Michael Sedano
The terrible news reached me via email and then Facebook. La Bloga friend and my erstwhile Albuquerque traveling companion Francisco X. Alarcón is diagnosed with stomach cancer and faces the crises of a health setback, the processes of medical care, and an eventual cure.
Sana, sana, colita de rana, si no te curas hoy te curarás mañana, Francisco.
Francisco's familia and friends gathered around him and Javier Pinzon at their Davis home to laugh, read poetry together, and share strength-building moments as Francisco gears up for the road ahead. The beautiful videos of those moments, viewable on Facebook, offer an important reminder of the healing power of love, laughter, friends, and poetry.
Juan Felipe Herrera encourages gente to write or video themselves reading for Francisco. At Facebook, Herrera recently noted: Keep your poems coming' for Francisco X. Alarcon -- who already is enjoying your poems and visits. He is already smiling and appreciating your words. Every poem you send will brighten his day. Thank you so much! Or a video clip of you reading it or reciting one of his poems. A small gesture always makes a mega-difference. Abrazos - jƒ
Visit Poets Responding to SB 1070 Poetry of Resistance, founded by Francisco, to share videos and poetry accumulating there.
I put together a visual poem, portraits I've captured of Francisco, showing him where he belongs, in front of an audience, reading his poetry, inspiring listeners, smiling laughing cantando del mero corazón, and together--poet and audience--squeezing every scintilla out of life-enriching creativity. We are the Fifth Direction.
Francisco X. Alarcón reads at USC's 2010 Festival de Flor y Canto Yesterday • Today • Tomorrow ©michael v. sedano |
Blogueras Xánath Caraza and Olga García Echeverría with Francisco X. Alarcón at USC's 2010 Festival de Flor y Canto Yesterday • Today • Tomorrow. ©michael v. sedano |
2011 National Latino Writers Conference, Francisco X.Alarcón workshop |
2011 National Latino Writers Conference. Tim Z. Hernandez, Francisco X. Alarcón, Michael Sedano and NLWC writers. Foto: either Adriana Dominguez or Monica Brown |
Stocking Stuffers
Don't wait until gift-shopping frenzy grows increasingly fevered and you find yourself at the sales table choosing the wrong color socks or a fancy and costly vacuum cleaner for a hard-working mate. Instead, find an independent bookseller, or go directly to the small press publishers, and stock up on books.
Books are incredibly good bargains. What other present captures thousands of hours of personal physical labor than a collection of stories, or poems? And made-in-the-USA with zero degrees of planned obsolescence? So instead of gifting some crud shipped overseas in huge freighters stacked to the gills with 40-foot steel containers, remember "there is no frigate like a book."
La Bloga happily recommends two titles that will make yours the gift that keeps on giving, day after day after month after month, year after year, per omnia and all that.
First, for $75.00, all five issues of Huizache. Or, for $15.00 Huizache number 5, hot off the presses. Use this link to place your order in time for Huizache to reach your stockings hung by the chimenea with care. Buy one for yourself, too.
Second, for $77.00, a full set of The Más Tequila Review, Poetry for the rest of us. That's 11, count 'em, eleven, wonderfully entertaining and often stop-you-in-your-tracks collections. For only $7.00 you can get the eleventh Más Tequila Review, hot off the presses.
Click here to place your order for TMTR. One for the gifter, one for the giftee.
I was just leafing through my copy of TMTR #11 and Diana Pando stopped me in my tracks with her "Conjuring Adela." This stanza in particular, stays in my thoughts:
(Last time I saw her she had turned to dust
Carried her ashes through airport security
Had to explain why they were in my carry-on luggage
We were taking her to the ocean to set her free)
Mid-December 2015: On-line Floricanto
Francisco X. Alarcón, John Hernandez, Jackie Lopez Lopez, Armando Guzman, Tom Sheldon
a kiss is a kiss by Francisco X. Alarcón
My Name is All You See by John Hernandez
I've Got the Samba Juice by Jackie Lopez Lopez
Dark Skies by Armando Guzman
Jazz spirits play by Tom Sheldon
a kiss is a kiss
By Francisco X. Alarcón
a kiss is a kiss -
all love is equal love and
the Earth still turns around
un beso es beso –
todo amor es amor igual;
y la Tierra aún gira
foto: Claudia D. Hernández |
My Name is all You See
By John Hernandez
It doesn't matter to you that my name has a story here in this land, a history.
