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  2. arnoldo garcía: soul seas

    My tenderness will absolve my rage
    Or else I will have to gnaw off 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
    colors,
    pigment,
    abandoned bones and continents
    tsunamis,
    movements,
    contradictions,
    betrayals,
    resistance,
    meditations,
    forced drownings,
    Rinches,
    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
    unbowed,
    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

     
  3. Homanajes a Lhasa

    Georgina Hassan & Laura Ledesma

     
     

  4. arnoldogarcía: I am closing in | Day 10 & 11 poetry month

    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 landsI 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

    ***

     

  5. arnoldo garcía: When I die | day nine poetry month

    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…

     

  6. Billie Holiday | day seven poetry month

    Happy birthday Billie Holiday!

    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
    Spring
    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
     

  7. arnoldogarcía: Electrocutions | day six poetry month


    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…

     

     

  8. arnoldo garcía: I am tumbling

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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

     

  9. Nothing matters | day four poetry month

    http://lacarpadelfeo.blogspot.com/2014/04/nothing-matters-day-4-poetry-month.html?m=1


    Nothing matters
    really nothing
    revenge is a dead end
    sleep is impossible
    her lips have become a mirage of the dictatorship of capitalism,

    I press myself into a void of coldness
    masturbating chaos.
    My body has become a grave
    where movements and monsters find comfort
    MLK is still bleeding to death in Memphis
    and my grandma still wakes me and Gilberto to tell us that she dreamed this would happen.


    nothing matters really when you are a migrant
    here today, there tomorrow,
    the boss, the foreman, the police, the ngo’s, the activists, the teachers, the neighbors, the work, the camp, the journey, the laughter, the rain
    they have the power to disappear you
    to rob you of everything called dignity.
    Except love.
    Justice bleeds to death every fourth,
    irrigating the plants of my orgasms,
    a bullet hole in the throat,
    a moist furrow to shoot seeds into the stars:
    I am bleeding to death
    from a hole in my words.
    my grandmother dreamt this too
    a tiny open scar
    that gushes mud for her pigs and flower beds:
    my mom knifed my soul
    my grandmother stitched it up and occasionally ripped it open
    just to remind me that I had been abandoned and loved
    I became adept at wounding myself
    vulnerable to the wolves of hugs
    easy to sleep with so that my eyes would not implode
    So?
    i am a ghost already.
    My land was stolen seven generations ago.
    My future wounded seven hundred years into the future.
    Nothing matters for the next fifty years.
    after i become the glaze over your eyes
    after i become a prank on the living
    after I tire and everyone finds out I never gave up
    since i am more spirit than bones and flesh
    since i am more song than monogamy
    since I am more mutiny than servant
    since i am more than myself
    my sadness will be forgotten
    and my fists becoming laughter & betrayal
    in a bible of liberation wars.
    Nothing matters,
    really.
    you can scratch your luck into my pigment
    and nothing will change — except your luck.
    every april 4
    every fourth day of the month
    every fourth day of the new year
    every fourth hour of the new day
    every fourth time we smile or talk with each other
    every fourth lie that counts
    You and I are tested, branded, crazed, separated.
    A wound on space & time.
    Does anyone, including ourselves, believe
    we will make a difference
    a blade to cut the umbilical guitars
    a bomb to destroy the neighborhood thug
    a conspiracy to overthrow the digital regime of loneliness?
    nothing matters
    except you to me
    a quilt of tears, beatings & our arms around each other.

     
  10. Sunflowergrafias.
    arnoldogarcia fotos