anybody left her or his clothing unattended and the dryer or washer cycle ended, my sister had to spy to check if anyone was coming, and I’d quickly take out the clothing and place it on a folding table and quickly place ours inside and then run to our apartment; otherwise, we’d be washing and drying all day.

When we moved from Vista to San Marcos, that’s when I noticed that chores strategically favored the boys in the family. For instance, we girls never carried out the trash—just heavy laundry baskets mounted with dirty clothes.

Dad would drop us of at the laundry mat on Mission Avenue next to the cows to wash and fold everything from heavy king sized blankets to dad’s dirty and not so white underwear. Bras and underwear were the most embarrassing garments to dry, especially when red or not so new underwear fell to the ground while we checked the clothes in the dryer. (If an undergarment accidentally fell, it’s not like we could ignore it and just leave it there when it was clear that we were watching each other.) For us, if someone looked at our underclothes, it was as if they were looking at our naked bodies. (It was the equivalent of watching feminine hygiene commercials in front of boys or worse—dad.) Oh my God! ¡Trágame tierra![6]

Sometimes, when we barely had enough quarters and single dollar bills in our imitation Ziploc bag to spare, I would window shop at the vending machine with its snacks and cigarettes and stared, admiring the package labels with the bright oranges and mustardy yellows.
While we waited for the washer to end, we sat on the orange laundromat chairs (bolted to the ground in case anyone tried to steal them, I suppose), and my eyes began to wander—the graffiti, the announcements, the tile floor that needed a broom and a mop, the Spanish newspapers with the sexy ladies with their back to the readers wearing a two piece—a thong and high heels, and the constant drop off and pick up of wives and daughters.

Swinging my feet back and forth out of boredom, I would stare at the dryer’s circular-glass door with the thick-black trim, where garments would slowly go round and round and round and round, painting a picture of a vanilla and chocolate ice cream swirl, which was like meditating in front of a TV screen. Another dryer gave form to motley of colors from the palette of Matisse’s bright yellows, blacks, oranges and greens that Ms. Watson, my favorite Art teacher had lectured on.

And then, the dryer would come to a stop, and the colors would take their true forms in need of folding.

[1] “Mom, but why do I have to iron dad’s clothes?”
[2] “Oh, Sofía you’re so lazy.”
[3] “It’s just that I don’t understand. I don’t wear dad’s clothes. But, why me?”
[4] “Oh! Sofía, are you going to start? You always talk back!That mouth. That tongue of yours. Where did you learn that from?”
[5] “Because he’s your dad”
[6] “Earth devour me!”

Manos de Azúcar

2009-03-31T23:52:00.000-07:00

"st. valentine" / "san valentín" (poems)

2009-03-23T22:09:00.000-07:00

rolled rolled his head bursting red red
petals of blood

y rodó y rodó su cabeza derramando pétalos rojos rojísimos
de sangre

2009-03-23T01:14:00.001-07:00

Bertha (2004)

2009-03-22T21:32:00.000-07:00

"Cuento de hadas (Fairytale)"

2009-03-21T14:18:00.000-07:00

http://crate.ucr.edu

I.

When Eve had one eye
and no breasts,
and Adán had no testicles
in The Garden Peacock
of Feathers in Bloom.
Huitzilopochtli warned,
“You can eat all the apples you wish.
But don’t you dare come
near the mango, avocado,
banana and chirimoyo trees.”
Huitzilopochtli gave them his back—
and said he’d be back.

Eve stared into Adán’s eyes.
Adán stared at her eye.
They roamed for twelve moons
and got quite bored eating
golden huasheentohn apples all day.
What a bore, thought Adán.

II.

One day Adán went fishing
at a different fishing spot and
smelled a familiar smell.
He grabbed a branch and
wrapped his legs, pushed down
with his left foot and pulled
his body up with his left arm.
He sat propped up on the mango tree.
And the smell of skin, meat, flesh consumed
him with vertigo . . .
had never tasted anything quite like it.
What a bore—those apples.
No wonder Huitzilopochtli said
to eat as many rotten apples
as we pleased, he thought
as he took that last lick of his pinky finger.
Huitzi would never find out,
and he took two more for Eve.

