Friday, April 30, 2010

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arnoldo garcía

[Scribblings for Poems 29 and 30 April Poetry Month]

these are poetic deviations
doctrinal disasters
for power
for individualism
for my heart
to beat the crooked
root into the sky
waggle our legs
in the sea
swim in the wind

*

1. una llamarada
(habla
una ternura de camarada)
2. tu voz entra a la electricidad alámbrica e inalámbrica
para llegar completa
a mis oídos
(y entre la electricidad
de los kilómetros y
kilómetros que se estiran
sobre montañas, llanos
y ciudades
corriendo por los alambres tendidos sobre los postes
que desfilan al lado
de las carreteras solitarias
tu voz delgada llega tras
las olas eléctricas ondas traspasadoras
3.esto te puede matar, sí
esto sí te puede matar.
poesía y amor
gasolina y fuego
una bomba molotov
es lo que cargo en mi pecho
que ustedes le llaman corazón
una bomba molotov
para las luchas callejeras contigo
traigo sangre combustible
y palabras eléctricas
para ponerle fuego a tus sentidos
4. que se acaben las mentiras
que se ahoguen
en mi garganta ronca
que se mueran todas
y que triunfe la ternura...

*
sovereignty
is the self-inflicted wound
of lovers
who make themselves free

*

tu cuerpo
le habla
a mi cuerpo
químico
una arma biológica
un terremoto de ondas y olas
que me estremecen
no aguanto mi propio sexo
me transformo en agua, lluvia
truenos
tu cuerpo un relámpago
de huesos, senos, labios, electricidad
luz en el techo
tu cuerpo
la habla
al mío
y me transformas en silencio
que gime en los pulmones
que gira en mis irises
que se libera con tus manos
tu cuerpo cerca del mío
y ni las sombras
ni las opiniones
importan
el mundo desaparece
en tu risa
y el sol explota entre mis
piernas o mi lengua trabada
por las vibras
de tu cuerpo

*

for my grandfather purépecha

When you are the Cloud people
the clouds are the most powerful
(my grandfather's words)
When you are the Mud people
mixtery, fusion, convergence, gestation
muddy waters' mongrelity is the most
powerful
(my heart mestizaje of lands' words, mixtery of cloud, rain, dust)
When memory is an infinite
fragmentation bomb
then we are everywhere
(the chorus)

*

Seismic skin
your hands transform me
turn me into a tremor
your skin against mine
(the earth quakes
our jaws unlock)
I am buried in the rubble of my existence

*

I am
a glutton
for words
It's not just
that I want you
your body,
it's that your mind
is strapped
to your body
and I cannot
get to your
mind
except
through
your
body.

*

los deberes del che

El deber de cada
revolucionario
es hacer revoluciones
El deber de cada
poeta
es hacer poesía
El deber de cada
activista
es hacer actividades en la calle
El deber de cada
movimiento
es hacer movidas movimientos
El deber de cada
pensador
es hacer pensamientos
El deber de cada
caminante
es hacer caminos
El deber de cada
barbudo
es hacernos las barbas
El deber de cada
rebelde
es hacer rebeliones
El deber de cada
mártir
es hacer martirios a martillazos
El deber de cada
muerto
es deshacer a la muerte
El deber de cada
vivo
es rehacer la vida
El deber de cada
espíritu
es cantar espirituales
El deber de cada
lengua
es hacer lenguajes
El deber de cada
triste
es hacer tristezas
El deber de cada
mesero
es hacer mesas
El deber de cada
endeudado
es deshacer deudas
El deber de cada
pobre
es deshacer la pobreza
El deber de cada
rico
es deshacerse de sus riquezas
El deber de cada
cubano
es hacer Cuba
El deber de cada
color
es hacer arcoirises
El deber de cada
ruido
es hacer oídos
El deber de cada
loco
es hacer locuras
El deber de cada
enfermo
es hacer enfermedades
El deber de cada
sucio
es hacer suciedades
El deber de cada
socio
es hacer sociologías
El deber de cada
obrera
es hacer obras
El deber de cada
mujer
es deshacer mujeriegos
El deber de cada
hombre
es deshacerse de ser hombre
El deber de cada
anciano
es deshacer ansiedades
El deber de cada
ansioso
es hacerse anciano
El deber de cada
terremoto
es hacer temblores
El deber de cada
moco
es hacer estornudos gordianos
El deber de cada
che
es hacer guevaristas
El deber de cada
helado
es redetirse
El deber de cada
religión
es hacer religiosos
El deber de cada
liberado
es hacer liberaciones
El deber de cada
encarcelado
es deshacer cárceles
El deber de cada
sonrisa
es hacer sonrientes
El deber de cada
zapatero
es hacer zapatistas
El deber de cada
erección
es hacer insurrecciones
El deber de cada
orgasmo
es desdoblar los origamis del ombligo
El deber de cada
nalga
es hacer nalgadas
El deber de cada
garrapata
es hacer garabateos
El deber de cada
cucaracha
es hacer cucharadas
El deber de cada
diccionario
es hacer adicciones
El deber de cada
nervioso
es hacer nervios
El deber de cada
semáforo
es hacer señales
El deber de cada
montaña
es hacer guerrillas
El deber de cada
guerrilla
es cuidar montañas
El deber de cada
lluvia
es hacer charcos e inundaciones
El deber de cada
sequía
es hacer asequias
El deber de cada
dios
es hacer pordioseros
El deber de cada
pordiosero
es hacerse dios
El deber de cada
puerco
es hacer porquerías
El deber de cada
palabra
es hacer palaobreros
El deber de cada
hechicero
es hacerse hechos
El deber de cada
calavera
es calar de veras
El deber de cada
desnudo
es hacer nudos
El deber de cada
nudo
es desnudarse
El deber de cada
explotado
es hacer explosiones
El deber de cada
oprimido
es hacer opresiones
El deber de cada
deprimido
es hacer depresiones
El deber de cada
largo
es alargarse
El deber de cada
crucificado
es hacer resurrecciones insurreccionales
El deber de cada
cana
es hacer canosos
El deber de cada
embarazada
es desembarazar a los imbarazables
El deber de cada
callejón sin salida
es abrirse a la poesía y a los carros abandonados
El deber de cada
sombra
es asombrarnos por ser fiel al sol
El deber de cada
ahogado
es desahogarse
El deber de cada
llanto
es hacer livianos los pesares
El deber de cada
deber
es hacernos soveranos

