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Bern, Switzerland

Rome, Italy

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Meu amigo—o cão

Poets' Duel at the Centro Cultural Tijuana (CECUT)

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

“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)

Fe Montes and D'Lo












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

My Roots (Michoacán)

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

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

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"

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)

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

Holy Mother of . . .

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/

Camécuaro, Michoacán (México)

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.

Turtle Island to Abya Yala Benifit Show

Photo taken by Ishmael Agnimitra Elias

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

from Reneé Weissenburger's Madwoman Series

Woman Who Knows Her Colors (2009)

El cowboy mentiroso