Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Poemagrafías | Poemagraphies: first tumblings






human movement
movement human
nomad
nomad
to move is human
to burn borders humane
human migration
migration human
migrants from africa
africa crossed the border
***
El corazón es corazón
de carne
de alma
de ruedas dentadas
de metáfora
de humano
de perro
de jaguar
de colibrí
de serpiente
de gusano
de mosca
de amor
de mentira
de verdades bíblicas
de fierro
de ternura
de odio
de guerras
de asesino
de dictadores
de amantes
de putas
de putos
de la esquina
de la vecindad
de la comunidad
de las nubes
de la tierra
del volcán
de la montaña
de la selva
de la lluvia
de los terremotos
de las huracanes
de tus manitas
de tus labios
el corazón es corazón
en todos
en todas
en tí
en mí
en el enemigo
en el amigo
en la amante
en la sombra
en el sol
en el invierno
en la primavera
en el verano
en el otoño
en la semilla durmiente
en el arbol floreciente
en el tronco de tu cintura
en las hojas de tu piel
en la topografía de tus manos
en tu lengua sobre la mía
en el lenguaje de los soñadores
en los sueños de los encarcelados
en las pesadillas de los banqueros
en las moradas espontáneas de tus brazos
en los vuelos de tus orgasmos
en las rodillas de los creyentes
en los moribundos
en los difuntos
en los ancestros
en los gestados
en los nacidos
en los deseos de vivir eternamente
en tus sombra
a tu lado
el corazón es corazón
que no obedece espacio ni tiempo
derrumba muros y odio
es la tumba de la muerte
es la cama de los amantes
es el cósmos de nuestros cuerpos
enarbolados,
el tejido de nuestros gemidos de dulzura
el corazón es el corazón
del beso
el corazón del beso es
el corazón
sin importarle nada
palpita, da martillazos, es incansable
solo se cansa de ser ignorado
solo se cansa de no tener revoluciones
el corazón del corazón
es la revolución humana.
el corazón es corazón
en todos lados
en todas en todos
los humanos
armados, desarmados
el corazón del corazón
destruye soledades
y germina ternuras
ah que corazón tan bravo
frente al amor
frente al odio
frente a la guerra
frente a las odiseas
el corazón nos da corazón
para sobrevivir y vivir de corazón

***
Add to Technorati FavoritesSomos luz
en movimiento
la explosión original
el big bang de pequillas
cráteres de lunas y soles
luz que se convierte en luz
luz ondas olas arrugas
caracol espacial
caracol terrenal
caracol de luz evolutiva
somos luz
en movimiento…
***
café contigo
café con palabras
café con luz
café contigo…
***
I will fold
my heart
my lungs
my skeleton
my veins
my lips
my eyes
my hips
my human body
fold it
an origami bird
to nest among your diaries,
photographs
and yellowing memories

***
The human quest
To capture light
The human touch
Destroys all light
The human light-trap
Dusk to dusk
Switching places
Ditching hope
At the muncipal trash dump.
Turning off the light
In the fumes of rotting humanity.
The human light switch
Kills the light bulb
And believes he controls the sun.
The human light trap
Is a barbed-wired concentration lamp
Where human mixtery
Perishes for the soiled sun.
***
Tu cuerpo luz azul
Tu azul cuerpo de luz
Tu luz cuerpo azul
*
Your body azure light
Your azure a body of light
Your light a body of azure

***
the volcanoes
make love
with the clouds

the earth is sending smoke signals
and all we have is a wireless receiver
busy signal on our end
last warning on the other
climate justice
means
the climate will get justice
over us
in the end…