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

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arnoldo garcía

Manos incómodas / Uncomfortable hands

Ella con sus manos incómodas
teclando sueños sin electricidad
cabeceando sí sí, ignorando al público
Qué diría la tierra sin nosotros
qué haría la naturaleza sin tantos
carros y chimeneas qué haría
yo sin ella?

Las cáscaras del tiempo
la migajas de las carcajadas
las urnas de tu piel y amor

La dictadura de tus ojos
tu cintura, espacio cósmico para mis manos

El ruido de la periódicos en guerras
la ventana de tu lengua
el lenguaje de tu envidia
la verdura de tu vientre
las costillas de tus palabras
los campos de concentración
donde el ajedrez es un horno
para sublevar soles y antepasados
el deseo de no tener deseo
el deseo de aburrirme ante tus desastres
para que veas que todo está bien
El diálogo de bayonetas y trincheras
Los bemoles de las llantas
los blues de las carreteras a las
tres de la mañana
Tus labios come-lunas, luna de crema
y pecados con vela llena de mojados
clandestinos sin papeles sin cosmos
sin estrellas sin nada pero con tierra
y camposantos donde viven para morir
en una fábrica en Chicago o de
autonomía en el sudeste mesoamericano
qué sería de los horizontes sin tus
cadáveres, sin tus pecados falsificados,
fraudes electorales y monturas
silvestres? Qué será de mí sin
tinta y ternura, las ametralladoras
de mis sentidos, qué será
si nunca tengo el tiempo para
escucharte, para tocar la infinidad
de tu cuerpo y su cosmos, curvas y caricias?

*

She with her uncomfortable hands
clicking dreams on a keyboard without electricity
moving her head back and forth, yes, yes, ignoring the public
What would the earth say without us
what would the natural world do without so many
cars and smokestacks what would
I do without her?

The peels of time
the scraps of belly laughs
the urns of you skin and love

The dictatorship of your eyes
Your cosmic waist, space for my hands
the noise of newspapers in wars
the window of your tongue
the language of your envy
the verdure the fresh greens of your womb
the ribs of your words
the concentration camps
where chess is an oven
to organize uprisings of suns and ancestors
The desire of not having desires
the desire of boring myself with your disasters
so that you see that everything is ok.
The dialogue of bayonets and trenches
the b-flats of tires
the blues of the highway at
three in the morning
Your moon-eating lips, moon of foamy cream
and sins with a wind-filled sail full of clandestine
wetbacks without papers without a cosmos
without stars without nothing except land
and holy ground where they live to die
in a factory in Chicago or from
autonomy in the Mesoamerican Southeast
What would become of the horizons without your
cadavers, without your forged sins,
electoral frauds and wild
saddles? What will become of me without
ink and tenderness, the machine-guns
of my five senses, what will of me
if I never have the time to
listen to you, touch the infinity
of your body and your cosmos, curved spaces and caresses?

NOTE: Poem 28 for April Poetry Month 2010.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

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Arnoldo García

curanderas dignidad

The curanderas put their hands on
my body, rubbed my skin with
plants and the palms of their
penetrating hands. My body
becomes one body as their
hands shape and pull at
every contour and curve of my
body. The curandera is the
body of bodies, who embrace
themselves, who absorb all
my sorrows, ghosts and
pain massaging me into
myself: I have a curandera,
therefore my body exists.
I am reassured of the
existence of the world, the
cosmos and my body where
her hands reside, live,
struggle, dream, become and
make my body real. My grandmother,
who healed with her thoughts, prayers
eyes and hands, had three bodies:
her body as mother, lover and
grandmother.
Her body as a woman who loved
other women equally and in
some cases more than she loved
her husband and her family and
even herself.
Her body as a healer, a curandera,
who negated her own body
who leapt out of her body
to make your body bodily, a
maternal temple, existence. This
was the only body capable of holding
all her bodies together. She could
cuddle and nurture babies, even
baptize them when she didn't
believe in the baptizer.
Because she was a bodily-healer, she
died but her body continued living
not only in my body and in those
she healed and cared for
but in her own body. She rescued
us even after death, took care
of us after we buried her and
then came back to visit me
twice before saying farewell
to this place, this part, this dimension
of the world
she built, healed, smiled at,
cultivated flowers, plants and
fruits. The curandera is a
seed, floating, holding on,
taken care of, planted, cultivated,
watered, sprouting people and
flowering for the next
generations.
She wanted to be wanted and
she would dress as a man
to go to the dances and
dance with women, she would
charm and seduce and make
them whole, make each one
two women in one and she, three
women in one body forever
gestating herself, self-gestating
the community, her family, her
lovers. Her hands, her stretched
body stretched by having given
birth to six girsl and six boys,
were, are her dignity, not mute
out loud gentle tenderness from
her lips. She counseled:
if you are in a tight situation,
violence or humiliation aimed at
you, do not answer in-kind.
If you don't know what to do,
what to say, how to react:
respond with your dignity,
react with your dignity,
answer with your dignity
and nothing can stop you,
no one can get away from you
no one will raise their voice
against you because dignity
and nothing else will matter
Your dignity will shut down ignorance.
her dignity was the cure,
la curandera la dignidad

