La Chickenada Lament

Michael Sedano

La Chickenada were discussing yesterday’s death of Oldest Barred Rock. Uncharacteristically unraucous, the girls were taking turns sharing fond memories of the good-natured brown-egger.
The brash New Hampshire praised Oldest Barred Rock's eggshell, “A rich, deep brown. Best I’ve seen, other than my own, of course.”

The oldest bird of the flock, the ancient Ameraucana lamented, “It should have been me. I’ve laid around this old jaula for six years now.” 

The younger Ameraucana couple sang softly in the background, “I’ve laid around, and played around, this old jaula too long, summer’s almost gone yes winter’s coming on…” 

The ancient Ameraucana paused to give the youngsters an appreciative cluck. They continued singing sotto voce to the ancient Ameraucana's recollection.

“I remember when that coyote had La Marta in its jaws, she was a goner for sure. And good ol’Marta, she was just laughing, ‘Now I have coyote just where I want it!’ How she ever got away, we'll never really know. That Marta, she dined out on that story for months.” 

“…and I feel like I’ve gotta travel on.”

The Ameraucana couple stopped singing to chirp in, “Yeah, but that coyote sneaked in later and had La Marta for midnight snack, didn’t she?” 

The ancient Ameraucana nodded her head remembering that horrible night, the panic, the feathers, La Marta's last desperate gasp. The ancient one looked around and clucked her satisfaction at the security surrounding La Chickenada. Una jaula de oro.

“STFU!” the three young Barred Rocks objected, “you two weren’t here then, that’s just what you heard. Besides, you’re the newest ones in la jaula so what do you know?”

Buffy the Buff Orpington fluffed herself to her fullest and stared them down. “Ladies, ladies, we are commemorating our late friend, Oldest Barred Rock, and besides, you upstart Barred Rocks came in with pinfeathers the same day as those two green-eggers, and they were already pullets, so shut your beaks.”

Just then the girls spotted me eavesdropping. 

Buffy took the lead, “Órale, loco, what say we spill a bit of feed and have a day in the sun in honor of Oldest Barred Rock?”

New Hampshire lifted a wing in outrage and shot back, “Hey, Buffy, you know she had a name! She had a voice. She had dignity. Don’t denigrate her calling just her age and color.” 

“Yeah!” the Ameraucana couple protested, “she had a name. Use it.”

I poured a small amount of laying mash and oyster shell on the earth and we bowed our heads in a moment of remembrance for our late friend, McNuggets.




Reading Resource in Plague-Time: Aztlán Libre Press 

"It's Texas, Jake."

Home of knuckle-headed politicians, Texas also nurtures la Chicanada's most significant publisher, Aztlán Libre Press. The graphic here illustrates how, title for title, pound for pound, Aztlán Libre Press is the best small publisher in Chicano Literature.

Not judging these books by their cover, La Bloga-Tuesday has reviewed six of the titles. This is worthwhile literature, gente.

Plus, now that gente are finding coloring a way to relax during extended isolation, be sure you add that coloring book to your order.

Here's a link that puts you a few days away from your choices:
https://aztlanlibrepress.com




In Memoriam. Diane Rodriguez ¡Presente!

Diane Rodriguez is a stage and film actress, stage director, and Associate Director of the Los Angeles Center group. Among the many films she has been featured in is the Arnold Schwarzenegger cult classic Terminator 2. Here Diane explains that the role she was originally cast for suddenly changed when she got on the set.

Some Write Funny: The Santa Barbara Writers Conference

Melinda Palacio

The Santa Barbara Writers Conference, June 5-10, 2016

It's that time of year again, the 44th annual Santa Barbara Writers Conference. Funny man, Ernie Witham, celebrates ten years as the conference's humor writing workshop leader, and even longer, 25 years, as a member of the SBWC community, where he began his writing career. Ernie's story is one of persistence and success. Ever since winning the humor writing award his second year attending the conference, he pestered the Santa Barbara News-Press to publish his award-winning piece. Next, he set his eyes on the Los Angeles Times. He now writes a regular humor column for the Montecito Journal and is the author of three books: Ernie's World, AYear in the Life of a "Working" Writer, and his recent, WhereAre Pat and Ernie Now, a humorist travel memoir of his adventures around the globe with his wife, Pat Sheppard, a docent at Lotusland in Santa Barbara.

Ernie Witham's new book.

Ernie realized he had the funny gene the first year he attended the writers conference. I asked him if he could teach someone to be funny. Ernie is prepared to work with anyone, as long as they have a sense of humor. "I teach how to find that humor," he said. "There are techniques, such as the rule of three, for fleshing out a piece."

With over 25 writing workshops, including Fiction, Poetry, Mystery, and Memoir Writing, to name a few, Ernie hopes writers who consider themselves serious novelists will also take time to hone their humor writing skills. An ideal student is someone who has something to read every day. Often someone with one funny story will attend the workshop with a single story or will hold back on reading something with much promise in order to listen Ernie's humorous words of wisdom.

Regardless of whether someone is successful in discovering their inner funny bone, the experience of attending the week-long conference will change the person. Founder of the conference, the late Barnaby Conrad, always guaranteed this magic would happen and a student would not be the same after spending a week among writers. "You can't really explain it to people," Ernie said. "The Excitement! It's not like going to a class, you're constantly learning new stuff." As a workshop leader, Ernie said he learns new things all the time at the conference.

Ernie Witham

In fact, only weeks after last year's SBSWC, he was approached by a Dahlynn and Ken McKowen of Publishing Syndicate who wanted to know if he had enough humorous travel pieces for a book, without blinking, he said yes. It took him a few months to fill in the missing pieces. But this is one of Ernie's secrets, he never says 'No' to a publisher and is willing to produce to the piece, whether he has to write it on the fly on retool something he already has. These are skills he learned from his days trying to sell pieces to the Los Angeles Times. A Thanksgiving story about preparing to eat all that holiday food didn't make the deadline. However, the editor asked if the piece could be used for Christmas.  Ernie often sends emails of his latest column to a wide network of friends; this is how the publisher realized he might have a new book in him.