***
waves
waves
rhythms
rhythms
skin
skin
pores
pores
suns
suns
molecular kissing
molecular kissing
perpetual orgasm
perpetual orgasm
friction
friction
fire
fire
volcanic hips
volcanic hips
your body
splays
my tongue
my tongue
lapping up
lapping up
your reality
your reality…
***
Soy del pueblo de las nubes serpientes, decía José Vargas García, abuelo, purépecha, migrante, hombre nuevo de la tierra ancestral.
***
Paint, the only bombs and grenades
I will ever drop over cities, homes and street corners
against your body mine
against your body art
over your body suns
over your body my eyes
over your body
under your body
gravity is a river of space and colors
rainbow tidal waves
acrylic, pastel, oil, water-color volcanoes
concentric rings of desires
***
La lluvia
redes olas explosiones ondas
telarañas líquidas
pálpitos corazonales
pulmones celestiales
Cúmbia y marimba que las nubes tocan
Lluvia you via & cycle of cloud
***
Never to late to be young
Never too late to live long
Never too late for life.
***
Preservations
Preserved bleached burgers
Bury me in a styrofoam casket
Big bang or big meal?
I want my remains to last as long as a big meal
The big bang will take care of the rest
***
La lluvia
redes olas explosiones ondas
telarañas líquidas
pálpitos corazonales
pulmones celestiales
Cúmbia y marimba que las nubes tocan
Lluvia
you via & cycle of cloud
***
I dream
in more than two bodies
I dream
in your body
I dream in more than two languages
your body and mine
shoulder to shoulder
eye to eye
lips to lips
hips to hips
dreaming
two bodies
two languages
two of everything with you…
***
Vladimir Mayakovsky
a.
Pachuco
Punk
Proletarian
Poet
Poder
Power
Mad
Love
Yellow dog

b.
Love crashed
on the daily grind
He shoulda punched the clock with his fist
instead of putting a bullet to sleep & dream in his heart
Love exploded in his chest

c.
I don’t know about Russian
I don’t know about revolutionary
I do know about poet.

I do know he was human.


d.

So you’ve become a subway station
maybe a high school woulda been better
maybe a long boulevard, the volodya mayakovsky way
maybe a zoo woulda been better

e.

el poeta loco
del amor
con múltiples amantes y amores
sin fronteras


***
For
Andy López:
Justice, justice, justice.
disarm, disarm, disarm the men & the police
books not bullets
poetry not policing
culture not cuffs
smiles not glares
justice justice justice

***
Soy
el perro amarillo
amante de la perra azul
aullamos
en el orgasmo
de la luna
nuestros cuerpos
se desparraman
en las convulsiones del sol
amarillo
azul
amantes
descoloridos
destiñidos
bajo
la colcha
de estrellas
polvo
y sudor…
*
I am
the yellow dog
lover of the blue bitch
we howl
in the orgasm
of the moon
our bodies
dispersed
in the convulsions of the sun
yellow
blue
lovers
faded colors
tinctured
bodies
under
the quilt
of stars
dust
and sweat…

***

Ideas
germinate
in my brain
transplanting the seeds
onto freshly tilled blank paper
ink, typewriter, laptop, printer, blogged
perfectly bound into the spine of a book
each page becomes a rib
each book a life
each life a leaning tower of humanity
each humanity a page from the biggest bang
then we are scattered fractals
that pile up, disarraying matter,
the catastrophe of beauty

***

Nuestras palabras
se las llevará
el viento
el agua
el polvo
tus oídos
tu cuerpo
tu lengua
tu boca
tus tatuajes
tus pies
tu sombra
tu memoria
tu pasado
tu futuro
tu luna
tu ombligo
tu mar
tus lágrimas
tu rabia
tu soledad
tu amor al amor
tu cansancio
tus sueños
tus tristezas
tus libros
tus huellas
tus telenovelas
tu conciencia
tu vientre
tus erecciones
tus pieles
tus pulmones
tú
te
llevas
mis palabras
las transformas
las gestas
las amamantas
las fornicas
las amas
hasta que toman raíz
y brotan
y se hacen
nuestras palabras…

***
papalotl
the butterfly of your body
menstruating blues, purples, viridians, rains,
you traverse
mountain ranges
valleys
my mouth
my monarchy
of love
mariposas
papalotl
butterfy
where life emerges
where life is bloodied
suckling on the rivers of our bodies…

***

colibri
hummingbird
chuparrosa
huizilipochtli
las palabras sagradas
the sacred words
humming in your ears
humming beneath your breasts
humming under your breath
humming and dipping into your belly-button chalis
vibrating tongue
you become mine
colibrí
huitzilipochtli
tzintzuntzan