Monday, April 26, 2010

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Arnoldo García

Toppenish

Toppenish
was
my home
the rolling hills belonged to no one
yet drunk Indians and Mexicans thought they were theirs
(that is drunk Indians all).
Three syllables
three roots
dirt roads
cold seasons every winter
putting us in our place
My grandmother and grandfather
thought this place better than Texas
where whites lynched Mexicans
Here they strangled us with
hard labor in the fields
Even the Indians had to
change the spelling of their
names, their homeland
so that no one would confuse
Mexicans with Yakamas
that is whites only,
whites
who took their land
and made us work it
made fertile volcanic soil and dust
mesh with our sweats, our
dream of return
only to die paupers
without land, work or home
except in the cemetery.

Toppenish, rolling hills, makes
me dizzy
swallows me up
my soul is tumbleweed
dried up at the emrcy
of northern winds
Toppenish is my hose
my horizon my word
my roots also
buried there.
My hands lie fallow
I hibernate in dreams
of toxic-free seeds
and uneven rows
meant for walking
and not tractors
we grew up walking
migrant comet trails
blazing, cornstalks,
greenbeans, hops,
orchards across the
brown sky of the land
In Toppenish you see everything
and you see what you need to see
You cannot ignore me
or forget me in Toppenish.

I did not choose this land
This land did not choose me
or my people
Now she is mine and I hers
Toppenish is the wind become
mountains, hills, valley,
volcanic paths, migrant tomb,
laughter and bully.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

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arnoldo garcía

Poem/poema 25 de abril 2010

i don't want you
to read my thoughts
but here you are...

*

manos abiertas
ríos salvajes
territorios libres

*

que vuelva la tierra
que vuela la tierra
qué lengua la tierra
qué tierra la lengua
un lenguaje terrenal
un territorio lengual
tu y yo
lenguas-pueblos
comunidades-lenguas

*
eres de la noche
eres mi manifiesto nocturno
viento gira
alrededor
relámpago corta
al sufridor
polvo en mis pensamientos
surge el beso
más antiguo
en las armas
de tus brazos
por el reino
de tu amor

Saturday, April 24, 2010

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arno!do garcía

Your colonialism did this to me

Your skin did this to me
Your 99.9% dropless blood
Your redlining
Your redneck
Your monotone monolingual Christianity
Your tone-deaf tongue
Your flat-ass flat world
did this to me.

*

Notes for my Palestine war

Anwar Balousha
mourns his five daughters
killed by an Israeli Apache [sic]
helicopter that fired mssiles
at a mosque in Jabaliya
Anwar's house was destroyed
by the blasts
Four of his children escaped
Samar, six years old
Dina, seven years old
Jawaker, eight years ofld
Abram, 14
Tahnir, 17
were all crushed to death
where they slept
Five missiles
one for each daughter
Five daughters
one for each missile
five centuries
five Malinches
in the refugee camps
in the migrant camps
Israeli drones in the dark night
looking for their targets
using infrared television cameras
found the five sleeping beauties
five dreaming peace or love
or family or fast asleep resting
getting ready for the next day
But how do you get reay
for the next day of bombardments
of atrocities of F-16 jet fighter pilots
who destroy mosques,
homes, school, universities,
markets, killing and maiming
Palestinians?

Even the ruins are Palestinian.

*

Gaza,
all the missiles
all the bayonets
all the tanks
all the soldiers
all the armies
are hunting you
All they can do is give us time
to prepare for our turn at war
at the fountains of blood
where Israel is quenching
Palestine is rubble under the bombardments
crushed children crushed women
crushed men
who will continue resiting
as dust as ruins as slogans as martyrs
at our marches
as the ultimate dream of freedom
that can only be crushed
by an ignorant enemy

Nowhere to run or hide
what kind of satellite is needed
to hunt down a people
the tables are turned
Israel is driving Palestine
into the sea
and Palestine will become
the largest country in the world
Palestine Palestinian ocean
and you will have to be beg, ask permission on the knees of your ancestors and soul
for at least 500 years
to cross
to bathe
to swim
in our liquid nation
to enter into the realm of our catastrophic borders
the U.S. submarines will snk
the gunboats, the warships
the corporate petroleum pirates the nukes
will be grounded
Israel buries Palestin
and the Palestinians
grow roots an underground
seed that flowers
without dynamite strapped
to her waist
that furrows under and causes the occupation to cave in to sink
in the aquifers of our loud tender mouths
Israel makes Palestinians mourn, twists and maims
their bodies, blasts apart
children and measly armed men,
Israel believes he is winning
76% of the Israelies support the war
they lie, hate cannot be
measured by wars.

*

Oscar Gaza

Broken windows
over a man shot in the back
over a man unarmed
laying face down
with four cops on top of him
shot in the back
a case of a mistaken bullet?
But what color was this Gazan in East Oakland?
who breaks windows, burns cars
who shoots us in the back
who is guilty
who is free
where is Gaza
where is Oakland
where is your sea our ocean our country of open arms and caresses?