If you think you've got some funny stories in you, join Ernie Witham at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, June5-10, 2016.

Review: Díaz' Ribald Yunior stories. On-line Floricanto.

Michael Sedano

Review: Junot Díaz. This is How You Lose Her. NY: Riverhead. 2012.
ISBN 9781594487361

I am glad I’m not single, watching my soltera and soltero friends' mad courting dances, and how some gente never seem to get it right. Having immensely enoyed Junot Díaz' ribald masterwork, This is How You Lose Her, I’m especially overjoyed I'm not single and not a sex addict, like Yunior, the voice of most of the stories.

If Yunior were Chicano, people would know him a major league pendejo when it comes to women; a vato who kisses and tells. He gets what’s coming to him every time, and he knows it’s his fault.

That Yunior’s from Santo Domingo doesn’t make him any less a pendejo, while the New York and Caribbean conectas inject a context like that of Chicano and other hispanoparlante fiction--the internal colony, links to the homeland, upward mobility, linguistic mezcla. In the hands of a superb storyteller, which Yunior is, the result is a unique ethos that has readers not hold a grudge for the character's pendejadas.

Díaz elects a first person voice, most stories featuring a boy then a man named Yunior, who has a mouth and is smart. Reading each story offers linguistic and multicultural delights as Díaz pulls unexpected details and words from diverse places.

When Yunior gets on a storyline roll and he knows he's being successful and self-satisfied, that eggs him on to newer, more eloquent, heights. A jarring note enters from the character’s patois that places “nigger” comfortably in his vocabulary. The forbidden diction is lingua franca for Yunior, who also catalogs his women by skin color.

Across the nine stories, Yunior grows, observes, integrates, understands, matures, as one sees him from boy to man, from tenement hermit to Ivy League profe.

The kid and his brother land FOB in the middle of a New York city winter. Yunior watches his brother’s regular trysts with neighborhood girls. Adolescent Yunior takes up with an older woman who then transfers to the faculty of his high school. Yunior’s big brother wastes away from cancer and that’s rock bottom. But the stories aren't about struggling immigrants.

Díaz raises some serious shit in the collection, but mostly he wants to keep matters ribald and infectiously funny. Yunior finds the worst way to muck up relationships. He has everything going for him, looks, style, money, position, alma. Talk about a pendejo: one night he calls his fiancé to tell her he’s thinking of her while he’s lying in bed with a naked woman wrapped around his leg.

He’s the kind of guy who gets jealous when another man eyes his companion’s bikini, the kind of guy who then orders the woman to “stop talking to this asshole”.

He’s the pendejo who flies a gorgeously affectionate woman to a Dominican resort to patch up their relationship, and instead of focusing on her keeps his eyes and hands roving.

Just when things look good, Yunior mucks it up. He sees it coming and knows. This is how you lose her he admits. And as the seasoned roué looks back with a sad smile, the stories tell you loud and clear: Yunior would not have done a thing any differently, and that’s what makes him an even bigger pendejo.


mailbag
San Anto Conjunto Fest Calls for Writers

La Bloga friend, acordionista and festival organizer Juan Tejeda writes:

We're looking for literature on Conjunto Music for possible publication in the 32nd Annual Tejano Conjunto Festival en San Antonio 2013 program magazine. 

Any literature, including poems, short stories, interviews, scholarly articles on Conjunto Music will be accepted. 

E-mail the literature to me at juantejeda@sbcglobal.net no later than early April. 


On-line Floricanto Penultimate Tuesday in March 2013
Edward Vidaurre, Avotcja, Tim Wozny, Leticia Diaz-Perez, Rafael Jesús González

“Eres Mi Flor, Eres Mi Canto” by Edward Vidaurre
“SOLO UN ACTO DE CARIDAD” por Avotcja “JUST AN ACT OF CHARITY” by Avotcja
“Ahh The Constitution !!!!” by Tim Wozny
“Las Expresiones De Mi Madre/My Mother’s Words... La Guerra Mexicana-Americana/The Mexican-American War" by Leticia Diaz-Perez
“Adiós Hermano Hugo” por Rafael Jesús González “Goodbye Brother Hugo” by Rafael Jesús González


Eres Mi Flor, Eres Mi Canto
By Edward Vidaurre

Suspended in mid air
Between tears that
Drip from flower petals
That dance in Autumn
Waiting to land on hands
After waltzing with the
Wild wind

Mi Canto,
Dulce como el sudor
Del árbol frágil
Que cuelga sus ramas
Al escuchar tu triste voz

Canciones
Que canta el mariachi
Tristemente hacía la luna castigada
Por las olas del mar

Eres mi flor,
My spring,
My religious chant
My explosive cry
My every color
My fight
Mi lucha

Mi Canto,
Serenata
Canto y flor
Flor y canto
Mi sol te pide
Paciencia
My alma te pide
Paz
Mi sombra
Te suplica
Amor.

Mi Flor,
de rodillas
se marchita
y vuelve a nacer
al oír tu canción.