***
La lluvia es la mano tenue de mi mujer
Traza canciones sobre mi piel
Inunda mi corazon con luz liquida
La lluvia es la piel suave de sus pulmones
Resollando sobre mi cuerpo
Lluvia
Canto
Mujer
Tus manos abraza mi alrededor
***
Your voice
became your body
Your voice
became your hands
Your voice
became your eyes
Your voice
became your lips
Your voice
became your tongue
Your voice
became your cheeks against mine
Your voice rubbed against my ears
Your voice beckoned me into your body
Your voice became your breasts
You voice becoming wet with me
Your voice became 
Your legs
Your hips
where my hands glided over the isthmus of desires
Your voice
became my salvation
Your voice
became you
Your voice
became a whirlwind of my five senses
Your voice was your body wrapped around my ears
Your voice became
the waves of your brain
the tsunamis of your tongue
dragging me under the sea of your body
Drowning me in your voice
Mouth-to-mouth digital lovemaking…
***
Your hands
there are no other hands
that I want
to trace valleys, rivers, tenderness, clouds
over my face
over my body
Your hands
With them, you make me whole
when you
glide them
over my face
over my hips
over my eyes
over my lips
over my breasts
over my legs
over my beating skin
I become.
***
“Found poem:”
Your
besos
completely
raw
uncensored
border
honey
from a wild swarm
fluttering between us
honeycomb labios

***
I float in space, the yellow stars emerge from my body.

***

amante azul
el cielo es azul
mi amante azul
mi pueblo viene del cielo
mi corazón lona pura para tus azules labios
azul piel
azul orgasmos
azul tenura
azul la cama de nuestros sueños
azul tu mano en la mía
azul la alegría
azul las lágrimas
azul la unidad de tu cuerpo y el mío
azul la lucha de clases
azul la dictadura más tierna de tus dolores
azul tu rabia
azul tu pasión
azul tu lengua y tus lenguajes lunares
azul el sonido de tus pasos
azul el cielo de tu cuerpo
azul azul azul azules tus cicatrices
azul la calavera de tus besos
azul tu sangre en la mía
azul tus puños contra todo que nos separa
azul tus abrazos y tu cintura continental
azul mi sed sobre la tuya
azul la tierra donde plantas tus senos
azul amamantas al sol
azul despedazas la luna
azul el filo de tus gemidos que aplastan los violentos
azul tu calentura
azul tu desnuda música del polvo
azul ombligo placenta placeres las hijas
azul milpas y maíz la sonrisa de tus pechos
azul mortal e infinito tu amor de ser amada y amar
azul matices y matriz de tu cabello
azul en la sombra de tus deseos
azul tu cuerpo tiembla y templo de mis palabras
azul la mujer que es fusilada con guitarras
azul renace en el aliento de flautas y horizontes
azul basura indispensable
azul de todas las azules
azul sabiduría menstrual
azul el color que gotea de todos sus poros y orificios
azul azul azul azul azules 

***
Azul
que te quiero
azul
azul celeste
azul terrenal
azul labios
azul pechos
azul vientre
azul besos y emboscada
azul piel
azul noche
azul sol
amor azul
azul
que te quiero
azul

***

my erotic machinery, my lips
My hands, my eyes, my nose, my lips, my tongue, my skin, my hips, the crevices in my body where night gestates, every pore, every drop of saliva, every cry that gently pulls apart the tear-ducts of my orgasms, a constellation and a combustion, a convergence and contradiction, this machine made of flesh, bones, 10 liters of blood, a heart that pumps harder with tenderness, a kilometer or two of veins, muscles, sinewy synaptic lightning, thunders into my face, my lips moisten, boom!
Un beso,
a kiss,
baiser,
قبلة,
целоваться | tselovat’sya,
吻 | Wěn,
bacio,
beijo,
My five senses are network
telegraphing caresses
connecting blood, muscle, belly, heartbeat
germinating the DNA of humanity’s long march, longer memory,
the first kiss
el primer beso
over and over
electrifying the soviets
inking the constitution
making revolutions live in the body
the explosion of my lips anywhere on your body

***
Love song to my body.
My body is made by your body.
My body will make your five senses
multiply to the Nth power.
My body is
an anthem to gentleness,
an ode to the sensual and the sensuous
My body expires alongside my lovers
Resurrection, insurrection, no directions, no instructions,
My body is virgin forest, utopia for the utopians,
I discover new senses in each pore, each pore a memory of the big bang
My heart rests in a lunar crater, pumping liquid light
My body electromagnet for un-licentious lust:
I caress my face with yours
I sculpt my nipples between thumb and the other four fingers
Inviting you to invite me into my own body
I am quark transmitting into the space of our bodies
I run my tongue over my lips tasting my besos:
I carry the first kiss of humanity
When Lucy kissed my first father
And my first mother introduced me to my first body at her breasts
I made contact with my body with my lips
Diego Rivera is my shadow
Frida Kahlo waits for me in Baltimore
My body bursts over the music of your tongue
Mayakovsky scribbled my body jingle in two words: I love.
You are my parallel body, my world, my sun-scream…