Note: these are poems 23 and 24 for April Poetry Month. I was unable to post the 23rd poem on April 23 because I was busy working with communities responding to the rising apartheid and Jim Crow segregation in Arizona, after AZ Governor Janet Brewer signed into law SB1070, which makes racial profiling and discrimination legal. SB1070 give police the power to question anyone they suspect of being undocumented and to investigate private and public agencies, employers if they are serving or hiring undocumented people. Take four actions for justice in Arizona and to denounce SB1070 here.]

Thursday, April 22, 2010

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arnoldo garcía

Migrant Incantations

échame tierra
sobre la cabeza y la cara
brota mi pecho con polvo
enloda mi lengua
échame tierra
porque me voy muy lejos de aquí
*
throw some dirt
over my head, let it run over my face
rub some dust on my breasts and chest
muddy my tongue
throw some dirt over me
because I am going far far away from here

*

To discuss
words with words
is the height
of consciousness
consciousness
of consciousness
the infinite molting
of consciousness
a head full of serpents
a chaos of
molecular currents pushing herself slithering making time and space
exploding at
the touch of air
blood the altitude of tenderness
tenderness the attitude of my blood

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

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Arnoldo García

Burma

can a few men with guns
rule
dominate
multitudes
of
peaceful
unarmed
nonviolent
monks
students
youth
day workers
who's in the army
who obeys orders to shoot the people
who commands the soldier to shoot the people
monks
students
youth
day workers
tear gas
scatters monks and pigeons
skyful of blood in the airwaves
can the thugs rule us
can the generals crush all the cameras
can the chief of police, the sheriff, the governor, the state senator, the racist
a few good haters
rule
dominate
ignore
the multitudes
of students
day laborers
Indians
immigrants
farmworkers
domestic workers
women with children
can a few men with guns rule the world
make the multitudes cower
destroy the earth
destroy our spirit our lands our communities
can they?
will we
the unarmed the peaceful the drunk on poetry & horizons
the ones who all we want to do is learn, laugh with the elders
can they really sentence us to life in prison in poverty
is a bayonette really more powerful than a pen a pencil solidarity love
can the army make us kneel ask for forgiveness ask for better jails more laws to obey
why do they believe in the possible when we are the impossible

*
buddha plays soccer

be present
not on what you don't have
not on what you had
not on what you lost
not on past grievances failures or successes
not on what you want
not on your desires
be present
on who surrounds you who accompanies you who holds you
on who makes your heart beat loud suns
on the riches of your life that can't be put in a bank account that can't be invested in an IRA
on who fills your lungs with the big bang
who vibrates & plucks the strings of your pigmented guitar
be present
to listen
to breath
to give
to rest
to be

*
campesino

I don't want to bother you
I am no one
I am not important
I hardly exist
I exist in your shadow
I live to be lived and loved by you
without you I am no one
without you I have no shadow
I am a shadow-in-waiting
I will self-destruct without you
I will crumble into a pile of dust
at the mercy of the wind

*
canción

casi te abracé
casi te bese
casi te tuve por una vida entera
casi fuimos uno
casi humanos
casi locos
casi dulzura con cara pecada
y tu corazón de curandera
casi te quise
casi exploto
casi me pierdo en tu sonrisa y cuerpo
casi fue todo
casi fue nada
casi te he querido
casi me deseas
casi duermes commigo
casi no me quito de tu lado
casi apareces en horizontes con filos azules
casi me emborracho con tu cuerpo
casi te apreto en la isla barbuda
casi me pasa todo contigo
casi me enamoro de tí
casi nazco nuevo en tus brazos
casi me olvidas
casi me trastorna y me hace sombra del polvo
casi tengo una vida, una ofrenda
casi entro a la eternidad
casi el amor infinito

*
buddha laughs

end all worries
let them wait
forget them
live now
fight now
free now
free forever
no running
no stopping
no jump starting
no runnning away
no violence
no peace
no hate
no love
nothing
except breathing and horizons

*
war plans

war plans
for killing
bombing
maiming
destroying
coercing
refugees
displaces
widows
orphans
trauma
wrecked
dreams
empire
colony
nukes
generals
bayonettes
prisoners
destruction
oncentration
camps
hopelessness
sociopathy
rape
war plans
for profits and contracts
domination
contractors
weapons R&D
soldiers
hierarchies
patriots
sales
medals
heroes
presidential
world leader
Nobel Peace Prize
re-election now!
home by x-mas
family & country
blood for oil
no homeland
no nation
nowhere
war there
peaceful war here
drive-by's
drones
assassins
state
of
the
uniuon
coffins
flags
burials
21-gun salutes
armies of headstones
sargent pepper's lonely purple hearts band of bros
PTSS
homelessness
safe suburbs
migrants
profits
prayers
anguish
indifference
parasites
cancers
cocktail parties
cockroach revolution

*
Sail

my
words
my tongue
my lungs fill with wind
my consciousness implodes into space
I vibrate beat against the waves lungs flap
wind above water below and stream over the solar skin
|
|

Monday, April 19, 2010

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Arnoldo Garcia

Las lomas coloradas / the red hills [extractos|excerpts]


time grew
the days weren't slow
the nights weren't fast

time grew everywhere
in the sorgo
in the chaparral
in the red clouds of cardenales
in the shadows of the auras
beautiful zopilotes announcing the new dawn
in the poise of the hare
in the glistening camouflage
of the rattlesnake
on the backs of the turtles
keepers of the cenotes
in the whirring of doves
palomas that we ate in droves

the days we spent
wrapped in colchas
made of maize, frijol and watermelons

at night our backs arched over
to gulp down the rain of stars
or sniff at a satellite passing high in
the skin of the earth
an alien clockwork

while time grew
our bodies became spring
our tongues summer
our beards fall
our souls winter
hibernating time
to restore the land
the red hills
las lomas coloradas
with our fallow hands
a place where migrants disappeared
and became whirlwinds