SOLO UN ACTO DE CARIDAD
por Avotcja

Cuando canta la Luna
Llora el Sol
¡Enfurecido!
Su gran egoísmo perdido entre dos luces
Pobrecito pucheron aparatoso
Echando bocanadas de envidia
Intimidado sin cesar por celos
Pero embrujado por su belleza silenciosa
Y encantado por el milagro de su regalo maravilloso
Y se dice el Viento
¡Que bueno esta nuestra naturaleza pasmosa!
Un ciclo humilde y sencillo
¡Ay bendito! … ¡Mira!
Que rica es
Dicen las estrellas
No hay una noche tan perfecta como esta
¡Coño! … Que tristesa
Dice el amanecer
Lo que tenemos es un mundo limpio, llena de belleza
Y todavia
Anegando en su propia arrogancia
La raza humana
Una raza confundida y sin corazón y
Engordándose de comer su gran falta de gratitud y
Disfrutándolo sin pensar
Ni una gota pequeñita de ternura en las venas
Pura sangre congelada
No puede ver
No quiere ver
Sentados cómodamente y ciegos en sus propios mundocitos
Sangrando condescendencia
Y se dicen
Ríendo en nuestras barbas
¿La Naturaleza? … ¡No Me digas!
Nada más que otra pérdida de tiempo precioso
¿A quien le importa esa bla bla bla?
Tirando más y más y más bochinche y hablando de ná
Solo un otro ciclo tan simple
¿¡¿Y que vale este?!?
Si existe
Solamente porque le mantengo la conexión

JUST AN ACT OF CHARITY
By Avotcja

When the Moon sings
The Sun cries
Burning red hot with rage
Its overwhelming egotism lost in the Twilight
Pompous & pouting & looking pitiful
Puffed out of shape with envy
Completely intimidated by jealousy
But enchanted by her silent beauty
And charmed by the extraordinary miracle of her gift
And the Wind says
Mother Nature is astonishing
A humble, unassuming cycle
Aaaah … look!
It's exquisite
The Stars say
There is no Night as perfect as this one
Dammit, how sad!
Says the Dawn
We have a World that's full of pure beauty
And still
The Human Race
A race drowning in its own arrogance
Confused & heartless & making themselves fat
Eating too much of their own lack of gratitude &
Enjoying the whole thing without even a thought
Not one drop of tenderness in their veins
Blood frozen cold
Can't see
Doesn't want to see
Sitting comfortably blind in their own little worlds
Bleeding condescension & laughing in our faces
Saying,
Mother Nature?!? … You gotta be kidding!
Who cares about all this bla bla bla?
Just another waste of time
Throwing around more & more & more gossip
And talking about nothing
It’s just another simple cycle &
How much can this one thing really be worth?!?
If it only exists
Because I don't pull the plug?!?



Ahh The Constitution !!!!
By Tim Wozny

The right to have as many guns as you want
But not to marry who you want
The Right to Free Speech
But only if it's in English
The Right to practice your Religion as you want
As long as it's Christian and has a White Savior
The Supreme Law of the Land
Unless of course you're an Indian
Then scratch that paragraph about treaties
The Right to the pursuit of happiness
As long as that happiness conforms to the White Christian values
All Men are created equal
Men meaning White Christian males of means
poor males of color not so much
Women..stand in line we're getting to you


You see Sunshine Patriots it's like this
The Constitution is a single document
Complete and continuous
You don't get to take the parts you like and ignore the rest
You don't get to scream about your rights to bear arms
and then demand a law that everybody speak English
You don't get to scream about freedom of religion
and then deny some the right to build a Mosque
You don't get to scream about the greatness of equality and how far we have come
and then deny whole portions of the population that equality
You don't get to wave your guns in the air and scream
about how the Supreme Law of the land protects your right to wave them
and then trot across sacred grounds given in treaties
or to build your malls on lands promised to others
You don't get to sit and scream get over it
You don't get to proclaim
They have nothing to bitch about look what WE gave them


You either abide by the whole of the Constitution
or you legally change it
Or you shut the fuck up



Las Expresiones de mi Madre/My Mother’s Words... "La Guerra Mexicana-Americana/The Mexican-American War"
By Leticia Diaz-Perez

La Guerra Mexicana-Americana

"Mira nena, esos libros de historia que te dan los gringos en la escuela- cuidadoooo! No creas todo lo que lees allí. Cuidado que estos gringos son descendientes directos de piratas. PI-RA-TAS. ¿Entendiste? El capítulo ese sobre la guerra Mexicana-Americana, por ejemplo. Allí no hubo guerra. Allí hubo robo.Los Estados Unidos robó Nuevo Mexico,Arizona, California,Texas, Nevada,Utah y Colorado. Pedíle a tu padre un libro sobre la verdadera historia Mexicana. No quiero que estos ladrones le laven el cerebro a mis hijos . Ellos siempre ponen la historia a su favor. ¡Piratas!"


The Mexican-American War

"Look girl, those history books the gringos give you in school- be careful! Don't believe everything you read in those books. Be careful because these gringos are direct descendants of pirates. PI-RATES. Understand? The chapter on the Mexican-American War, for example.There was no war. It was theft.The United States stole New Mexico, Arizona,Califronia, Texas, Nevada, Utah and Colorado. Ask your father for a book on the true history of Mexico. I don't want these crooks brainwashing my kids. They always write history in their favor. Pirates!"




Adiós hermano Hugo 
a Hugo Rafael Chávez Frías

Se nos ha ido el compañero
a la tierra de las sombras,
el que el rey mismo trató de callar
y las fuerzas del imperialismo
trataron de desplazar.
De voz franca y veraz
aunque no bien hablado o cortés
tal vez no se lleve bien con San Pablo
ni aun con su héroe Bolivar
pero estemos seguros que Jesús y María
le perdonan su falta de gracias sociales
por la consciencia social que tenía.

© Rafael Jesús González 2013

Goodbye brother Hugo 
to Hugo Rafael Chávez Frías

The comrade has left us
for the country of shadows,
the one the king himself tried to silence
and the forces of imperialism
tried to displace.
Of a voice frank and truthful
though not well spoken or polite
perhaps he’ll not get along with St. Paul
nor even with his hero Bolívar,
but let us be sure that Jesus and Mary
forgive him his lack of social graces
for the social conscience he had.