Thursday, October 31, 2013

The living blues

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I don't celebrate my dead
My dead celebrate me
My dead have a hard time being dead
(Just like sometimes I have a hard time being alive)
My dead love being alive
My living abhor death
Life banishes death
Death accepts life
My dead and living love each other
A clacking embrace of skeletal desires
We each practice sleeping without breathing
We each practice breathing without sleeping
We each practice holding each other
We lie and live in a bed of blues
The skin of dreams is black
Our words are our memory of the first kiss
Our lips glazed with blue rouge offering an eternal kiss
I honor my dead by staying alive beyond my means
I carry my dead
in my love,
in my hair,
in my eyes,
in the palms of my blood
I am my dead
I am alive through them
My dead sway in the maize stalks
My dead roll around in the dust and the rain and the mud
My dead flirt, fool around, make fun of the living, they say:
You haven't lived until you've died!



*

The Sonora desert
is the endless dust
of migrants
dead
of stars
banging out
of the walls of deception
Devotion
is the longest walk, the longest memory
of humanity
a milk way of blood and bleached skulls
to arrive in your prickly arms
Our dead
just want to get home
Our living
just want to become dirt again
What men think it strange and crazy
that our bodies feed verdant fields of dirt?
What men carry guns
to herd us into the rows?
What men have lost
their bearings
their roots
wearing nothing but our soil?
A migrant child wails into the stars
A migrant woman places her mouth over the land
A migrant man, made of soils, waters and winds
pauses
before becoming another plant in the sun ...



Saturday, September 14, 2013

Writing the veins | Where do stories come from

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My ink is the web of life, a sunburned heart, thirty kilometers of veins, holding up the calcinated skeleton of migrants. I scribble from the tips of my fingers to the octopus buds that nestle under my tongue the stories and struggles, singing from the bed of each night.

I do not leave a moment unscribed, I cannot, it is impossible. Every molecule, every second, every gesture, every brushing up against her voice in my ear, is a story, a journaling of shadows.

I am not transcribing reality.

I am inscribing reality with the blood of my grandfathers and grandmothers. They will not be forgotten -- by you or me.

Every breath is a syllable, every heartbeat and step a wording of nomads crisscrossing the blank page. Our words matter because our lives make them inevitable, powerful, a story that you will turn to.

The human cry, the human, is movement. I along with you emerged from the entrails of the mud. Our peoples made thirteen flights from the caves with wings made of dust. Each time we molted, leaving behind an albino sun, we learned to crawl on the belly of our dreams.

Every story is a fluttering in our stomachs as our eyes take in the horizons. It doesn't matter where we started, every step, every where we stand, everyone is on a journey. Our tongue slices heaven in equal portions and everyone has a place under the constellations of our story, our word.

Our stories keep our lust, our future, alive. I listen for your crickets, your humming song, your body springing out of mine.

2
She ripped out your ribs to carve the skies of our long walk on the stone walls of the first night. Then she invited us to dip our fingers in your body, your blood became our first story trembling on the palm of our soul.

Ever since, each one of us rises to bury you to mark the path of memory. Your ribs became cavern and ladder connecting ancestors and ancestors-to-come, a temple for our obsidian tongue, lacerating tiny, translucent flesh offerings from our eyes.

She comes back every fifty-two years seeking the lover who will impregnate her with the milky way. Whose voice could cast a net into the cosmos to grab the spirals of tumbling stars and gasps, the orgasm of the sixth sun? Whose body will swallow the cloudy light and couple with her to keep the land spinning the web of life? Whose hands will caress, then squeeze, her breasts, her mouth, ignoring the menstruating rivers and accompany her to the wintering bends of her hips?

3
My family, my people, were the first skyscrapers. We would elevate our bodies, raise our hands, grazing the palms of our souls against the heavens and strike down constellations and chaos. The milky way gestated in our hands, becoming canyon and topography, tenderness and fist, grimace and contractions.

We became skyscrapers after her. She pushed each one of us out of her womb, giving us wings and sky, soil and wounds, giving us no alternative than movement.

The soles of our feet became calloused ants, our tongues the banners of her seasons, clinging to her body with the rhythms of oceanic waves.

4
The past can be changed only by returning with the rivers to the root of our sorrows.

My great-grandfather's great-grandfather's great-grandmother knew how to carefully cut their wrists to fill the sun with light and bend space with their bare hands. Their word would twist and braid the waters into the land, where we were already buried. The rivers would scrape us out of the grave of our desolation, grinding our bones into snow, ice, glaciers to slow the sun.