Sunday, April 18, 2010

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arnoldo garcía

trozos / chunks

me haces habitar
todos mis cuerpos
y tu lengua
el lenguaje
del paraíso
despierta sobre mis sentidos
*
you make me live
in all my bodies
and your tongue
the language
of paradise
carrouses over all my senses

*

what color
is the skin
of the border
what languages
evaporate
what peoples
are swept away
by the broom of bayonettes
what does it matter
if Indians die
if the malls are full
if the shoppers smile
if profits swell
*
de qué color
es la piel de la frontera
qué lenguajes
se evaporizan
qué pueblos son barridos
por las escobas de bayonetas
qué importa que mueran indios
si los malls están llenos
si los clientes sonríen
si la plusvalía se hincha

*

Nadie sabe que es una frontera
abierta
es una herida
una revolución
un abrazo
un zipper
un cementerio de la seguridad nacional
el único lugar donde los indios
son bienvendios
el reino de la frontera?

No hay lenguaje todavía
para mis pueblos desaparecidos
*
No one knows what is a border
open
a wound
a revolution
a zipper
a clandestine cemetery of national security
the only place Indians
are welcome
the kingdom of the border?

There is no language yet
for my disappeared peoples

*

Don't listen to anyone who doesn't love you
Ignore them, only listen to me,
listen to your mother, your father,
your sisters, your lover, only listen
listen to those who love you.
*
No le hagas caso a alguien que no te ama
Ignoralo, sólo escuchame
escucha a tu mamá, a tu papá,
a tus hermanas, a tu amante, solo escúchalos
sólo escucha a las y los que te aman.

*

the snake cloud people
the serpent cloud people
revered the sky
because the sky was the home
of their creator their goddess their power
their horizon their land their laughter
the serpent-snake-cloud
the most powerful force of the natural world
that also threatens or embraces
strikes down or gestates humanity.
*
el pueblo de la nube víbora
el pueblo de la nube serpiente
adoran al cielo
porque el cielo es el hogar
de su creadora su diosa su poder
su horizonte su tierra su alegría
la nube víbora-serpiente
la fuerza más poderosa de la naturaleza
que también amenaza o abraza
derrumba o gesta a la humanidad.

*

I never get to dream
My ancestors are insistent:
everyone's dreams first
(then yours, if there's time)
No one's dreams are complete
can be completed
until the ancestors' dreams
are fulfilled are completed
They'll have to resurrect me
raise dust and hell
to make my dreams real
to get to dream finally together.
*
Nunca me soñar
Mis antepasados son insistentes:
Los sueños de todas y todos primero
(los tuyos después si hay tiempo)
Nuestros sueños nunca son completos
nunca podrán ser cumplidos
hasta que los sueños de nuestros antepasados
estén satisfacidos estén cumplidos
Tendrán que resurrectarme
causar polvaderas y truenazos
para hacer mis sueños reales
para poder por fin soñar juntos.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

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arno!do garcía


río bravo

I go to the place where my sisters and brothers
pray, where the sky and the river zip lock the horizon.

my river's banks are lips
that kiss the feet of lovers
or migrants crossing over
her smile is muddy, wild, indomable
the nature of the next community. Mud
is the mixture of life, eggs embracing semen
the amino acids that convulse and conspire with life.
I was born in the middle of this muddy river,
a people arose from her mud
and now we drink muddy waters
to ingest our ancestors

Upon your, my, death
Throw my body into the wild
river where I was born.
Let her swallow me, sweep
me out into the gulf where the salt
will dissolve me return me
to where I started, where
Guadalupe conceived me.

*

I drink my coffee, begin the day
scribbling against the madness
so that I can get my heaven my landless place
that I long for.
I can't beat on my guitar anymore
my guitar is no substitute
for your embrace
I have practiced all my life
that's why I give myself no
choice other than to work and
to love, to write what is
mine, ours, what is yours
what is my ancestors, my future
wherever I go. My work my
love is this everyday life
of rising, planting and imagining uprisings
maybe few if anyone notices
that we are all the same
what matters above all else is
how we treat and greet each other
work, love, words, struggle, movements, community -- it's all the same
...

Friday, April 16, 2010

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Arnoldo García

quetzalcoatl

my languages
have muddied work-boots on
callused syllables for hands
my languages
are prome
to heart attacks and alcoholism
my languages have peaceful armies called spring
who wage war for flower, song and a living wage
pregnant with seeds, souls and sacrifice
fertile
awaiting
your tongues

*

My tongue is
a feathered serpent
crawling in the spittle of massacres
flying into the dust of retreats
organizing for the sixth sun...

Thursday, April 15, 2010

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Arnoldo García

[April 15+ poems]

Belief systems in trance-sits

I believe in
humming birds
colibrís
chuparrosas
hum-
ming
birds,
the only goddesses
worthy
of
my
sins.