© Rafael Jesús González 2013


Bios
“Eres Mi Flor, Eres Mi Canto” by Edward Vidaurre
“SOLO UN ACTO DE CARIDAD” por Avotcja “JUST AN ACT OF CHARITY” by Avotcja
“Ahh The Constitution !!!!” by Tim Wozny
“Las Expresiones De Mi Madre/My Mother’s Words... La Guerra Mexicana-Americana/The Mexican-American War" by Leticia Diaz-Perez
“Adiós Hermano Hugo” por Rafael Jesús González “Goodbye Brother Hugo” by Rafael Jesús González

Born in East L.A., CA in 1973, Edward Vidaurre writes poetry about his upbringing and experiences of living in the barrio. Raised in Boyle Heights in the projects of Aliso Village, his poetry takes you through his memory of La Lucha. Known to his friends as Barrio Poet, Vidaurre says:” Sometimes the barrio claims us, holds us by our feet like roots in its field of chalk outlines closed off by the screaming yellow tape being pulled from its soul.”

Vidaurre is the founder of Pasta, Poetry & Vino and Barrio Poet Productions. He has been nominated for a pushcart prize for his poem, "Lorca in the Barrio" and also is co-editing an anthology called "Twenty" for Newtown, CT through El Zarape Press with Daniel Garcia Ordaz and Katie Hoerth. His first collection of poetry will be published this year through Slough Press.

Avotcja (pronounced Avacha) is a card carrying New York born Music fanatic/sound junkie & popular Bay Area Radio DeeJay & member of the award winning group Avotcja & Modúpue. She’s a lifelong Musician/Writer/Educator/Storyteller & is on a shamelessly Spirit driven melodic mission to heal herself. Avotcja talks to the Trees & listens to the Wind against the concrete & when they answer it usually winds up in a Poem or Short Story.
Website: www.Avotcja.org
Email: AvotcjaWordpower@Avotcja.org

Tim (WoZ) Wozny
60 years old
40+ years political and human rights activist. Born and raised in the Midwest outside of Chicago now livng in California. Personal Philosophy "When I get to the point that I think I'm better than you, I have proved I am not."

Leticia Diaz-Perez was born in Virginia and grew up in Michigan.She graduated from the University of Michigan and has taught at both the univerisity level, as well as in the Michigan and New York City public school systems. One of her poems was recently selected for the University of Arizona Press Anthology, Poetry of Resistance,An Anthology of Poetry Responding to SB1070 and Xenophobia. Leticia is currently working on her first bilingual chapbook of poems, Sugar from the Sky/Azúcar del Cielo. She is honored to once again share space with los poetas de La Bloga´s On-line Floricanto!

Rafael Jesús González by Peter St.John

Rafael Jesús González (rjgonzalez.blogspot.com) was born (October 10, 1935) and raised in the bicultural/bilingual environment of El Paso, Texas, U.S.A./Cd. Juárez, Chihuahua, Mexico with family on both sides of the Río Grande. Just graduated from El Paso High School, he joined the U.S. Navy in the hospital corps and served in the Marine Corps with the rank of Staff Sergeant. At the end of his military service, he attended the University of Texas, El Paso (then Texas Western College of the University of Texas) in pre-med taking time to attend the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México where he studied archaeology y Mexican literature.

During this time, he published his first poems and academic articles in English and Spanish. On receiving the bachelor’s he decided to dedicate himself to literary studies which he did under a Woodrow Wilson Fellowship and a National Education Act Fellowship. He did his graduate studies at the University of Oregon.

As professor of literature and creative writing, he has taught at the University of Oregon, Western State Collage of Colorado, Central Washington State University, the University of Texas, El Paso (as Visiting Professor of Philosophy), and at Laney College, Oakland, California where he founded the Department of Mexican and Latin-American Studies. He also has taught in the public elementary and high schools under the Poets in the Classroom program. His poetry and academic articles appear in reviews and anthologies in the U. S., Mexico, and abroad; his collection of poems El Hacedor De Juegos/The Maker of Games published by Casa Editorial, San Francisco (1977-78) went through two editions. He has been nominated thrice for a Pushcart price. A selection of his moon poems, La musa lunática/The Lunatic Muse was published by Pandemonium Press, Berkeley, California in 2009.

Also a visual artist, his work has been exhibited at such venues as the Mexican Museum of San Francisco, Galería de la Raza, the Oakland Museum of California. In 1996, he was named Poet in Residence at the Oakland Museum of California and the Oakland Public Library under a ‘Writers on Site Award’ from Poets & Writers, Inc. and was chosen for the Annual Award for Literary Achievement by Dragonfly Press in 2002. In 2003, he was honored by the National Council of Teachers of English and Annenberg CPB for his writing. He was named featured poet by the San José Poetry Center, San José, California the fall of 2005. In November of 2005, he was invited to read his poetry and present a paper at the World Congress of Poets in Tai’an, Province of Shandong, China. In July 2006 he was named Universal Ambassador of Peace, Universal Ambassador Peace Circle, Geneva, Switzerland. In Spring 2007 he presented a paper and read his poetry at the 8º Encuentro Literario Internacional aBrace in Montevideo, Uruguay and in Winter 2008 in Havana, Cuba. He was named representative of aBrace in California. In October of 2009 he was honored by the City of Berkeley for his life’s work in writing, art, teaching, activism for social justice and peace, and community work. He is recipient of the 2012 Dragonfly Press Award for Outstanding Literary Achievement. He currently sits on the Latino Advisory Council of the Oakland Museum of California. He resides in Berkeley, California.
Rafael Jesús González (rjgonzalezg.blogspot.com) nació (10 octubre1935) y se crió en el ambiente bicultural/bilingüe de El Paso, Tejas, EE.UU./Cd. Juárez, Chihuahua, México con familia en ambos lados del Río Bravo. Recién graduado en El Paso High School, ingresó en la marina de los Estados Unidos en el cuerpo médico y prestó servicio en la infantería de marina con el rango de sargento (Staff Sergeant). Al término de su servicio militar, asistió a la Universidad de Texas en El Paso en preparación para los estudios de medicina, los cuales interrumpió para pasar a la Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México donde estudió arqueología y literatura mexicana.

