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

Wednesday, May 07, 2014

Rebellions | 7 mayo | may 7

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it's right to rebel. -- mao

my eyes are rebelling
they're tired of seeing for me
they want to see for themselves
they want to see the sun, become the sun unblinding explosions
my eyes say let your brain see in the night without us
you'll appreciate your knees more as a penitent for light.
My ears are joining the rebellion, too.
they're tired of hearing the blues
they're tired of hearing your scratchy voice beat on my drums
they're tired of listening for the ecstasy of your shadow
so my ears just hiss and hiss
Singing a static song out of a B natural note
they scrape the note over and over until the their hissing drives me crazy
and all i can hear is what you said to me the other night
the hissing becomes a womb
gestating the noisiest web of musics, embraces, cries...
my eyes will impose their dictatorship of darkness
my ears their military junta of airlessness
my soul retreats to organize a guerrilla, a little war, in the mountains of my heart and lungs...

Saturday, May 03, 2014

Golondrinagrafía * 2 de mayo | may 2 | *

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La golondrina bebe
las lágrimas de la mujer herida
La curandera la piensa,
la sueña,
la frota de plantitas y oraciones, llantos y colores
Ella ahoga su plumaje
en la menstruación inalámbrica
de la ternura

Su cuerpo bramido
parte soles
para destruir a los soldados
que hicieron guerras contra su horizonte

Golondrina labios acurrucados
vuela a los míos
Tu boca sobre la mia, golondrina
Tus labios, golondrina,
desdoblandose sobre los míos
Se mezclan, se entretejen y haces el nido de nuestra salvación

Golondrina ya bebe de mis lágrimas
Para qué ella descanse
en tu vuelo
sobre tu espalda negrita …

Thursday, May 01, 2014

Primero de Mayo | May 1 | the international movement

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The working class
That international beast of capitalist burden
Used to count the light, the wrinkled skin of stars and cosmos
Now we’re trapped in the industrial smokestack's web of disaster
We used to be Indians, most of us at least.
We donned silk-screened t-shirts with the crocodile trademark over our huipiles
We interspersed the language of money in the crust of our souls,
Banning the sun from the count of human time.

We are in trouble:
Are we workers or are we humans
Are we sons and daughters of the land or is the land dispossessed of the dispossessed
Are we on street-corners waiting for work or are we on the cosmic pilgrimage
to honor Lucy, our first mother, returning the first kiss with the first humanity to be


Veinte girasoles
Veinte fuerzas
Veinte vientos, polvos, criaturas. aguas, animalitos, hormiguitas, abrazos, veinte maneras de amarte y hacerte el amor
Hoy es el primer día
Nace de mi bravura verde
Con su hocico se traga el dolor, dejando un arcoiris de cicatriz
Después de él nos barre el viento
Nos autogestamos en nuestras casas
Los sueños emergen de nuestro plumaje
La muerte nos arrulla
El venadito vuela
El lunar del conejito cuelga de tus oidos, arêtes astrales
El agua siempre nos bendice ancestros y recien nacidos
Los chiquillos correnm nos aman incondicionalmente, ladran sus corazones
Luego se trepan en la copa del cielo y mis changuitos cantan con las estrellas
Luego la mujer de la tierra, del lodo, de las raíces humanas nos mece entre sus brazos acuáticos
Ella construye una flauta de carrillo que hostiga a los sentidos de los conquistadores.
El ocelote carga los astros de la noche sobre su piel, su ofrenda humana a la naturaleza
que es arrebatada por el águila de la luz.
Luego mi abuelito me recuerda que el aura volará siete veces traspasando el cadaver de los explotadores.

