Soy del otro lado | I am from the other side

Soy del otro lado
del lado bravo
del lado tuyo
del lado izquierdo
donde tengo el nido
para tus abrazos
Soy del otro lado
donde los muros
son las sombras
que persiguen
a los policías
que defienden
a los tiranos del mercado
Y el sol está
a nuestro lado
el lado de la tierra
el lado de las lágrimas con sus sonrisas
el lado de la luna llena y vacía
el lado que es combustible para las estrellas
el lado donde somos íntegros
el lado que divide a las bestias
adomándolas con nuestra luz
el lado que nos abriga
contra la rabia del dinero
Soy de ese lado
con sus seis direcciones y sus siete espacios
donde los abrazos abren cielos y puertas
donde los llantos espantan a las fronteras
y las mujeres nos dan su espalda
para cargarnos y sobrevivir
Del lado donde nuestros desaparecidos
reaparecen
Soy del otro lado
del lado tuyo...

[Abril 2016]

| * |

I am from the other side

I am from the other side
from the side of the Bravo
from your side
from the left side
where I have a nest
for your arms
I am from the other side
where the walls
are shadows
that chase down
the police
that defend
the tyrants of the markers
And the sun is
on our side
on the side of the earth
on the side of tears with smiles
on the side of the of the full and empty moon
on the side that is fuel for the stars
on the side where we are whole
on the side that divides the beasts
taming them with our light
on the side that holds us
against the rage of money
I am from that side=
with its six directions and seven spaces
where our embrace open up skies and doors
where our cries threaten borders
and the women give us their backs
to carry us and to survive
From the side where our disappeared
reappear
I am from the other side
from your side ...

[April 2016]

The four directions of my border blues

I miss
Tacuache,
Homer,
Johnson,
Crow
the four directions
of my blues
the four musics
of my valley
the guitarist
the drummer
the friend
geniuses all
beheaded by whites
loved by Mexicans
Elvira and her sister, too
The tula fog
the cries
for the mother
The music was our music
we knew we would never see each other again
never gave up the blues
never surrendered to the night of our long separation
Tacuache bellowing,
hair down to his hips,
I want pussah, pussah
Homer roaring in laughter
I am in the back seat remembering us all
Where's Cinthia?
She was my outcast, my future woman
I would love and love always
eternity had her names, ours
Johnson was a madman
with a Gibson strapped across his shoulder
Crow the music organism
Tacuache spirit armed with spirit to pound away our fears
Homer the friend we would never give up
Then we left each other
alone
We left each other
and ever since
music is
incomplete
unfinished tenderness...

What remains after us?

Poetry is what remains

after we make love,
after we march for justice,
after we make little revolutions against big injustices,
after we paint and color the canvasses of our skin,
when we make peace with the rage of the system,
when we kiss
... the hands of our elders,
.. the mouth of our lovers,
.. the nose of the new born

Poetry is what remains
after we hold hands or smile or talk and listen to one another,
when our hands glance each other's shadows,
when the moon is full and we are empty.

Poetry is what remains
after we have lived
many suns together.

Come make poetry with us
Poetry that swallows the wind to make us rain
Poetry that touches our faces with the hands of the dust
Poetry that makes craters in the soul of your heart
Poetry that defies bullets and the shadows of mourning
Poetry made by the hands and the eyes of rainbow warriors who struggle to make springtime the only season of our dreams

Poetry that buries the war dead with the words and cries of our elders who never gave up
Poetry that makes love to overthrow capitalism and its war machinery of wage labor, mining, fossil fuel and paved over acquifers
Poetry that is the flower and bread of organizing our utopias and seeds
Poetry that is on the lips of the loved ones,
.. the first kiss of humanity,
.. the first kiss of revolutions,
.. the kiss of our ancestors and newborn.

Poetry that says never again to war and hate, extraction and exploitation of our deepest life gestating in the earth herself.

Our dreams do not fit in
voting urns
banks

Our dreams fit
in our hearts and word of peace, sisterhood and justice...

--arnoldo garcía

Electric blind blues

My eyes

have broken

the lightning
shattered

the campesino electrocutions
in the fields

of verdant fears
in the footsteps

of indian shadows
the lightning shards

cut up my liver
scrape the sockets

of my eyes
with the darkest threat

of starless nights
the crickets call out her name

over and over
whirring,

displacing thunder,

dispensing with formalities
pouncing

on the drum

of my senses
making the lightning tremble

slicing open the irises,
bleeding electricity.