Durante este periodo, publicó sus primeros poemas y artículos académicos en inglés y castellano. Al recibir el bachillerato, decidió dedicarse a los estudios literarios, lo cual llegó a realizar con las becas Woodrow Wilson y National Education Act. Hace sus estudios graduados en la Universidad de Oregon.

Como profesor de literatura y creación literaria, ha enseñado en la Universidad de Oregon, Western State Collage of Colorado, Central Washington State University, la Universidad de Tejas en El Paso, y en Laney College, Oakland, California donde fundó el departamento de Estudios Mexicanos y Latino-Americanos. También ha enseñado
en las escuelas primarias, secundarias y preparatorias bajo el programa “Poetas en el Aula” (Poets in the Classroom). Su poesía y artículos académicos aparecen en revistas
y antologías en los Estados Unidos, México, y el extranjero; su colección de versos
El Hacedor De Juegos/The Maker of Games publicada por Casa Editorial, San Francisco (1977-78), ha realizado dos ediciones. Una colección de sus poemas La musa lunática/The Lunatic Muse fue publicada en 2009 por Pandemonium Press, Berkeley, California.

También artista en artes plásticas su obra se ha expuesto en tales sitios como el Museo de California de Oakland, el Museo Mexicano de San Francisco, La Galería de la Raza, el Museo de Arte Charles Ellis en Milwaukee. En 1996, fue nombrado Poeta Residente en el Museo de California de Oakland y en la Biblioteca Pública de Oakland bajo el premio “Escritores en Sitio” (Writers on Site Award) de Poetas y Escritores Inc. (Poets & Writers, INc.) y se le eligió ganador del Premio Anual por Éxito Literario de Dragonfly Press en 2002. En 2003, fue honorado por el Concilio Nacional de Maestros de Inglés (National Council of Teachers of English) y Annenberg CPB por su obra literaria. Asimismo, se le nombró Poeta Destacado por el Centro de la Poesía de San José, California en el otoño de 2005. En noviembre de 2005, fue invitado a leer su poesía y presentar una ponencia en el Congreso Mundial de Poetas en Tai’an, Provincia de Shandong, China. En julio 2006 se le nombró Embajador Universal de la Paz, Círculo Embajador Universal de la Paz, Ginebra, Suiza. En la primavera de 2007 presentó ponencia y leyó su poesía en el 8º Encuentro Literario Internacional aBrace en Montevideo, Uruguay y en inverno 2008  en la Habana. Se le nombró representante de aBrace en California. En octubre 2009 fue honrado por la Ciudad de Berkeley por la obra de una vida en escritura, arte, activismo por la justicia y la paz y labor en la comunidad. Fue recipiente del premio Dragonfly Press 2012 por éxito literario sobresaliente. Forma parte del Concilio Asesor Latino del Museo de California de Oakland, California. Reside en Berkeley, California.

9 benefits of gentrification for your barrio

by RudyG

gentry - the qualities appropriate to a person of gentle birth; upper or ruling class.

gentrification - the process of renewal and rebuilding accompanying the influx of middle class or affluent people into deteriorating areas that often replaces earlier usually poorer residents.  [definitions: Webster's Dictionary]

So, some gentry "of gentle birth" are renewing, rebuilding and replacing all over your barrio. Should you let the coraje get to you and start making bilingual picket signs and petitions?

One common belief is--Simón, ese! The price of local pizza will go up, tamales-by-the-dozen will become rarer than a Chicano jogger, your favorite cantina will be remodeled into a vegiburger or starbucked bistro where one item can cost more than a dozen tamales, and your neighborhood school will be turned into a more exclusive charter factory that features maybe a dozen chicanitos. But that's such a shortsighted, narrow and "poorer" view, it might be better to take a longer, broader and "richer" perspective on the phenomena.

Based on decades of scattered, sometimes sober, observations of Northside Denver's gentrification, as well as hundreds of hours drinking Negras on Friday afternoons out in my front yard with my untrained perro Manchas, I've discovered undiscovered value to these invasions. It's not all floating caca under the bridge, but our "usually poorer residents" can benefit from this "influx of middle class or affluent people" and even climb the economic-advantage ladder to almost becoming "upper or ruling class." Here's how I see it:

Signs when a barrio gets gentrified	Benefits for barrio gente
1. When the forecast calls for "surf's up" on the beach or mountain snow, gentry's trash & recycle bins hit the curbside days before scheduled pick-up, encouraging burglaries.	Since gentry obviously aren't home, this gives you time to search their bins for aluminum cans and junk to sell at your biannual yard sale, if you simultaneously watch your casa.
2. Yards that never had gardens are suddenly filled with lush plants, tall green trees and expert landscaping, making yours look like a monte with a barber-college haircut.	You won't have to nag your esposa to cut the lawn or weed the garden anymore because there's no way yours can ever look as suave or verde as theirs.
3. On the other hand, that deceased viejita's rosebeds are pulled up and replaced by formulaic gentry-landscapes that produce a few small flowers with little maintenance.	Your d-i-y landscaping is the most unique around, and scrawny roses you transplanted when everybody was at the viejita's funeral make gentry think you got a green thumb.
4. Newspapers on gentry's front yards pile up because they all have wireless IPods & IPads and don't read print--or went skiing--but have too much disposable income and don't cancel their subscriptions.	You don't waste money anymore on subscriptions; you just take your dog on his customary, new, morning walk, nonchalantly pick up your free copy and your esposa compliments you for getting up off your fat nalgas.
5. The viejitos who struggled along with their walkers don't come by anymore to help improve your pocho Spanish, and the young, fit güera/güero joggers never stop, unless they need a translator.	Young, fit, güeras (or güeros, if that's how you jog), jogging--paint your own picture and also see #6.
6. New, monolingual neighbors have replaced the fluent Spanish-speakers who stopped by on Fridays to chat and help you improve your pocho bilingualism, so now you always converse in English-only.	Your status rises when your pocho Spanish makes you El Primo Translator of the block, and you now translate for landscaping, drywall and roofing vatos redoing the barrio, and they envy your English fluency.
7. Your neighbors' pure-breds are fully trained, bark less and live inside more than your mongrel, targeting you for nuisance-dog complaints.	When robbers check out your block, they stay away from your casita and its unsocialized, barking mongrel, making you look smart to la esposa.
8. New, shining, MPG & GPS-equipped silver cars sit in gentry driveways, increasing local car thefts and making your old troca look like it belongs to one of the roofers.	There's more neighbors with working cars who you can ask to boost your worthless troca's battery on sub-zero mornings, if they're not skiing. Plus, see #7 above.
9. Gentry breweries and cafes have replaced your dive bars and cheap taco joints, forcing you to drive miles on Fridays for tus traguitos and some refritos con green chile picoso.	You save chingos by buying six-packs and bags of chicharrones, while spending more time training your mongrel out in your front yard, waiting for translation requests and Benefit #5.