Todas las vida y las luchas empiezan y terminan en el movimiento:
La materia visible e invisible
baila, gira, se tuerce y retuerce en el ombligo del pozo negro,
la cúmbia cósmica del big bang.
Llegando a esta aurora, la tierra exige un ofrenda
Tienes que decidir que parte de tu cuerpo sacrificarás para que la luz no muera.
La lluvia explota con su rabia pura, nos baña con su cristalina voz
De ella brotan nuestros cantos, el éxtasis de estar a tu lado…


es la cuenta
de nuestras derrotas
es el tiempo
de nuestras esperanzas
son los días donde nos estremecíamos en las fogatas de la luna
y en los brazos del sol negro.
Todos las noches y los días son sagrados
Hay noches cuando nuestros sacrificios son impuestos
Hay días cuando la explotación cava tumbas en nuestros pechos
Han habido ya más de siete generaciones aguantando, resistiendo
y sacrificándose para parir al nuevo sol…

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

I am a ghost

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there are days
when i believe
i am a ghost
haunting stairwells
and abandoned migrant camps
sleeping with Billie Holiday
and getting drunk with drunk Indians 
Being pulled into seance sessions with bolshevik clouds
Having to possess her body to become real

Ghosts do not cry. Ghosts do not die. Ghosts have unfinished revolutions.
I cry so maybe I exist.
I will die so maybe I still have a shot at space travel

My revolution has not started so I continue offering sage
to the ancestors and to the babies whose future I hold in mine.
When night comes I become a ghost in other planes of existence
I am an apparition in another dimension of her heart
Even the noted dialectical materialist, Frederick Engels, believed the world and her double were being recreated simultaneously in another realm of space at the same time.
I have visited that world, actually worlds, several times.
She is different, beautiful, you can choose to be yourself or another, because she is free of the restraints of our skins:
There you can walk barefoot,
drink the water from the ground, from the streams and rivers,
no danger there except of not wanting to return.
There the rain is made of crystals that bend the sun into a creaking womb of life.
There i can fall through the sky and enter my house through the roof of my bedroom.
There it is always morning.
Then an arm pulls me through the walls and I cry out, gasp as I land once again on the floor of my reality, my ghost hood.
Come talk with me, tell me how you're doing -- that will be enough assurance that I am alive and well -- and if you want to know the future come visit me in your sleep
I will show you how a ghost dances cubist cúmbias and gets electrified at the neighborhood pachanga.
You turn out to be a ghost and I turn out to be your body
You turn out to come from those other worlds and I turn out to return the visit
You turn out to heal your wounds and I turn out carrying them all so that I can say I am human because of your gentle laughter.
So tell me, who do you see?
Am I man or ghost
Am I human or shadow
Am I real or just someone you conspired with at another meeting to exorcize the ghosts who rule through war and illusion
I will be a ghost until the world I need becomes real...

Monday, April 28, 2014

relationships | day 27 | poetry month |

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I am related to you by tenderness, not trauma.

I am connected to you by a woman, not fists.

I am related to you by the longest, deepest embrace; not the jackal that wears a doctor's smock.

I am veins, lungs, skeleton, mud, moon, cenote, maize, besos on your lips, inhaling the DNA of your wounds.

Silence will destroy his rage

The wind will gather our ancestral dust:

My grandmother's grandmother's grandmother's grandmother was hurt too

And now they come to be with you, to sleep and dream in your wounds...

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Soul seas | Day 12 & 13 | poetry month

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My tenderness will absolve my rage
Or else I will have to eat my fingers
So that I can never carry a weapon
other than an ink pot
where I will dip the nubs of my blindness
to scribble your names...

I will not die on the border of nothingness
I was born to live in a sea of
abandoned bones and continents
forced drownings,
linchings and fatal crossings
A sea that fits in a wound the size of your smile,
carried on the back of the starry loneliness of our night

The muddy languages of
displaced grandmothers
disappeared fathers
mortal mothers
and indigenous grandfathers (who followed the lead of the women
into the fields and their horizons)
spoke our names
spit us into existence
kneading their saliva into the dust
with the longest caress,
in their howling breath,
to gestate our skins pockmarked with black moons

Here we are
even after so many defeats,
Planting in their shadows
Dreaming the same dreams over and over
Until the sea herself tells us to quit ploughing the land
to enter the realm of her feathered skin
She repeats:
It is you that has been defeated,
not the land,
not the ancestors,
not the prisoners,
not the martyrs,
not the women who have borne us,
not the migrants,
not the people whose labor feeds our souls.