The rivers pulverized the songs of our ribs. Then all that was left of my grandmothers' and grandfathers' instructions the intuition of rains and cloudy serpents.

I ingest my grandmother and grandfather: water, wind, soil, maize and the rapids of the hummingbird beating deep under their breasts. I am their son and ancestor, their endless trek zigzagging across my tongue.

In the end, they are the river carrying us to the past and to the future, the fresh wound of love. The river splits the atom, disperses our kisses, the labia that unfolds her body and ours.

5
The crickets hum, hum, hum becoming the heartbeat of the night.
The night hums, hums, hums, becoming the heartbeat of the sky.
The sky thun-ders, hums, thun-ders, hums, becoming the heartbeat of the people.
The people hum, hum, hum, syncopate with the chanting crickets, becoming the heartbeat of the insects.
The insects drone, hum, vibrate, becoming the heartbeat of the ants.
The ants tap, improvise, scribble an endless line, becoming the heart of the soil.
The soil turns, rots, impregnates the seeds, gestates becoming the heart of the rain.
The rain patters, throbs, drums, becoming the heartbeat of the mud.
The mud oozes, seeps, putrefies, becoming the heartbeat of my ancestors.
My ancestors sway, fidget, trudge, wander, becoming the heartbeat of our first kiss.
Our first kiss never ends, I suck on your tongue, your lips, our saliva commingles, becoming the heartbeat of our ancestors and descendants....

[Excerpts from La revolución emplumada]
c|s

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

I wake up in a new body

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Arnoldo García (bowing to the spontaneity of the dreaming movement):


I wake up with a new body.
My tattoos are gone, not even a scratch from my horrendous bicycle racing accident. Freddie and I were racing around the house. He decided to change directions because I was beating him. His laughter betrayed his loss in a simple kid’s race. Then around the corner, boom! Head on collision. He went flying and I went flying over our locked handlebars. A spoke from his rear wheel that sprung out in the crash gashed my left cheekbone.
My eye went black. The red was a sign that something was broken or at least ripped.
In one night, my violent past became past. No fingerprints, no chains, handcuffs, no prison depressing solitudes. I almost cried. I looked at my body, tender again.
I could fly again. I could walk into a store and not be followed. I could say hello and smile at the white girls. I could smile with the black and brown girls. And they would turn their bodies toward me, beckoning, lifting their skirts or lowering their blouses in a secret signal.
My lips were no longer blue. My stomach a plains, flatlands, inviting touch, inviting endless embrace.
I was monolingual. Spoke English only. Thoughts were almost a hissing radio, whose antenna was bent, broken, lost in a digital world. The tongue was plainer, rejected the old spices, the old needs to sing and blow kisses at the delight of strange foods. Chocolate sauces, dripping over chicken? Not anymore. Chocolate shakes, yes. Green chiles cut and diced into the beans? Neither was in my monolingual vocabulary or pastas, salads and burgers. My body rejected thoughts that bad tildes and double l’s, double RR’s and vowels that were stoic, unchanging.
In jeans or in a business suit, I was the man that rejected me, put false gods and obstacles in my way. I was the man that said I was mediocre and too ambitious and should be satisfied with my station in the valley.

I became the man who had cheated my grandfathers out of their lands. I became the man who harassed my sisters, my mothers, my aunts. Yes, my body was lustworthy and even these women I despised were attracted to me. But I only did what I did to them to keep them in their place and insult their men. I had their men under my boots and their women in my pants, my slim waist, taunt, taunting.
In my new body, I was what I never wished to be and now had no choice.
I fit in. I passed because I didn’t have to pass any more. I could apply for jobs that before had always been off limits. I could enter the neighborhoods and no one would call the police on me. I could do with my new body what my old body would have landed me in police custody just for entering the wrong, read white, part of town.
White is white. Brown is brown. Skin is not kin. White man over all. If I doubted myself, I was doing them a favor. If I didn’t push hard, I would be falling all over their twisted shadows, mistaking holes for steps, stumbling for achieving heights, smiles for smirks. My new body was both freedom and imprisonment. I was free to do to others as I felt free to do. I knew what would happen to this body, open to drugs, suburbs, long commutes, failed marriages, childless, growing old and being taken care of by my old body. Would they, the old me’s, really take care of me when all this time I made sure to take every advantage of them to put them down, to make them pay thrice over for something that had no value?