Of course, this list is incomplete and La Bloga readers are encouraged to add to it. There could be thousands and thousands of ways for our "usually poorer residents" to benefit from the "upper or ruling class" takeovers of their neighborhoods. Qué no, gente?

Es todo, hoy,

por RudyG

aka Rudy Ch. Garcia, author of the not-yet-notorious Chicano fantasy, The Closet of Discarded Dreams.

A Letter to Santa; On-Line Floricanto December 21

Michael Sedano



Dear Santa:

Seems like only yesterday I wrote you all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, so I could with you merry chrithmath. And here we are today, several implants and numerous fillings later, but my two front teeth are all mine, so thanks for granting me that small wish.

Then there was that bit of trouble, remember? I saw Mommy kissing you underneath the mistletoe that night. How was I to know Daddy was wearing your suit? But I didn't shout, I didn't pout. I was nice. I'm wise to that list you keep and check twice. I did not want a couple lumps of coal instead of that Red Ryder BB Gun. Thank you, I see fine with one eye. It's not your fault. Besides, it got me out of the draft back in '68, so all in all, that was another good Christmas for me.

What did Grandma do that pissed you off that night? It was just the worst time of the year for such a journey, the ways deep and the weather sharp, the very dead of winter, and all of that. But getting run over by reindeer is a hard way to reaffirm one's belief in myths. Did I say myth? I mean the true spirit of X-mas and, of course, your existence, Santa. I shall be glad of another sale.

Last year I asked for RAM and got Mary's little lamb. I meant computer memory, Santa. So, now that I know you have a low tolerance for ambiguity, I am going to keep this short, sweet, and specific, OK?

First, all I want for Christmas is a room somewhere. Please make it far away from the cold night air. Lots of chocolate for me to eat, but forget the figgy pudding, ok? And make it a big room, and soundproofed because when all the faithful come joyful and triumphant, they make a lot of noise.

Second, please bring You Know Who a puppy. I saw a doggie in the window, one with a waggly tail. Tan cute; its ears were grown long and its tail cut short. But the price was astronomical, so that little dogie can just git along, that's its misfortune and none of my own. Heah!

And, wow, did you pull a fast one on me again this year! Fool me twice and all that. While no one was looking, except for California, the other guys swept the election. They must have composed quite a letter last year.

Anyway, my third wish, dear Santa, is same as last year's: Oh please, wise up that pendejo in the White House. War is not Peace. Bring the troops home now.

As I promised, I’m keeping this short and to the point. Here’s hoping all your wishes come true, too. As you say, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night."

P.S. Enjoy the mutton stew.



On-Line Floricanto for December 21



1. “Twilight in Juarez” by Jeanette Iskat de Aldana

2. “River” by Devreaux Baker

3. “Before the World Wakes” by Elena Diaz Bjorkquist

4. “Sullen Angel of the Arizona Divide” by Mary Pranzatelli

5. “Sand and Bone Desert Spark” by George Hartley




Twilight in Juarez

by Jeanette Iskat de Aldana


Artificially created borders
walls and roads
singing
border songs
singing
screaming really
at an imaginary them
who just need to leave
just go home
to solve everything
for us
just go home
never mind
that this is home
has always been
home
...
what
if
I dropped you
cold
shivering
into
what
we've helped create?

Be careful
what you ask
for
what you wish on them
because
perhaps
Rod Sterling's mestizo son
will hear you
smile into the sun
and
you'll get to go
perhaps
you'll get to see
really see
what
we've created
what has been created
in your name
in these border towns.

Come.
I'll be your
guide.
It will be fun
an adventure.

Board
a border bound bus
with me
next stop
Juarez
we'll have to sneak in
scurrying
past
bored border patrols
no one ever sneaks in
so they're all facing north.

We'll creep
try
to get
that authentic ice
blade
feeling
sinking
into spines
curling us
making us
small and hunched.

Walk the streets
with me
it doesn't matter
which one
they all share the same name
Calle de Sangre.

I've got family here
I've got all my family here.

What are you doing?

Don't take pictures, idiot.

No, now you
have
to hand it over.
Just give him the damn
camera
cell phone
wallet.

See what
you made him
do?

Don't worry.
It will heal
I'll talk
to his madre
later
see if I can get some
of it back
for you.

We're here.
My amigo's abuela's house
she'll welcome us
if we give the
secret knock.

Close shave
a hair cut
two mordida bits.

Who's there?
Ah, welcome!
¡Bienvenido¡

Come inside,
quickly.
Lock the doors,
quickly.
Don't make
any sudden moves,
quickly.

Yes,
I know
the phone
is ringing.
Don't answer it.
It's only the kidnappers again
asking for more money
but she's only a third
cousin's child
not a prima prima
maybe
they guessed
correctly
or maybe not
but we'll wait
see if they leave an authentic
threat
voice mail
tu sabes?

I see
your eyes watering
in the smoke
the real trees
burned away
long ago
into hungry fires
splintered furniture
with the smell of burning glue
sawdust
is what fuels
cooking fires
keeps us warm
you'll get used
to the tears
as we did.