I am going blind

because the lightning won't rise up
against the mother
as acrylic clouds

dance upon the rain
inside my skin 

the lightning broken,

cries,
lashes at the hat

the farmworker wears

to carry the sun
The lightning 

s broken,

mortally wounded,

dying

inside my eyes
My eyes become

a mudslide of extinction...

Madre-abuelita (for manuela & josé)

I long for my grandmother's tortillas

her bold hands that seized fevers and captured ghosts

her guidance, her comales, where chiles and tomatoes sang

she nourished us with food and prayer

to plant flowers

to surround us with family, community and hope

she didn’t want anyone to die

she preferred to die first

than see us suffer

she promised to see us after death

she came back twice

once she alone and the last time she was with her husband José.

She smiled sternly, but she was smiling.

Everything works out in the end

Her bones rest

Her footsteps let us know she does not sleep

Until everyone is safe

She loved

black coffee,

fresh jalapeños that made men cry

and talking back to God.

As she lay dying

Her eyes

Her hands

Her wilting heart

showered us with tenderness and compassion

Even when she recovered from the first heart attack

she didn’t stop working

Instead of resting

we would return from work

to find the house swept and mopped

food cooking on the stove

a stack of freshly cooked tortillas

and she on her feet

challenging us, defying her own heart

praying

her whole body

was a prayer

a thunderous prayer

then she decided to die

after she found out some terrible news

she was betrayed

she tried to strangle my grandfather

who did not resist

he knew what he had done and was willing to let her have what she wanted now

Gustavo and I were in a side room playing guitars

when we heard arguing voices crescendo

then bodies crashing against walls and floors

We stuck our heads out the door and slowly came out

She was choking my abuelito

He just lay there, she on top, still

holding him down with her legs over his chest and knees on his arms

Then she flopped down on the floor

Leaning her head against the frayed sofa

Enraged, spit drooling out of her mouth

Her body was still a prayer

Invoking herself against herself

That summer

She continued working in the fields

Until she suffered another stroke at the onset of autumn

Then winter came

And she died

Her body still a prayer

When we buried her it began raining, then the sun broke through

The winter day became springtime

We sent her off with prayers, partying

Time under the open sky

The stars swelling until everyone cried

because we were going to miss her

we miss her prayers, her praying

her backbone

her food, her caldos, tortillas, her ponqui pie, her lipstick

her curses, her defense

She kept her promises, she waits for everyone.

Will we rest alongside her bones

or will we be scattered by the wind

only to be reached by her voice,

rescued by her prayers?

Manuela, arise

sons and daughters

grand-sons and granddaughters

great-grand-sons and great grand-daughters

Our mother

Our grandmother

does not forget anyone

does not leave anyone behind…

[Poem: 2002 | "Manuela Ochoa on her wedding day," 6"x8" oil pastels, 1994]

We are all Picassos

We are all Picassos.

Todas y todos somos picassos.
My DNA is digital
my besos are analogue
I spin through space
two eyes here
two mouths there
the mother displaced, distorted, missing in Michigan
the father invisible, drowned,
dismembered on the canvas of fertile grandmothers
I arrived piece by piece across the migrant spectrum of soul
I will be buried and the earth will be whole again and again
My fate is twisted, a twister, a storm of tenderness
My days are here with you
My nights become DNA,
I spin and float reassemble
myself in your bodies
I ghost other worlds
parallel soul parking
fitting carefully between two bodies

My love is DNA
my hate is analogue
Borderless not wireless
My head leans against the head of Coalicue
My ears are pounded by the drumming
of wars plummeting through my skin
We are all artists
our tongues the brush
our veins the palette of colors
the rio bravo pleading to jump tracks
and wash herself of the maquiladora blood
Picasso made flesh offerings for our eyes to see
Guadalupe buried our placenta in her cries
Today is the day I will eat prickly pears with lemon and chile
smile against the sun
know that everything and everyone I love
will burst from my pores and my senses will make clouds
free the rain from the prison of pipes, asphalt and dams
Two or three more world wars
Ten, twenty, thirty revolutions
Where we disarm the men with guns and pigmentation
we'll get it right
we'll figure out how to be together
dance and not damn ourselves together
Wind
Water
Land
Our bodies return whole to the spiderweb,
gently feed the cosmos...

human status for all

human status for all:

birds,

oceans,

mountains,

uranium, 

rivers,

deserts,

worms,

jaguares,

bears,

fish,

whales,

wind,

soil,

waters,

migrants,

hummingbirds,

butterflies,

snakes,

insects,

bacteria,

germs,

shells,

mammals,

amphibians,

bipeds,

quadripeds,

all animals,

insects,

dogs,

coyotes,

wolves,

plants,

cats...