On the other side of the garden,
Eve looked at the calla lilies,
their protruding yellow pistils.
Near the purple hydrangeas,
she spotted a yellow banana tree
that reminded her too much of
the calla lilies. She pulled down
the giant, green leaves and
grabbed a small canoe like banana
and swallowed it in one bite.
Huitzilopochtli and Adán would
never find out. She ate it;
there was no guilt.

As Eve walked back,
she spotted a tall avocado tree.
She took one—would spread its insides
on tortilla leaves. She prepared
her molcajete salsa and ate the
avocado with delight all by herself.

The next day Eve and Adán woke up
to find skin, meat, and flesh.
Eve had grown two mangos,
and Adán had grown two avocados
and a chiquita banana between his legs!

. . . So Eve went on yet another walk
and found the chirimoyo tree;
she was repelled by the toad like fruit.
Her tongue went right through the peel
and devoured skin, meat and flesh—and
accidentally swallowed a round brown seed.

Eve came home with two eyes.
Adán stared at her; his body contorted
and changed shapes.
Huitzilopochtli had cursed Adán,
thought Eve.

Out of nowhere, Huitzilopochtli
came around the corner;
he foamed, salivated and smiled,
“You have tasted from the chirimoyo,
from the mango, from the banana,
and from the avocado trees.
And this is good.”

"Shattered Beer Bottles"

2009-03-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

To see "Shattered Beer Bottles,"

please visit Fringe Magazine at

http://www.fringemagazine.org/lit/vintage/shattered-beer-bottles-vintage-fringe/

"Made in América"

2009-03-21T13:54:00.000-07:00

Street window to Paradise
under a blanket of smog, where chiseled mannequins with their suffocating plastic faces
stare at passersby.
On a street vendor’s cart,
bacon strips wrap an American wiener drenched in oil
on an infernal metal plate with a 2” jalapeño on the side.

Upturning an empty stomach—
before the sight. A stench
of dry urine hobbles by. Fingers
reach into a Sesame Street trash can. For breakfast, no
green ham and eggs this morning but a 5” beheaded cold hot dog with a he anorexic’s
wet saliva
on its tip.

In a river
of gringolandia desires. Shakra, Sooki and Sonia’s Lingerie stand side by side in L.A.’s intimate wardrobe corner from blue contact lenses to pirate copies of the
Passion of Christ
(No foreign books, paper and pens
on sale here).

On the road, uninterrupted commercial
billboards—Cherriegirls.com with blonde synthetic wigs trap an American beauty in a
spotless
rearview mirror.

"Welcome to the City of Valladolid" / "Bienvenido a la Ciudad de Valladolid"

2009-03-21T13:46:00.000-07:00

Where dogs don’t bark and children don’t smile
Where ears point straight up like a German shepherd under attack
Where people say “Good Bye” instead of “Hello”
Where dirty cigarette butts and white crumpled napkins decorate every Café Bar floor
Where gypsies understand the Art of the human stare
Where there are no fences but instead invisible trenches
Where vallisoletanos push their way through without a pardon me or an excuse me

Farewell Valladolid, with me I take your piercing Tongue, Evil Eye, and Judas Kiss

Bienvenido a la Ciudad de Valladolid (Spanish Translation)

Donde los perros no ladran y los niños no sonríen
Donde las orejas están paradas como las de un pastor alemán bajo ataque
Donde la gente dice “Hasta Luego” en vez de un “Hola”
Donde las colillas y servilletas sucias blancas decoran todos los suelos Café Bar
Donde los gitanos entienden el arte de la mirada humana
Donde no hay muros pero sí trincheras invisibles
Donde los vallisoletanos abren camino empujando a la gente sin un “Con permiso” o un “Dispense Usted”

Adiós Valladolid: Me llevo tu Lengua penetrante, tu Mal de Ojo, y tu Beso de Judas
Welcome to the Ancient Capital City of Valladolid

Fences (2004)

2009-03-21T13:43:00.001-07:00

"Stray Dog"

2009-03-21T13:38:00.000-07:00

". . . There comes a time when the endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable patience."
– Martin Luther King, Jr., “Letter from Birmingham Jail”