Eat with us,
some authentic
comida mexicana.
Corn?
Maiz?
Carne?
Oh, that's
rich
people food
now
that we cannot
grow it
farm it
slaughter it
ourselves.
Have some
top valued Ramen
but
the salsa
is still
for now
home made
Monsanto
hasn't trade marked
these chiles
too picoso
for mass market tongues.

We'll
stuff
our shrinking bellies
full
of empty noodles
sawdust is filling
when you spice it right
the corn
of history
the maiz
that built empires
is no longer
within
the range
of our shrunken purses.

I won't stop you
when
you run back outside
your eyes
watering
from chiles
hotter than
chemical fires
running blindly
outside
only to pull back
nose wrinkling
at the smell of burning
men
women
children
marching
in step
past rows of pink crosses
to tiny jobs
in big places
huffing dreams
while colonial masters
drive separate roads
so they
never have to see it.

I find
you
eventually
curled up underneath
a rusted out shell
dead orange truck
resting
on a curb
broken
like smashed teeth
shivering.

You look at me
panicked
eyes watering
muttering
as you stroke
the matted fur
of a pueblo dog
you had no part
in building this
you want to go home
right now
you want to go home
right now
right now
right NOW.

I begin to tell you
obvious
truths
that the world is
as we all make it
when we let them pass
SB 510
SB 1070
or fail
to let dreamers awaken
but
I see you
your fear
instead
I'll be kind
speak to you
soothingly
about
Farmville
Dancing with the Stars
The Hills
what Rhianna is wearing
and
you begin to breathe
a bit easier.

I take pity
murmur
that we can take a shortcut back
'cause
that privilege is still ours
maybe
stop by the gift shop
buy some authentic hand made calaveras
hand made
touched by authentic human hands
on an assembly line
in China
or
maybe buy
my friend went to
Ciudad Juarez
and all I got
was this t-shirt
soaked
in the blood
of empire.

We'll cross
the border
back
at
twilight
the bus
will swing
through
McDonalds'
we'll fill our bellies
with value meals
snuggle
doze uneasily
into the made cheaper
in China
Mexican blanket.

Next time,
I'll take you there
maybe Guang Zhou
brown skies
and all
'cause
I've got family
there.

Oh, yes.
I've got family
everywhere.





River

by Devreaux Baker



This river knows nothing but her name
She is the hard blue muscle
That pumps blood into the mouth of morning,

The woman who sits at the edge of sorrow
Grafting time into the shape of a clay pot or reed basket,
Insatiable with longing and filled with the ovaries of stars,
The mind of all things drawn to silt and sludge,
To pools and ferns.

Currents streak her back with a name that means dreaming fish
Where ripples of reed ducks and water rats pattern hieroglyphs
Against her wide green thighs.

She is the water that we shed as tears, scooped up by the hands of night
And poured into the throat of day, turquoise and lapis, emerald and jade.
The moon hums against her skin.

She knows nothing but her name rising as fog over fields,
Or sleeping in limbs of apple trees as the Eyeless One
Who spirals through a thousand lifetimes and dances Kali or Quan Yin.

Look, the animals are searching for their reflection in her face.
Even the God who sleeps curled in the belly of small creatures
Wakes up, slips on her mask of moonlight
And swims from this opening into Mother Ocean.

She splashes their bodies with moss and now they are snarled
In her net of fish scales and seal bone.

These are the knees of devotion,
The tangled roots of our lives coming to fruition.
The river is a mirror for our bodies.

She carries the planets inside her belly and hums the earth into being
So that our bodies, blooming with their fisted flowers of blood
Are filled with that song.

The River, who speaks in tongues, is born and dies
In the fissured cracks of our cells so that
We become the sleeping center of the shell,
The speck of sand turning into pearl.

~Devreaux Baker






Before the World Wakes

by Elena Díaz Bjorkquist


In the stillness of early morning
before the pale rays of dawn
become the first glorious glow of morning,
Mother Nature is in a state of flux,
her energy stable.

Free of disordered vibrations,
my mind remains in the land
of slumber, although awake.
Deep sleep washed away impurities
accumulated from yesterday.

My mental, physical, emotional potential
is heightened to meditate in this peaceful,
energetically charged, in-between time.
I connect in intimate fashion
with the Divine.

Light, air, energy, flow around me,
speak in hushed tones of the day to come,
set my mood for a serene, fulfilling day.
In the glorious glow of morning
I wake as the world awakes.

Embracing the joy of being,
I draw upon the unique energy of
daybreak for comfort, creativity, vigor.
I feel blessed with the gift of
another day of life.

The sun’s ascension inspires me, as it
grows golden to the birds’ serenade.
My vitality returns as I become
one with the stirring of other beings
rubbing sleep from their eyes.

I greet the sun, the new day
in the traditional ancient way,
like my grandmother before me,
and her mother before her.
I call out in the four directions.

First to the north, tauhi, tahui,
tahui, tahui.
Then to the east, tauhi, tahui,
tahui, tahui,
To the south, tauhi, tahui,
tahui, tauhui,
and to the west, tauhi, tauhi.
tahui, tahui.

I return to the center,
open my arms and embrace the world.
I am centered, my destiny
not yet written,
there is nothing I cannot do.