Together we can lay in the sun or bury ourselves in the darkness
Together we can decide
Who shall be first and who shall be last
Who will keep us together from start to finish
Who shall be the ones to carry our sweat on their shoulders
and who shall serve the bread of our love


Friday, April 11, 2014

I am closing in | Day 10 & 11 | poetry month

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I am closer to life than to death
I am closer to tenderness than to hate
I am closer to breath than to silence
Every day becomes an answer to taking sides
Every night I ingest the suns that will never be ours

I am closer to horizons than to forgetfulness
I am closer to the next woman than to his oblivion
In five years or five lifetimes

I would never change the molecular structure of my bed
I would dream with the same woman
whose tears have become tiny gashes on the wrists of hurricanes

I am closer to the wind than to the smokestack
I am closer to the dust than to the rails of capital exploitations
I am closing in on the predator that has made our skin impossible

I am closer to you than to my mortality
I am closer to your suffering than my own
My senses are craters on your body
My body sister to your menstruating lands

I am closer to her water than to the desert
I am closer to her light than to the sorrow.
She revives the sun, gifts it to heal the first wound.
Her body becomes the next sun,
the next beginning,
the first kiss of humanity.


He believes the woman that wants to destroy him
She doubts the man that loves him

She is life under siege
She is resisting, her eyes cry knives:
An eye for an eye to blind the monster
An eye for an eye to love blindly

I am closer to power because I am with her
I am closer to the moaning ocean wave because I hear her
I am closer to the ripening sky because of her skin of clouds
I am closer to the sun because I walk alongside her
Now, I am closer to being human than to being forgotten


Wednesday, April 09, 2014

When I die | Day 9 Poetry Month

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 When I die
I will be so dead
You will have to invent a fake life
to match my real death
I will be such a big death
that everyone will enjoy
the musical composition
of my decomposing body of work,
inhaling the stench of my improvisations
My blues will finally be about being down, out and dead.
Laying there in my coffin
please know I got dead drunk on tequila shots of formaldehyde
salt and lime my corpse
and make video called "The Dead Gone Wild"
When I die
all the flowers will cry
out of happiness
Now that I am gone
They'll sing:
He will never bother us again!
he cannot torture us anymore with his shitty clichés!
Everyone who is important will show up with crocodiles
cause they will not be able to fake their own tears
Anyone who knew me
will praise my name to the skies with the left hand
while with the right hand they will hold their nose
Oh when I die I will be so dead
no one will really know what to do with me
Bury me?
Cremate me?
Ask the pope to canonize me?
Build a mausoleum specifically for poets
So they can visit my Leninesque physiqueness,
preserving me for eternity to ward off limericks and capitalists?
Maybe just let me rot under a highway underpass?
I don't know what to suggest or expect
When you're dead, you're dead and self-determination takes over
but please:
no accolades,
no praises,
no homages,
no illegitimate children or polyamourists
to denounce me for lack of providing orgasms
or who may want to lay claim to my literary real estates
When I die
maybe sprinkle a bit of mud on your shoes,
maybe wipe my slate clean,
maybe laugh at me for all my stupid mistakes,
maybe remember the nights we spent together,
anything that makes me human will do.
When I am dead I will still be waiting for you
Arms open
Deep sighing
Faking my own life so I can't be dead
Well, really dead but still true...

Tuesday, April 08, 2014

Migrant ghost heart | day eight poetry month

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She is now just an idea,
a deep memory
an ancestor
a sister
a woman
a ghost heart
in my mind in my veins in my half life

Her body was her own utopia
she gave herself over to one man only
gave birth to sons
who married and had daughters and one son
who she then raised
because her sons became trapped in the delirium of their bodies
-- and nothing else.

Her body was overthrown
by an uprising of cells
brigades and divisions
armies invading overrunning her body
all organized by her beautiful blackened curly hair
the uprising occupied her adulthood
burned her body into all her sisterhoods
occupied her five senses
punctured her voice into silent curses
deep pain, nails under the eyeballs, skinned alive pain
The onslaught of cellular troops
forced her to retreat to childhood
where her father and mother
where her sisters and brothers
waited for her
they were the fortress walls
of tenderness
of sweets and toys
of being held in arms
of being breast-fed
of being rocked into cozy sleep under hand-made quilts and lullabies
where the warm breath of her mother's wisdom
pushed back the scrimmages, the ambushes and cleared the battlefields
so she could live another day to live...

She became all her sisters
Her skin an impeccable wave
her lips a crimson dance
Her bones turned into glass
She became the young woman again
Until she became the girl of her own utopia.

