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| Greg Morozumi | portrait by arnoldo colibrí, (2005) |
arnoldo colibri
The Greg Morozumi Manifesto number 1
He is calling all people of the color of the land
Guided by his spirit animals
Turtles and black panthers
that carry his fleshy soul into the highest levels of class struggle:
Where humans and animals
Plants and dirt
Wind and rain
Skys and rainforests
The sun and the moon
The constellations and the caracoles
The peoplel of ceremony and cosmic chants & prayers
Undomesticated the unemployable, the outlaws & imprisoned,
the queer and not so queer
the straight and the crooked teethed
the unfree and the imprisoned by industrail fields and prisons
The unruly scribbles of poets and hip artists with flamethrowers for spraycan walls
the maroon dreamers that no state can rule
those who carry wars on their skins and borders on their backs
Unite, become a specter haunting
the class struggle
upheaving the remnants of the third world
Making art fists and power a daily ritual
Greg Morozumi in his solemn silence roars:
Remember who we are, where we’re from
We are seed soil water wind and sun
We are our own art and song
We are the art of self-determination
the hands that plant cultivate and harvest liberation
the body that is memory resistance rage and tenderness
Greg, we have nothing to lose and third worlds to gain . . .
—arnoldo colibrí
Day 620 | June 17, 2025
The Greg Morozumi Manifesto number 2
Face the struggle,
Make liberation the Great Leap Forward of every step you take
My heart is black—the color of revolutions without borders
My veins the yellow quartz that binds the sun
My lungs the saxophones of the red colibrí
Our dreams
spinning on the turntable
of the philosophy of the masses
Will make a hundred fists bloom
Will make our poetry grow from the barrel of a gun
Will bring us back from the edge of forgetfulness
And our prayer will work to end all death and separations
Our prayer was the proletariat
Our prayer is the original people
Our prayer is the surrounding
the invisible cities from the invincible mountains
Our prayer is the unbreakable horse of our utopias
I deciphered your silent vowels and your unstoppable motion to reach the horizons — or at least go to China town to savor one more time
the taste of our free homelands
This is a manifesto to grant you
many bodies
many lives
to live
to make the revolution of turtles and panthers
to speak in tongues as prophet of the homelandless
to make jazz and blues the colors of our eyes
You lay in deep sleep, hungry for justice and a bit of soup and pan dulce
You are not silent.
We know your demands
We hear you chuckling and swaying to the beat of your political lines and spirals
Whirlwinds of the oppressed, unite
We have nothing to lose.
—arnoldo colibrí
Day 621 | June 18, 2925
The Greg Morozumi Manifesto number 3
No one is alive until we are all alive.
No one is art until we are all art
No one is love until we are all love
No one is in front and no one is in the back:
No one gets left behind.
Drum on the turtle’s shell
Sleep in the panther’s night
Dream the international of dirt the international of water the international of wind the international of suns
We will make the human human again
Organize the vanguard that listens to the day laborer
Organize the underground that the farmworker can plant seeds in
Organize the party that surfs on the spontaneous ocean waves of the masses
Organize the men that bow towards the women
Organize the four directions that find their center in the X of Malcolm
Organize the ancestral dreams of liberation that hum in the throats of our children
Organize the humans to live in their place in the web of creation
Organize the ten pount plan of buffalos, spiders, crows, the coyotes and their philosophy of plumed serpents and howling lunar eclipses
Deindustrialize decolonize your hands
Let your eyes turn into the sixth sun
Let your eyes become the language of cosmic upheavals
Greg Morozumi meditates and fasts
his body becomes the silent accumulation of revolutions to come
—arnoldo colibri
Day 621 | June 29, 2025
The Greg Morozumi Manifesto number 4
Remember the good, never forget the bad
If the community doesn’t teach you how to love
You end up loving alone
And you will make things bad for someone’s heart
The heart never forgets, always remembers
And the heart pumps out the bad and stores the good forever
The good is the wisdom of the comrades
the bad is the wound that carried you to solitudes
the asteroid that sliced the revolutionary in half
Tenderness is the justice of your hands around her waist
Memory is etched on the map of the palm of your hands
The good and the bad
The palm-reader cannot read a slap on her face
She will never forget your hands open or closed
your hands are either flower buds or thorned fists
Your voice became silent became
the cenote [the circular well] of your cosmos
Where only jazz and poetry could enter
Your smile your hope of understanding
You will become a Buddha without even desiring it
You can escape any prison or exile
Except the bed of abandonment
You are books, turtles, the mangled logic of freedom,
the sisterhood that held you alive
Your Buddha body calls out:
become unfold rise fly rebel
It is right to rest
The revolution needs eight hours of sleep
to dream the rest of the time
The revolution will sleep and dream silently for the next 50 years
—arnoldo colibrí
Day 623 | June 20 2025
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