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.”
17 April 2010
26 March 2010
24 March 2010
Manuel Lozano's "Ode to Adelita" from Seeds of Rebellion (Texas)
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
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
08 March 2010
Lizzie Stark's "Interview with Sonia Gutiérrez"
To read "Interview with Sonia Gutiérrez," visit Fringe Magazine at
http://www.fringemagazine.org/blog/interview-with-sonia-gutierrez/
http://www.fringemagazine.org/blog/interview-with-sonia-gutierrez/
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
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