He might as well been a stray dog lying on the side of the road with an open gash with entrails exposed with no name with no one to call and no one to claim. He might as well been a stray dog without a nametag because no one even knew his name. Black man worries about the owner's son, the manager, who is currently upstairs. They insist that only his friends help when strangers attempt to help. This black security forgets he has just dropped this little Mexican man's head on the metal bar stool's foot. White boy comes down and lets me know I have no say. "This has already been taken care of. This is none of your business! Stay out of it!" is his response in my face as he turns his back on me. They forget there are more Mexican people around and see the evidence carried out in the rain by other Mexicans—refuse to call 911. One altercation after another mixed with rancor and humiliation. What shall I do when I am wearing high heels, bleeding red lipstick and brown for skin? Because now, they have turned a constructed femininity against me. The owner's son says I have a reputation for causing trouble at this place. He does not even know my name! The officer replies, "What ever you two have going on, should stay out." How is this so, I ask myself, "Did not Frederick Douglass side with women in the suffrage movement?" A century later, I am full of emptiness of anger of distress. Are my words inaudible? At the scene, the police officer, also a white man reminds these two victims of racism that this man could lose his life. Blood slowly oozes from his mouth. Clinically unconscious and must be flown away in emergency life flight.

"Air of Complicity"

2009-03-21T13:05:00.000-07:00

“Desculpa é só uma pergunta. Vocè acredita no Amor?”

I fell in love with the violin, with the cigarette smoke, and the vinho Porto that inebriated that place of enormous rocks; fortress that trapped my thought. Of the dim light that lit small pieces of paper, allowing letters to appear upon their surface. On the reverse of my bill, Martini 1,50 / Martini 1,50 / Martini. . .

With his fingers that played like big-bellied, crazed bees on top of frigid strings at dawn. With the yellow Portuguese Suave cigarette boxes on top of the blue fluorescent mantle piece. With a distant and solitary candle whose flare did not cease illuminating.

With the bent nape of his neck and of cheek that held the violin. Of the thin and wooden stick that hardened against strings that cried out their touch. With the fully erected cigarettes in between fingers in an air of complicity.

With his arm that embraced the violin that not once refrained from rising and falling on top of those volatile strings. With the crystal clear tubes of Martini. Enamored with a swig from a beer bottle, the serpentine shaped couch and the splendorous spider webs against the ceiling.

I fell in love with its sonorous honeyed cantata full of Beethoven and Mozart. In love with the stupor, with their lost gaze and endless claps. With his humble and silent adieu that grew with crescendo and fomented in the coração.

“Desculpa. Seus dedos são como abelhas porque produzem Mel.”
“Muito obrigado.”

Valentinos (Café Bar, Esplanda)
Porto, Portugal

"Reincarnation" (Poem) / Ascending Stairs (B&W Photograph)

2009-03-20T23:35:00.000-07:00

In the XVI century, Juana, daughter of Isabella “The Catholic” and Ferdinand of Aragón, is accused of being mad; meanwhile, her father and Phillip appropriate her throne. She remains recluse in St. Clare’s Convent until the day of her death.

Reincarnation

Below, I leave images of
Juan de Juni’s Jacent Christ, Crucified Christ
and the body
of the church of San Antolín.

My feet kiss each and every
one of these snail shaped
cold stone staired steps.

On top, I can see clearer through
this steel barred window.
Rumor loses itself in the wind’s murmur

The sun hides behind the clouds
like Philip between
those wenches’ legs.

Below, gossip stirs
from tongue to tongue
here in Tordesillas and all of Castile.

Look there!

Pigeons fly over the Duero River
Ripples leaving not
a trace of their sweet touch.
Tis’ not the steel rods that
halt my unfurling.
I don’t fly as
the birds
because I am not mad.

Listen to what thou say,

Even if thou steal my throne,
I love Philip and thine life
I will always be the
Sovereign Queen of Castile.

"La nube me persigue"

2009-03-20T23:13:00.000-07:00

I.

voy como esfinge volando en el mar
sin poder descifrar mi propia rima

voy como pegaso galopando hacia la cima
del monte olimpo intentando pisar cielo

intento succionar ambrosía
intento succionar
sustancia

hartos están mis cabellos de tragar y oler a mierda—bragas
impregnadas de este olor asfixiante

II.

niegan que desmoronan
como estos muros medievales

se nubla la realidad

deslizan sus nervios—ahogan
mis pensamientos

salgo corriendo de este edificio
infestado llamado facultad de
filología y letras

"Brown Child"

2009-03-17T22:25:00.000-07:00

Yaah, a chaanpal born of you
and me—of blood and corn—not another
blind seed in my womb—not the salt
running
down my Olmeca—Tamoanchán face.