*

En mis palabras viven
campesinos
soles-huracanes
hombres y mujeres poseidas
por dioses y diosas
alabando luz y verdes
senderos, un cielo azul
que se trenza en ríos,
en árboles y una
humanidad contrincante
contradiciente
multicoloreada
multicorozonada
alegre, esperazuda
palabras hinchadas
gestando
lluvias y soles

*

Speaking in transtongues

trancemusic
trancemission
trancegenders
trancelingual
trancepose
trancegender
trancemusics
trancelate
trancenatioal
trancehuman
trancefusion
tranceplant
trancejazz
trancelucid
trancesmile
trancemission
trancesister
trancerevolution
trancegress
trancegressor
trancelocated
tranceplanted
trancesperm
trancegestate
trancetongue
trancedancing
tranceborder
tranceblood
trancecultura(l)
trancelocura
trancetorno
trancegest
trancegod
trancewords
trancetongue
trancelanguage
tranceborders
trancecolors
tranceeyes
trancevision
trancelaughter
trancebound
tranceband
tranceport
trancemusic
trancespace
tranceblues
trancegoddesses
tranceshell
trancesex
tranceorgasm
tranceat
tranceculture
trancepoetry
trancehuman
trans-trance
trancegenic
trancestorm
trancehuracán
trancehuman
trancerevolution
trancelands
trancegarabateos
transas
trancescribbles

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

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arnoldo garcía

transtongue

My brain is a network of languages
you here read in english
My brain processes everything three times
in english
in spanish
in pocho dream languages

I translate every syllable among every syllable
i am at the speed of molecules
bouncing making chaos out of every sound
combining and recombing
until i spit it out

Marx called language practical consciousness
you hear, you read, you think what I speak, write, or gestate to you
my tongue is a superhighway of consciousness
the transtongue of humanity

I am a human bridge of words with feet, desires, six senses, tattoos
lover's eyes that are sabers or tenderness
I jump from one language bank to another
my tongue gets wet or swept away, drowning, in the currents of my throat.
I go over or under each language knowing that she is a bare electrical chord of lightnings
that can electrocute me, sear my tongue
with an explosion that rises up from the belly of the earth
blows a hole the size of a tractor in my tongue
all the words spill out of the dam of my breasts
Please drink me, do not let me evaporate in the blasting sun or thunderstorm...

*
Please note: This is the 14th spontaneous poem for 30 in April 2010.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

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arnoldo garcía

homesickness

i am homesickness
the road
the wandering
the horizon
the search for the next field
moving on after the last harvest season
packing everything into the pick-up
hopping in the back
the road is for the weary migrant
the road is the migrant's other vacation
you go to the next season
prune souls
prop communal branches sagging with the goddess's breasts
we suckle on ripening lips
sunburnt chapped nipples
our bodies
rasping against
the trees
apples
cherries
apricots
peaches
green beans
tomatoes
watermelons
grapes
hops
beet
before winter sets in
and we flee before the snow
traps us in her ice cream with canned condensed milk

I am homesickness
I don't belong anywhere
except on the dark nights
sliced by highways and rosaries for insurance
No one will remember me anywhere
I have lived nowhere long enough to be a memory
I become the human dust
the housewife washes off the fruit and vegetables
while she cooks for her family
I am at the table being eaten alive
as I hunger over beans and tortillas in a moldy migrant camp
crunch on the rare chile verde
I hear laughter (our own)
I hear prayers (my grandmother leading us from temptations)
I hear snoring (the fatigue of hardest working brothers and sisters slightly poisoned every day to ensure a slow death by a thousand hoes and blisters)

In the morning the singing begins
The comal sizzling with tomatoes being cooked on the ancient griddle my gandmom
carries with us from meal to meal, a portable stove top over an open fire, from place to place,
My grandfather is a human compass and map
He can find any field anywhere in the dark of the early hours of what will be a 14, 15 16, 17, 18, even 20 hour work-day (depending on the season)
We drive to the edge of a day that will soon arrive
with her ignorant sun that treats humans and plants equally
no mercy for those without a chlorophyl skin, a green skin that ripens fruit
and ages humans into dog years
You pour your coffee without a thought
You slice your tomatoes, sometimes a little miffed by its imperfections
You cook bacon, chicken, spaghetti, carrots, broccoli, tasty salads,
impeccably topped with goat cheese or olives
Oblivious to the migrant hands and backs
the destruction of a human body the circumstantial evidence of your ignorance

I am now homesick
for every place I've ever trekked
for every migrant camp I ever lived even if for a few weeks
for every road that lead us to our homes everywhere
I am homesick every day that I am not on the road
to the next season
to the next field
to the next migrant dance and wedding
the luxury of the poor who feed you every day and night

I am homesick and there is no cure
except to bury me in a dirt road
at the intersection of solstices
There is no cure
except to banish the sadness of departures and separation
keep me close to your eyes your breathing your steady word
You come home every day after work
I look for my home as I look for work
My sickness is fatal, is collective
except for a home and assurances that I won't be thrown out or away
when the last season is done and the geese fly over the fields
and we follow them, we're next, we're done and forgotten

Don't forget me, don't obliterate us
shelter us
defend us
put your arm around the shadows of our desires
and everything may be alright
but not today
not this morning
I am homesick and this place will not heal me

Monday, April 12, 2010

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Arnoldo García

La bandera

Mi única bandera
es la colcha
que Agustina cortó y cosió con pedazos de su cuerpo

The only flag
worthy of marching under
of pledging allegiance
is the quilt that Agustina
cut and sew from body

Sunday, April 11, 2010

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Arnoldo García

The next shell/el caracol porvenir (drafts)