That my name has helped build this country.
My name has worked the fields, tended the cattle, paved the roads,
constructed the buildings, manufactured the automobiles and contributed to society.
My name has educated the children, cared for the elderly, rescued the victim,
defended the boarders and bled for the ideals of liberty.
My name has been a part of the club, graduated with honors,
gone for the gold, dotted the i's and crossed the t's.
My name has paid its dues, towed the line, pitched in,
lent a helping hand and turned the other cheek.
My name believes in this country, this concept of land of the free.
But no matter how hard it tries
No matter its dedication, sacrifice, its quest for liberty... you do not see me.
If it's lucky you see your gardener, your waiter, your dishwasher or your nanny.
Cheap labor, someone to stock your shelves, build your home, wash your car and mow your lawn.
But more than likely you see an illegal, someone who doesn't belong.
A criminal, a gang banger, a thief, a dealer, a junky, a welfare queen... a burden on society.
You see your own misconceptions.
You see your own assumptions.
You see your own stigmas of who you want me to be... never once seeing me.
I want you to see me... not just my name.
I want you to consider me... not just your stigmas, assumptions or misconceptions.
I want you to see acceptance when looking at me.
My name is American, the same as yours and I want you to see you when looking at me.
Growing up on the outside looking into homogeneous rural America has given him a desire for people to understand and accept each other.
I've Got the Samba Juice
By Jackie Lopez Lopez
The sweat drips from my body
electric.
I’ve got the samba juice for all
those who thirst.
My smile will give you a shot of
green.
My foot will give you a
self-esteem that gets closer.
I’ve got the samba blues, and it does me well.
I should start a poetry samba
band.
I will invite all my mischievous
word nymphs to join me.
Yes, it will be a poetry/samba
jamboree and it will be consumed
by the all.
It will be without water.
It will be as you hover out in
space.
It will clean your lungs.
It will speak in tongues.
You should try the intrepid samba
step and go ecstatic on me.
You should brave the high winds
and sail your sail boat into the pond.
Samba dreams with samba steam is
happening, and I am wet.
Come.
I’ve come across many a misnomer
and madness is one of them.
For I am not mad.
I am a samba queen.
I’ve got skirt tails on me if you
want to touch the hem of my garment.
I am free and open.
I give you a smile when there is
none to give.
If only…if only I knew how to
tell time.
I would know when to take you
home, but I don’t even know when I, myself, am to go home.
I wish you well.
Good luck.
I’ll give you a ride on my
heirloom.
I’ve got cataracts from staring
at the moon.
I’ve got a locomotive for an eye
opener.
I’ve got whimsical tastes for a
connoisseur.
If you wish it, I can drip my sweat on your drapes.
If you wish, I can stand it all out loud.
I can say that I have always been
poetic in my samba inclinations.
Saint, this is for you!
Swim disheveled hair and hear me
out:
I’ve got osmosis of the gnosis,
and I am all supreme.
Try a little adolescent misadventures
with me.
I’m a just a dancer in distress.
Dark Skies
By Armando Guzman
American dreams fade into dark skies.
Political horror and hatred have taken over the night.
American screams for justice are denied.
Building barriers; feeding hate; empathy dies.
The working class is stepped on; it is time to fight.
American dreams fade into dark skies.
Family detention; mothers, children are imprisoned as the media lies.
We are called murderers, rapists, making the noose ever more tight.
American screams for justice are denied.
Unarmed, innocent, women in jail cells mysteriously die.
We are the minorities; majority, where are our rights?
American dreams fade into dark skies.
Murder by cop; mothers cry.
The Grand Juries hide from the light.
American screams for justice are denied.
Immigrants; natives, all are vile in their eyes.
It is time to soar; to take flight.
American dreams fade into dark skies.
American screams for justice are denied.
Jazz spirits play
By Tom Sheldon
jazz
spirits topaz
gold and emerald
humid and glistening
festooned and fecund
verdant green garlands
between trembling hands
memories warm this amber
an aroma hidden in mystery
woven out of parted twilight lips
vowels and consonants of delight
your mouth/breath visits a flower in bud
blood coursing …portals recede with the tide
half open eyes grow dim, in steps to heady paradise
as passion does arise from a surrender to the moon surrender...
a perfumed garden in bloom bowing to your breath of surrender and beauty…
Estimado Michael: Muchas gracias por this great issue, Abrazos, Francisco
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