Eyes the shape of
your sábalito fish eyes or
my ox seed eyes and with
your Chac nose—with
my mother’s crossed-eyes
looking inward—a sign of
beauty in the Mayan people—and
an owl or dove’s beak
for a mouth.

I ask for a chaanpal born of
you and me—not the fishing
for blood-covered plumbs in the waters
of the Usumancita River—on my knees

searching for the
the little torn arm and leg
of a conenetl on the river shore.

I ask for palms that
will beat the drum to
the sound of the earth’s heart—fingers
that will not be embarrassed
to weave petacas

that will hold tomorrow’s
sun-shaped corn and weave
petates that will serve as
tonight’s dream holders,
the tamal and the atole pedestals, or
our muertos last dress.

Copper brown skin
standing
firmly between the papaya
and guayaba trees—not afraid
to climb and hold tight to the branches
and tumble down like an earthshaken
banana falling from
its dying dark
brown stem.

A conenetl for the love of the leaf,
the quetzal feather, and threadlike
insides sharpening
the white
maize
teeth.

And yaah, you ask
what about the hair . . .

With your hair—the
signal of no defeat. An
indefinable midnight
black rooster blue. Or

a chaanpal with
warrior hair that will
never conform—a chaanpal—not the
drinking
of rue to empty
a forsaken
belly.

I ask for a conenetl and
you, Yaah—not the returning of salt
marking
my Tamoanchán face.

"El huevo"[1]

2009-03-17T22:20:00.000-07:00

http://urbanxic.com/books-zines/mujeres_de_maiz/index.html

Mother took the egg and blessed it in our small bedroom apartment. Then, she blessed my little brother with the egg and made the sign of the cross several times. For two days throughout the night, my brother kept waking up with a startled cry, for no apparent reason because he didn’t have a fever or colic. Estaba asustado.[2] Mother kept repeating several prayers—good prayers, of course, like the ones I learned prior to my First Communion while she carefully rubbed el huevo on my brother—not missing a single part of his little body.

When mother was done, she cracked the egg carefully and dropped it into a glass of water. The yolk dropped slowly to the bottom of the glass, and some spirits dropped to the bottom, and then other spirits rose to the top of the glass. He’ll need several limpias mom said aloud as she observed the glass of water and the egg. It was true—the boy was scared. But mother never shared her knowledge about the egg and its healing powers with anyone like the day she was talking to her neighbor while I was pretending to wash dishes.

“ . . . ¿Usted—sabe curar a los niños de susto?”[3]
“—Sí vecina.”[4]
“¿Y cómo los cura vecina?[5]
“—Pues, con rezos, ¿y usted?[6]
“Pos también—con un “Padre Nuestro” y tres “Ave Marías”[7]
“Igual—con rezos—vecina.”[8]
“— ¿Y cómo va su árbol de guayabas?”[9]
“Bien vecina. Este año el árbol nos dio muchas guayabas. Déjeme agarrarle un bolsa de la tienda la Lacky para darle unas cuantas guayabitas.”[10]
“Ay vecina—me da mucha vergüenza con usted. Va decir que nomás vine a pedirle guayabas. . .”[11]
“¿Cómo cre vecina? Por favor, ni diga eso. Bórrese esa idea de la mente. Ándele véngase.” [12]

[1] “The Egg”
[2] He was scared, meaning that something or someone, and sometimes something supernatural, had scared the child.
[3] “Do you—know how to cure a child’s fear?”
[4] “—Yes neighbor.”
[5] “And how do you cure them?”
[6] “—Well, with prayers. And yourself?”
[7] Well the same way with an “Our Father” and “Holy Marys”
[8] The same—with prayers—neighbor.
[9] “And how’s your guava tree?”
[10] “Good neighbor. This year the tree gave lot’s of guavas. Let me get a Lucky’s grocery bad and give you a few guavas.”
[11] “Oh neighbor—I’m embarrassed. You’re going to think that I just to ask for guavas...”
[12] "How can you think that? Please, don’t even say that. Erase that thought from your mind. Come on—let’s go."

Llorona (2004)

2009-03-17T21:45:00.000-07:00