The revolution
is to be human poet
The revolution


The human skin is
tender from the class struggle
human tenderness

John Trudell stickman

Somos humanos
invisibles pulmones
Indivisibles

headRush mis locos

No es mi culpa
que una revolución
humana total

Es la unica
vía pa limpiar todo
lo inhumano

Canto humano
y canto inhumano
la autogestión

Emancipación
liberación humana
sin esclavitud

Te necesita
con tus contradicciones
y maldiciones

Toda palabra
palanca de conciencia
Nos abre surcos

Las semillas son
tus pasos y tus manos
tus besos armas

Una explosión
que late en tu pecho
es la ternura

You are the next shell
communal individual
Art within art

Her patience the lands
compiling lists of demands
That are all our dreams

End human disease
profits, private property
The poets cry out

Let's make up our words
human struggles of beauty
synonyms of dream

Saturday, April 10, 2010

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Arnoldo García

The commonest manifesto (excerpts)

the hammer and sickle was the first successful world-wide branding of a revolution.
You'd never mistake the hammer and the sickle, a worker, a campesino, an industrial
revolution claiming the lives of ecologies, farmlands, the earth's dna in humanity, seeds,
continental confluences, tributaries and ocean world currents bringing us together
colonization, crystallization of human bones and communes now crying out
for a return to the thirst
...
I don't want a working class revolution.
I want to dismantle the industrial smokestacks, the oil refineries, the paving over of aquifers,
dissolve the combustible explosion, dismember the nuclear imagination into
small quarks of tenderness for the natural world
...
The art of the commune starts somewhere even on a factory floor
where the human automatons rebel, refuse work, refuse to be appendages
the human appendicitis is coming to a peak oil stop
...
proletari-arte to dehumanize humans,
make them creatures of the water-ways and seasonal migrations
...
this is the commonest manifesto:
clean air
clear water
clean soil
for human community
needs
winds in her lungs and to dry her tears
xocolatl (muddy waters) to mix it up with the ancestors of today and tomorrow
dirt-eaters all: maize, beans, calabacitas (squash), chiles, flores, hierbas (weeds and herbs)
we eat dirt by eating plants that sprout their wings in the dirt
...

Friday, April 09, 2010

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Arnoldo Garc ía

Redes

enlaces
tejidos
agujas
hilos
sílabas
sonrisas
pláticas
zurcos
semillas
agua
sol
manos
uñas
sazones
tiempos
historias
horas
días
noches
sueños
cambio
letras
garabateos
púas
polvo
sentidos
sabores
olfateos
verbos
sustantivos
sostenibles
aguantables
grava
gravar
escupir
llover
zonas
temporadas
temporales
ideas
pensamientos
notas
músicas
dientes
lengua
garganta
pulmones
corazón
venas
poros
sangre
pies
músculos
nervios
sinapsis
estómago
ano
pené
vagina
pies
rodillas
tierra
camposanto
ancestrales
astrales
antepasados
puertas
ventanas
paredes
pisos
fundación
base
saludos
besos
labios
lenguas
narices
ojos
orejas
quijadas
cabello
carcajadas
rajas
rebanada
arcoiris
luz
cielo
alambre
enchufes
ondas
olas
inalámbricas
gestión
sexual
revolución
mareada
aterrada
evaporada
hervida
congelada
reditada
desplomada
desplumada
fertil
diapositivos
fotografías
luna
zacate
nidos
árboles
ramas
hojas
otoño
migrantes
pájaros
plumas
desnudeces
gestos
tiemblos
reportajes
relojes
respiros
suspiros
sudares
señales
trenzas
hipnóticas
blancos
colisiones
explosiones
abrazos
partituras
parteras
despedidas
despedazos
desperdicios
desesperados
desaparecidos
despertares
disparos
destintas
destinos
destapes
deseos
desastres
desvelos
derrames
derrumbes
danzas
cúmbias
instrumentos
cuerdas
cajas
hoyos
agujeros
tarimas
tareas
tangueos
tanteos
tantrumes
terquedades
tercos
tololoches
talalaches
tarareos
reos
rejas
rayas
retumbas
tumbas
túneles
tonadas
toneladas
tonterías
cicatrices
herida
lista
listones
blusas
blues
blandeceres
ombligos
vientres
ventanas
vértices
verdades
vértigos
vergas
guerrilla
guerrotas
garrotes
gaviotas
galopeo
relinchar
relumbrar
rescatar
respirar
restar
sumir
dividir
multiplicar
embarazar
embelezar
embarcar
masticar
digerir
defecar
enterrar
sobar
alar
volar
trigal
inseminar
diseminar
decimar
vibrar
gotear
cósmica
big
bang
el bang
humano
e
inhumano
la bomba
atómica
humana
el sol
el cuajo
de cúazares
el
tic
toc
la marcha
marchitándose
la composición
de la descomposición
podrido
ciclo
ciclón
huracán
vientos
olas
ondas
oh

Thursday, April 08, 2010

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Arnoldo García

10 Things to Do
(plus a bonus track)

1. Build a new
community
2. Learn a new
language
3. Be loved &
love
4. Accept tenderness
in all her shapes, forms & powers
5. Organize a guerrillla
of poetry
(a little war of words)
6. Visit my family,
my neighbors
7. Eradicate sadness
& human suffering
8. Draw a map
of the desired world,
superimpose your map
over the known world
Now throw away the one that's easier
to live and struggle in
9. Write your dreams on walls
as graffitti
10. Celebrate, honor
your ancestors, your lovers

Bonus track, world premiere release:
11. Surprise yourself, surprise me
let's live together our worldly life.

Wednesday, April 07, 2010

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Arnoldo García

Our revolution & theirs

I was not born of Adam & Eve
I was born
from the breasts
of Quetzalcoatl
I was born
out
of her plumed vagina
the birth canal leading to a sun-womb
born
crashing out
of the belly button of the moon.

