20 February 2010
23 January 2010
Luis Ángel, Clavadista
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.
20 December 2009
04 December 2009
From the Machete to the Shovel
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
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
28 April 2009
21 April 2009
19 April 2009
16 April 2009
10 April 2009
Wieslaw Sadurski's Creative Street Art, Poet
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
06 April 2009
The Laundry Mat
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!”
“ . . . 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!”
31 March 2009
23 March 2009
"st. valentine" / "san valentín" (poems)
rolled rolled his head bursting red red
petals of blood
y rodó y rodó su cabeza derramando pétalos rojos rojísimos
de sangre
petals of blood
y rodó y rodó su cabeza derramando pétalos rojos rojísimos
de sangre
22 March 2009
21 March 2009
"Cuento de hadas (Fairytale)"
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.”
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"
To see "Shattered Beer Bottles,"
please visit Fringe Magazine at
http://www.fringemagazine.org/lit/vintage/shattered-beer-bottles-vintage-fringe/
please visit Fringe Magazine at
http://www.fringemagazine.org/lit/vintage/shattered-beer-bottles-vintage-fringe/
"Made in América"
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.
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"
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
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
.JPG)
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