Animal status for all:

humans,

whites,

blacks,

browns,

yellows,

greens,

teas, republicans, democrats,

communists,

anarchists,

our languages

transmen, transwomen, queers, straights, curved,

the border patrol

the police

the homeless,

the rich,

the technocrats,

the evil bankers,

the corporativists...

On earth day,

all power to the animal people,

the web of life,

All power to the natural world without us...

poem & photograph: arnoldogarcía
Detail of mural on MacArthur Boulevard (near Mills College) in Oakland, California.

Si fuera human@

Si fuera human@

sería una mujer

con puños de ternura llena de espinas
me preocuparía sólo por mis hijas
Amaría libremente
al hombre que me hiciera reír de la filosofía
El hombre que no lastimara a las hormigas o a mis lágrimas.

Si fuera human@
No tendría miedo del desempleo
No tendría miedo de la distancia que me separa de ella
No tendría miedo de nada, sólo del no poder amar bajo la lluvia de inviernos desesperanzados

Si fuera human@
tú estarías contenta, más valiente de lo que ya eres
tú podrías vivir en donde se baja el sol y en donde amanece sin perder tu lugar.

Tú dirías:
Tu piel arrugada, tus pulmones desgastados no importan
Sólo que tu corazón late entre mis manos
Sólo que tu sonrisa es un machete, arma en contra de mi oscuridad
Que tus cicatrices son el ADN de mi placer
Si fuera human@
La utopía sería ahora
A donde vayamos, en donde estemos…

El camino a la utopía es la utopía | the path to utopia is utopia [poema cero de abril/Zero poem for April]

1

El camino
a la utopía
es la utopía

2

hoy celebraban
a césar e. chávez
y los campesinos seguían trabajando
bajo un sol de machetes
nadie los celebró a ellos

3
hoy dos campesinos
cercas de riverbank
con azadones
estaban limpiando
una labor de fresas
un hombre
y una mujer
dos campesin@s
caminando, cabeza agachada
en un mar verde
que se mecía
con olas de viento empolvado

4
los zurcos
son las tumbas
más suaves
del mundo
allí enterramos semillas y sudor
y luego cuando
germinan
crecen
brotan
y se estiran hacia el cielo
con nuestras manos
las piscamos
y nos comemos
nuestros muertos hechos de
fresas
cebollas
chiles
chícharo
tomates
frijoles
sandía
calabacita
maíz
tierra
agua
sol

5
el camino
a la utopía
es la utopía...

*

The road to utopia is utopia

1

The road
to utopia
is utopia

2

Today they are celebrating
César E. Chávez
and the farmworkers do not stop working
underneath a sun of machetes
no one is celebrating them

3
today two farmworkers
close to Riverbank
swinging hoes with their hands
were cleaning
a field of strawberries
a man
and a woman
two farmworkers
walking, their heads bent down
in a sea of green
that swayed
under waves of dusty wind

4
the rows
were the softest
graves
of the world
there we bury seeds and sweat
and then when
they germinate
crecen
bloom
and reach for the sky
with our hands
we harvest them
and we eat
our dead made of
strawberries
onions
chiles
peas
tomates
beans
watermelon
squash
maize
soil
water
sun

5
the road
to utopia
is utopia ...

Soy del otro lado | i am from the other side

Soy del otro lado
del lado bravo
del lado tuyo
del lado izquierdo
donde tengo el nido
para tus abrazos
Soy del otro lado
donde los muros
son las sombras
que persiguen
a los policías
que defienden
a los tiranos del mercado
Y el sol está
a nuestro lado
el lado de la tierra
el lado de las lágrimas con sus sonrisas
el lado de la luna llena y vacía
el lado que es combustible para las estrellas
el lado donde somos íntegros
el lado que divide a las bestias
adomándolas con nuestra luz
el lado que nos abriga
contra la rabia del dinero
Soy de ese lado
con sus seis direcciones y sus siete espacios
donde los abrazos abren cielos y puertas
donde los llantos espantan a las fronteras
y las mujeres nos dan su espalda
para cargarnos y sobrevivir
Del lado donde nuestros desaparecidos
reaparecen
Soy del otro lado
del lado tuyo...