My new body was my new fear of decay. My new body was my horizon filled with the sunset glow of carbon monoxide. My new body was no better than my old body. I was possessed by the anxiety of becoming a victim of robbery or homicide. My new body had access to more guns than a terrorist threat. My new body had access to vacations, getaways, women, food, cars, desserts, services, trust funds, cash, credit, assets, land, houses.
You name it. My new body was the old one that in my previous body I had organized against, had protested, had carried hunger strikes, picket lines — anything to embarrass the new body. Even some of my older bodies had organized guerrilla armies, little wars of liberation, bodies barely able to put down their words and feelings into manifestos. But they were old bodies that knew that the new body would only emerge from their old bodies through a big struggle. Many would die, many of the old bodies. And if I was able to, many of the new bodies of the new type.

I emerged from the old body a new mummy. I emerged rotting already. I only knew this because I still had the DNA memory of the old body, the body that was old because of the those bodies that were parasites with PhDs and nukes, prisons and police at their disposal.
My new body was naked, red under the sun, pink under the artificial light of photoshop. My new body was new only to those who were stuck in the same body as the new me. My new body was an old decrepit German that stole my grandfather’s land and knowledge of seeds to become rich and impoverished us. My old body spoke the language of the moist, fertile soil. My new body spoke the language of the banks and debtor’s prisons. My old body spoke the language of bees, seasons and guttural winds that carried ancestral dusts and rivers to the edge of glaciers and sunken cities. My new body spoke of progress and prostitutes. My new body could buy anything except its dignity. Everything had a price in the new body. Everyone had a name, a story and love in the old body.
My new body beat my old body not just into shape. My new body pistol-whipped, enslaved, branded, forced labor, stole even the sweetness of my perspiration to sell it back to me as the aroma of peasant memories. My new body was my old master, my old slave-driver, my old tormentor that drive me off my lands and out of my mind. My new body was only new to those who were not like my old body. My old body, hunchbacked, honeyed, bronzed, was the topography of tenderness after a 18 hour workday. My old body was the rush of the harvest season and the slow cooking pot of winter beans and steaming coffee. My new body was 24/7 neon lights, two weeks here, two weeks there, coitus on the clock, routines, 2000 hour work years. My new body was the precise mathematics of interest rates and retirement funds, sex and disposable laughter, good only for the buck and the bang of the moment. Nothing lasts in the new body as long as the wallet doesn’t get fat.

The new body killed the old body in a war for possession. The new body was born sick with the sickness of private property in land, in men and women, in children for a childless future, in housing, in health, in air, water and soil. The new body owns or wants to own everyone and everything. Everything and everyone is for sale or else worthless.
The new body makes people fail. The new body is the only human that exists. Everyone else is on a shelf at the mall, waiting to be purchased or leased to be owned.
The new body — everyone wants one. Everyone wants to touch me. I am the holy water of the faithful who have no vision, no will, no ideas and parrot even my mistakes. My new body makes the old body believe that God has failed them or that they need to bow even further down into the deepest and raunchiest of prayer. The new body owns the holy words; they are available for rent by soul.
My new body is already embalmed, laid out in designer suits and with aged champagnes waiting to be uncorked in the bubble of delight. The new body is already DOA. Kept alive by the old bodies, the people who still smell of roots and manured soils, whose ancestors were carried by ants out of our mass grave and the ruins of our temples.
My new body is split in three:
The man who has nothing except threats and bank accounts
The man who loves no one and confuses the lover with an armored truck
The man who behaves as if the old bodies and the women must bathe and adore him so that each night aging results in casting off more old bodies.
The new body sleeps in the old me. The old body suffocates and convulses at the sight of the new skin. The new body has no pores, glistening in the air conditioned limelight that only money makes believe. The new body flays the old body, prays through my skull, screeches into my throat, masturbates over the pigment of the old body.

The new body is trembles at the darkness at the ends of his fists. No rage here. Politicians, philosophers, physicists, police, senators, soldiers, generals, warships, submarines, drones, voters, do his bidding. The new body sleeps soundly; someone else gets to worry for him someone else loses their job and future if he fails. The new body is perfect for destroying civilizations and rendering the natural world inhabitable. Not for him but for the old bodies. The new body has a slim nose, oxygen tanks, swimming pools and DNA patents to stay fresh.
I woke up this morning in this new body that craves silk and fresh milk. I woke up crazy.

#iwakeupinanewbody


All photographs by Arnoldo García, from the Katrina series, 2005.
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