She would laugh at our jokes because it made her happy
She would cook all the meals and served coffee because she knew hunger
She attended to herself with the love she made
because she knew what being loved did for her
She offered herself without conditions...

This music
she hums and sits upright
even though her bones
have lacerated her flesh,
gnawing away her laughter
the shards of her bones
skinning her eyes with barbed-wired tears
Her body an incision of endless weight
splitting apart the atomic meditation
of the pain-killers
into particles of song
pushing her down into a bayonet of solitude
shattering the vertebrae of her embrace

She did not want to leave alone
She refused.
The invading armies shriveled
Our mourning became her ally
She would not leave alone.
So her father came for her
brought her a girly dress that she adored
And then she left with resolve and unfinished love...

Monday, April 07, 2014

Billie Holiday | day seven poetry month |

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She sings:
My heart is in Baltimore
My voice is scattered
in the ruins of your bruises
Winter always
hangs 'round
the corner
of my eyes
is handcuffed
to my blues
Wherever she goes
I will follow 
on my knees

She sleeps:
There was a man
who buried his hands
in the gardenia of my suns
Inhaled the DNA of my suffering
to erase the darkness
And take me away
busting me out of my cocoon

She improvises:
I was black I was white I was a woman
Whose only weapon was a song and night.
I was red I was blue I was a woman
Whose body became a battlefield for their lust
I was yellow I was North Star I was a woman
Whose voice tamed the coyote and the wild forgetfulness
I was brown I was azure for the lost south
Craving a family, a sacred land, a house, a lover-man

She writes:
He only wanted
what nobody else wanted
To let me sing
Sending death away empty handed
To drown his skull in my ecstasy...

Billie Holiday sits in my living room
holding my hands
traces the notes of her next song
on my wings
She rises from the couch
Puts on her shoes and walks away
pushing away the shadows...

She texts me her goodbyes:
I was blues

I was ebony
I was a woman
I was black

I was white
I was a woman
standing on the stage
gently ripping open

the graves of my bones
with the chrysalis

of my hands and caresses
on saxophones and pianos and an occasional guitar
I was power

I was explosion
I was a woman
who pinned gardenias

on the shock of dusk
who uplifted

the vibrato
of her fears
to carry you wherever I sang

Sunday, April 06, 2014

arnoldo garcía: Electrocutions | day six poetry month

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i am
a misfit
a misspell
a mistake
a misunderstanding
a mistrial
a misprint
a missile
a mission
a missive
a misfire
a mist
a mistreatment
a misbegotten
a misfortunate son
a misnaming
a miscreant
with a mississippi deep wound...

Saturday, April 05, 2014

I am tumbling | day five poetry month

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I am tumbling
in the debris of space
going backwards, lunging forward
paralyzed by the electric sun.
my ancestors
for generations
studied the sky's movements
to determine
our place
in the cosmos,
they were not lost or seeking gold and power.
what sun is it
they would ask

how did we end up with the moon's bellybutton
they asked
what lands do our hands traverse
where is
the root of our songs
a journey in community
to find the place
where the sun had been born
to become undivided again
to become the breath of gods and goddesses
ants each carrying a grain of maize on their backs
going into the darkness of the soil
to gestate
to sew
to inhale
to ingest
to uphold
the sun's dust
at this time
when autumn begins stroking my hair
when the rivulets of cries have hewn my face
when suffering is ordinary
and laughter extraordinary
i ask:
is that the same sun of our ancestors
is the belly-button of the moon infected
where do I belong
how can i stand when I am against myself
the pollen makes me sick
i am alone under the sky of wars
where is my place
filled with sea-shells and the old man's ceremonies
I have become a molecule
on the edge of a knife
in a crazed hand
stabbing at the longest night
The scientists peer through cosmic telescopes
photograph the dancing explosions
the incandescent snails spinning out of our control
the Hubble telescope dangles between microwaves and quartz
and what are their conclusions
are we in place
are we where we belong
does the moon have the final say of the sea
can we return to rub, massage, mingle once again
in the belly-button of our mother
how do we turn back
the turbines' threshing of water, salmon, tribes, wind, migrants,
the human deformation of the rivers' spinal cord
who can have enough with just the other's love
who has had enough