*

I am from the other side
from the side of the Bravo
from your side
from the left side
where there is a nest
for your embraces & love
I am from the other side
where the walls
are shadows
that persecute
the police
who defend
the tyrants of the market
And the sun is
at our side
on the side of the earth
on the side of the tears with her smiles
on the side of the full and the empty moon
the side that is fuel for the stars
the side where we are whole
the side that divides the beasts
taming them with our light
the side that protects us
against the rage of money
I am from that side
with her six directions and seven spaces
where our embraces open skies and doors
where our crying intimidates borders
and the women give us their backs
to carry us and survive
From the side where our disappeared
reappear
I am from the other side
from your side...

*

poem & art: arnoldo garcía

Ayotzinapa | ayotzin beloved turtle

Picasso can't be confused with any other painter.

Late Picasso: Paintings, Sculpture, Drawings, Prints, 1953 1972

BOOK REVIEW 

Arnoldo García

In "Late Picasso," covering the last two decades of his life and art production, Picasso re-examines, remarks, re-evaluates and takes off from his own work and those of his peers and ancestors. He does not re-paint, he does not repeat himself as much as builds on his oeuvre, visiting, no retaking and occupying, the highest vantage points of his work. Late Picasso is a deeper, newly found Picasso. Older yet now slower. He is quoted as saying that in while one one day he draws and sketches and paints hundreds other painters spend 100 days on one painting.

A painter I admire much once told me that Picasso was over-rated. I did not ask after her why. Poring over each page of "Late Picasso," squinting at the paintings reproduced, he has completely reached another level, twisting-inside-out of the skin of Cubism, distortions that create a new lens of focus. While some of his late work may appear to verge on the sloppy, closer and closer inspection says otherwise. yes, his precision changed but his output didn't. In the 20-volume catalog of his complete work, more than half was produced during the period covered by "Late Picasso."

In art, in poetry, in painting, there are no accidents. In Picassos, there were no accidents.

Picasso painted his daily life, made meaning from his studio, from his relationships to women and other painters, friends and political unfoldings. Picasso made a chronology of art and the artist of a new type out of the life of his imagination. Picasso feared death, dying. This spurred him on to paint and paint, knowing that one day -- whether alive and incapacitated by age or dead, which to him we're the same -- he would not be able to. Picasso made many drafts and versions of his work, from sketches, to paintings to sculpture and collages. He then would paint his paintings, create sculptures from his paintings, an auto-locura [a self-crazyness], creating in the process a new process and fusion of what he had produced and accomplished and then some.

One of my favorite poets wrote that it was a crime for a poet to not write, to not produce poetry, every day. Picasso acted in the same way, literally to the day he died. For us, Picasso not painting was a crime to humanity.

Picasso evolved and emerged out of himself a few times over, a butterfly emerging out of the one cocoon where he created several lifetimes. Not reinventing himself but becoming a creator anew, not stuck on his accomplishments, pushing himself -- and in the process art, artists and us viewers-- to new limits.

Maybe many of us would have stopped, and maybe even the majority of work forgotten, after painting "Guernica." Picasso did no such thing. Ceramics, sculpture, collages, mural-sized paintings, poetry, theater, love making in all, Picasso's work will take many more eyes and generations to settle accounts. His last painting was an open work, yet to be finished or even started. The last painting? He left a blank canvass, signed: Picasso.

Over-rated? Maybe.

Great, yes.

Individual, yes.

No one will confuse Picasso with anyone else other than Picasso.

Found poem | Piercings

just in sudden silence
the sound of bones and flesh tearing
the sound of a mouth being beaten
blood
in our eyes
I
you (with emphasis)
in the heart,

where the mind and the emotions

are jailed

I disappear

in the Nez Perce

place of creation,

Heart of the Monster,

heading towards Kamiah, Idaho.
your mamá (not your mother)
without tongue, with cut tongue, with tongue removed
he, she, or us

lit all through the night
I reappear in

the ghost’s trail

the Milky Way...

c/s