My river banks are lips
that kiss the feet of my lovers
or migrants crossing over

her smile is muddy
mud the mixture of life, the semen stinking the eggs
the amino acids that convulse with life

I was born in the middle of a muddy river
a people rising from the mud
and now we drink muddy-water
to ingest our ancestors
upon
your
my
deaths
Throw my body into the wild river
where I was born
Let her swallow me
take me to the gulf
where the salt
will dissolve me
return me
to where I started
where I was conceived

I drink my coffee
begin the day
scribbling against the madness
my heaven
my landless place
that I long for
I can't beat on my guitar anymore
My guitar is no substitute
for your embrace
your raspy silence

I have been practical all my life
that's why I give myself
no choice
other than to work and to love
to write and read poetry
wherever I go

My work my love is my poetry of everyday
and maybe few if anyone notices
that we are all the same
what matters above all else
is how we treat and greet each other
work, love, poetry -- it's all the same

*

I could peel the sun for you
but would you eat
such a fruit?
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haiku besos

i crave raw kisses rubbing against her fresh lips my mouth squeezing hers

Tuesday, April 06, 2010

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Arnoldo García

Stopping

I have stopped
fighting my English
garbling my Spanish
denouncing the Aztecs
ignoring my Purépecha tongue
on which war rages
and rage cries unbroken

I am a polygamist
married to many languages
with many more lovers
I am faithful
to all my words
in any language
in any land
on any body
my people invented french kissing
we stick our tongue in your mouth
to taste and desire every dictionary
lust translators interpret
the same dream
in so many dusts
in so many mouths
our lips the shock troops
our desire to subjugate your tongue
by any verb necessary
your ears fall
and your body follows
and your imagination hobbled
speak in tongues but don't mumble
vomit doves and poison syllables
I speak out, denounce and debate against myself
I am split in three
and my tongue
binds my wounds
and my tongue
heals my bones
and laps up
the water from your body

My tongue drills
endlessly into your ears
guaguanco on the shell of your being
a human vibe
to turn you against yourself
that garbles
my ways
mimics
and makes a mockery
of the root
of a different world
sound
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Arnoldo García

mi cuerpo/my body

My body
is spring
your smile
autumn
where I live without aging
where I lay
to guide the stars
that's why
my body
is spring.

Mi cuerpo es
la primavera
Tu sonrisa
el otoño
donde
vivo
sin envejecer
donde
me acuesto
para guiar a las estrellas
por eso
mi cuerpo es
la primavera

Sunday, April 04, 2010

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The Pages of Day and Night The Pages of Day and Night by Adonis (Ali Ahmad Sa’id) علي أحمد سعيد إسبر‎

Adonis is the poet of the human body and all her sensations, senses and junctures, mixteries and recombinations. Anyone can love anyone, Adonis's poems prove this and provide the fertile soil for soul partners and lovers to merge and emerge in ecstasy and sober. Read Adonis to complete yourself as a human View all my reviews >>

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Arnoldo García
my words my languages are nothing more than my lovers

I am not a train
my tongue is not a railroad
my heart is not a steam-engine,
my language is not a combustible explosion
I do not stop to switch lines so that someone may understand me

I am a transnational suicide language bomber
I have dictionaries, dirt and communities strapped to my chest
I explode in mixteries

I am not a code-switcher

I am a river of sounds made by communities
singing
flying
in the dust
I cough up ancestors
cambio al español
paddling through the rough waters
of having english forced down my throat
drowning my Mexicanness
under the whips and slaps
of white teachers
monolingual monsters
who feared anything they didn't understand
and attempted to break down
My language is a wild horse a crazy horse an untamable horse
a migrant horse
un caballo locote
un caballo indomable
un caballo que relincha con el viento

i am no code switcher
i do not change directions like a train
no i am fluid water muddy waters avalanches lavalas
a mass movement of syllabic hammer and sickles
a dictatorship of communal tenderness
a french kiss con labios mestizos
un beso que nunca puede ser un kiss
un beso donde intercambios saliva ancestral y deseos hondos
como las raíces de mi lengua y sus lenguajes
mis palabras no son más que mis amantes.

my words my languages are nothing more than my lovers
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Arnoldo García

This neighborhood dies of thirst

Our revolution
has no martyrs
we have no revolution
yet we have martyrs
young men and boys
who kill each other
because we have no revolution
except the violence of one for them

The border brothers
make north and south
the north is nothing without the south
the south cannot exist without the north
yet young men and boys
kill each other
for lack of direction
the border brothers are both
north and south
north is a border
south of the border
north borders south
they are lost in their vengeance

"War is the extension of politics by other means"

Gang war
is a figment
of the imagination
of boys and young men
with guns
what politics
are they extending
except naked power
over their neighbors
over their families
in the ruins of an imaginary war
with real bullets
with real victims
destroyed families

Thirteen years old
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
they'll be forgotten
only to be remembered by their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters
who have a crushed sun in their throat
East Oakland is a ghost, a crying woman, a gutted kid, foreclosed futures
altars on 55th, 40th, MacArthur, Foothill
Our future disappears in drive-bys and shootouts
we have a name and a history
we are not to die before our time
we walk the graveyard that the guns propose in our neighborhoods

When I go to work in the mornings
I see students walking to school
I look for colors
red blue black & white signals
spray-can scribes
marking the neighborhood as theirs
and everyone else beware
but the cops have more guns, radios, courts, judges, jails
more men armed and dangerous
patrolling the streets
where will the children go
to jail to school to work to post?
How will this story end?
My neighbors go to work early
come back late
the children are left alone and become old by nightfall
we bury them at dawn
and make it to work by 9?

east oakland lies in the middle of the borders north & south
surrounded by crosses, guns, cops, day laborers, norteños, sureños and gentrifiers
with their banks and police force

how will this story begin?