Thursday, January 29, 2015

Non-utopias | arnoldo garcía

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The options
our journey
are narrowing/
a super storm
a deep drought
an arctic quarry
an ocean drowning nations
a war of narco-utopians

have become
following the gravitational fields of their soul
ghost buffalo bringing back the humans
aztec dancers joining the swirling galaxies
disappeared women chanting away the desert graves
The transition has become forlorn
no socialist, communist, anarchist realm
awaits on the other side of the barricades or the borders
Your body
has become
the most feared weapon
the only organism capable of self-destruction
destroying the habitat of our ancestors' womb
or restoring our place in the geo-cosmic formation of planters | gatherers
The capitalist realm
The one percent of the one percent
The country of those
who take
the fat of the unborn
have broken the circle,
their circle with humanity
No space ship
No virtual reality
No acid trips
No latter day saints
can transport them out of this christian mess
They crucify the new Jesus on drones
They bomb the new Mohammed at weddings
They grovel at the lungs of our last new Buddhists breath
The holy story has never referred to us the immigrant-indian landless shadow
The holy story is emptiness, erasing our names with zeros, ones and police guns
Nobody understands that our story is in the soil
Nobody realizes that our voices roar, hum and weave the rivers and ocean waves
Nobody who is white or gullible of their shadows understands.
There is no industrial solution
There is no socialist revolution
There is no European pagan sun
Einstein's theorems
Marx's das kapital
My grandmother's plants and prayers
are no match for this problem born in 1492...

The revolution is to be human:
Leave the natural world alone
Turn off
Tune in
Go off-line?
Only the wind, the dust, the waters, the moon, the sun, our smiles are wireless
The rest is either a fiction or a faction of our imagination.
We fight for the right to be in our black and brown skins without fear
We fight for the right to live in community with the natural light
We fight for the right to sing our song in any key in any tone in any frequency
so that bees and butterflies are not molested
so that maize and pollen are free to make love with humans and insects
We have arrived
at the shores
of a broken world
beatened men
impaled women
unlucky new borns
who have inherited a war of worlds
payable through an electronic debit plan
You cannot download utopia or useless ancestors
Your laptop will never have enough memory to install the new old world...

Sunday, January 25, 2015

what is lost | arnoldo garcía

I cannot take back
what I lost
what I lost
now belongs to another
If I take back
what I lost
I will have to take it away
from another I
I cannot take back
what I lost
what I lost
is only found in my memory
a body that needs another
to be found
to be whole
to be un-lost
without having to take back
from another
who is just
another I
Another I
who is lost
And cannot take me back
without taking away from me
what is lost...

Sunday, October 26, 2014

The human story that turns against herself

The human story that turns against herself: forced migrations. Humanity became humanity when she rose up and started walking, following the rhythms and flows of the natural world.

The first migrations were forced by the changes that occurred in the relationship between humans and the natural world. These changes in turn affected and transformed the relationships between humans and humans and those relationships in turn affected the natural world. Our skin, our pigment, tells the story of longer and shorter stays along the longitudes and latitudes of the world. Movement was indispensable till someone, a woman or women, more than likely, among the humans took note of the seeds and caught them at the headwaters of the natural world.

My ancestors walked toward the horizons cut by the rising and falling of the sun. The earth tilted for its seasonal bows to the sun, creating longer and shorter days, shifting the human settlements.

Human movement has been an indicator of social, economic and cultural development. The only borders the earliest human migrations knew were bio-regional, geophysical and followed the movements and migrations of other earthly species more in tune with the gravity of the world. Migration is a shared story among all two-legged, four-legged and other species who like humans were connected to the magnetic fields of life herself.

Along with movement and migrations, all species share the water to live and procreate life and her cycles and her plants and offerings among species to share the energy of the constellations of earthly life in all her shapes and forces. Movement, water and plants are now subjugated to the dominant industrial modes of human settlements.

To be human is to be a nomad.

The most human of humanity today are migrants, who have been forced to leave or flee for their lives, to survive, a cosmic spiral of sorts that links migrants to her first ancestors, who changed their relationships and became more human by walking together.

--arnoldo garcía

Monday, July 07, 2014

my status is Palestine

My status is Palestine
There are no walls between our lands, our skins, our hearts
Palestine is the horizon of humanity
I am Palestine
I am nomad on the longest walk to return to her
Palestine: either we are all free or we are all fucked.
Hold my hand
Hold my body
Hold my head
Hold my tears
From your bed to the workplace
From the long-distance phone calls to your voice
Hold me Palestine
Her first name is love
Her last name is peace
She will hold me
For she is Palestine
The land is Palestine
The sea is Palestine
The sky is Palestine
The moon is Palestine
The sun is Palestine

wherever I stand
wherever I dream
wherever I cry
wherever I love
wherever I live and die

My status, write it down, is Palestine ...

Sunday, July 06, 2014

ABC's Palestine Free Free Free!

Amantes Yes
apartheid no
Beauty Yes
border walls no
Collective Tenderness Yes
collective punishment no
Democracy Yes
dictatorship no
Equality Yes
expulsions no
Freedom yes
fascism no
Gaza Yes
garrisons no
Hugs Yes
hate no
Intifada Yes
identity cards no
Justice Yes
jackals no
Keffiyehs Yes
kkkisraelis no
Land Yes
landlords no
Mohammed Abu Khudeir Yes
military murderer-monsters no
Nectar Yes
nakba no
Orgasms Yes
occupation no
Palestine Yes
police-state no
Qasidas Yes
qualudes no
Return Yes
racism no
Solidarity soul Yes
settlers no
Tierra أرض Yes
takers no
Uprisings Yes
Untrammeled people Yes
Victory Yes
victims no
Water Yes
weapons no
X of the heart Yes
x of the barbed-wire no
Yearning Yes
Y of the arms open to embraces Yes
Y of the Palestinian flag fluttering in my veins Yes
Zhrah Yes
Zatoon Yes
Zahra Yes
Palestine free yes...

Saturday, May 17, 2014

arnoldo garcía: soledades

I cannot possess you
anymore than you can possess
the wind, the water, the land
And I will never possess you or the land
Yet all I want is to be buried in you
So that you can possess me
Turning me into
a flurry of wind
dust across your watery back
a muddy caress of your feet...

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

arnoldo garcia: I want to share the moon with you...

I want to share the moon with you...
holy bread
pale burnt tortilla
pock-marked face
rotting mirror
antarctic slip
wounded smile
loudspeaker of suns
disposable tambourine
frying cymbal
griddled plane
ingestable hands

I want to cut my wrists with the moon...
so all the oceans will come gushing out
becoming impotent crayons and a scar of dark matter
on either tear ducts of your sex

I want to become the moon
translucent serpent
transitive kiss
fugitive son
the library of all memories
a bed of erotic servitude
a coyote of sadness
a minstrellated lung
the cyclical war
of time and menses

I give you the moon
a pact of dusks to hold you
an endless unforgetting
shells, caracoles, topographies of soul
my effigy-tongue
to burn as an offering to castigate the men

I make you the moon
a quilt of contradictions
a multilingual kiss
where the sun snipped
the umbilical chord of swallows
drowning your grief with her laughter
strumming the curves of the water
the clan of your eclipse
putting down the rabid sun
the reader of my calloused palms