Sullen Angel of the Arizona Divide

by Mary Pranzatelli


Line of Demarcation
Rigid and Restricted Valley of the Gods
Mexican hat and bluff
Sullen Angel of the Arizona divide
I'm waiting for you
oh I have waited for you
and waited and waited

You silenced me
silenced me with fear
you confused me
terrorized the barrio
of my emotions
the numbness of my soul
I have no choice
there is no choice
no freedom
no escape from you

All the battles that I fought
could not be won
You enjoy the pain
you inflict on mankind
You are the devil's son
the torch that shines over
this so called Gringa
is burning my eyes
I don't want to go blind
Not many get to see
the view like I did
Arizona divide
Oh Arizona divide
I am a sullen Angel
of the Arizona divide

Towering red mesas
please show the world
there is such thing as love
May your eerie nights
shimmer softly with the moon
that gleams above
and give us words of wisdom
Precious Navajo land
endless sand of desert infusion
It's been fourteen days
fourteen nights
four corners and no more water
I'm here for you and waiting for you
and waiting for change

this sullen Angel
this so called Gringa
is waiting for you
just waiting to look in your eyes
waiting to touch your skin
waiting to put my head on your chest
to listen to the breaths that you take
just waiting for you
and waiting for you
please make it home alive





Sand and Bone Desert Spark

By George Hartley


Huesos arena spark
combine, conjunto
lost in the desert

burnt and callused feet
walking, hiding, running:

grain by grain the imprint
cry by cry the impact
trade agreement shipment of goods
more precious to the gods (capital)
than flesh (accident)

spark, phosphorescence, glimmer
what remains of lives given up
to the glow of memory—darkness

imprints in air and sand
their last breath
a suck of my own breathing
spin and dizzy the sand
sing and measure the sorrow

of a child at home now motherless
now fatherless
with only grain of bone of sand to testify
to the pull of love’s immediacy
responsibility
and strength

blood and bone and sand
to the rhythm of riches and nations
spilled and spent

left to the spark of memory


December 10, 2010

[Inspired by student art displayed in the University of Arizona library, December 5, 2010.]



BIOS

1. “Twilight in Juarez” by Jeanette Iskat de Aldana

2. “River” by Devreaux Baker

3. “Before the World Wakes” by Elena Diaz Bjorkquist

4. “Sullen Angel of the Arizona Divide” by Mary Pranzatelli

5. “Sand and Bone Desert Spark” by George Hartley


Jeanette Iskat de Aldana

Jeanette Iskat de Aldana is a painter, working mostly in mixed media and watercolor, and a poet, working mostly in mixed metaphors and words written in water. She is working on her first collection of poems and really wants someone to give her the letterpress and type blocks they have just hanging around so she could typeset old school broad sheets.

She lives in Los Angeles with her philosopher-songwriter husband, Jesus Aldana Alba.



Devreaux Baker

Devreaux Baker's work has been published or is forthcoming in many journals and anthologies including; The New Millenium, ZYZZYVA, The American Voice, Borderlands Review of Texas Poetry, The Guadalupe Review, Bloomsbury Review, High Plains Literary Review, Counter-Punch,El Tecolote, and the Inheritance of Light Anthology . She was an editor of Wood, Water, Air and Fire: The Anthology of Mendocino Women Poets and produced The Voyagers Radio Program of Original Student Writing for National Public Radio. She taught poetry in the schools for many years and has published three books of poetry; Light at the Edge, Beyond the Circumstance of Sight and Red Willow People. She is the recipient of a MacDowell Fellowship, A Hawthornden Castle International Poetry Fellowship, three California Arts Council multi-disciplinary fellowships, and the Helene Wurlitzer Writing Fellowship. She has conducted workshops on creative writing in France, England, Scotland and Mexico. She currently directs the Mendocino Coast Poets Reading Series.



Elena Díaz Björkquist

Elena Díaz Björkquist, a writer, historian, and artist from Tucson, writes about Morenci, Arizona where she was born. She is the author of two books, Suffer Smoke and Water from the Moon. Elena has been on the Arizona Humanities Council (AHC) Speakers Bureau for nine years and not only performs as Teresa Urrea in a Chautauqua but also does two presentations about Morenci, Arizona and one about the 1880’s Schoolhouse in Tubac.

Elena is co-editor of Sowing the Seeds, an anthology written by her writers group. The project was funded by AHC. She is nearing completion of another collection of Morenci stories entitled “Albóndiga Soup” and is co-editing a new anthology entitled “Our Spirit, Our Reality” by the Comadres of Sowing the Seeds.

A SIROW Scholar at the University of Arizona, Elena conducted an oral history project funded by AHC; “In the Shadow of the Smokestack.” A website she created contains the oral history interviews and photographs of Chicano elders living in Morenci during the Depression and World War II. Another project funded by AHC and the Stocker Foundation is “Tubac 1880’s Schoolhouse Living History Program.” Her website is www.elenadiazbjorkquist.net/.


Mary Pranzatelli

This writing was written from the bottom of my heart. Much of the time people do not realize the hardships that an American girl faces in a relationship with a man caught up in this broken immigration system. She is caught in between two structures amongst her peers. She lives with her man who feels degraded because he has to depend on her for his basic needs. He depends on her for the simple things we all take for granted, and he can only invest emotions with her. These emotions become dysfunctional. His "Gringa" is an "Angel of the Arizona Divide", because only an Angel could survive the circumstance. She cries everyday, and lives in the shadows with him. Watching employers, landlords and everyday people brand him with the "stereotype". When she talks about him to her working class peers they think it’s OK to ask if her man is an "illegal". By night her man’s underground friends do not care for her much either, because they resent the fact that she is a citizen and has the basic needs that she needs. Her man loves her deeply but they are trapped within a mainstream culture, and an underground culture. This feels much like she is struck with a knife when she hears this label. She becomes angry, frustrated, depressed, and her psychological state becomes self-destructive with dysfunction. In this poem she is an "Angel" and in her dreams she crosses the border with her man for the second time, after he faces a deportation. He appears 14 days later in her town in a yellow taxi cab from NYC. He made it home alive. He didn't die in the desert from dehydration. He wasn't abandoned by criminal Coyotes, but now she waits for this horrible system to change. She waits, and waits and waits. She has to be an "Angel" to survive.

Winners & losers

And the Denver winner is . . .

Last month we posted Denver artist Robert Maestas' info about a national competition he'd entered. His story and art piece solidly deserved to win. La Bloga does not claim that our readers put Maestas over the top or anything, but here's a letter from him about the results:

This is an update to tell everyone who voted for “A Father’s Struggle” Thank You! Your support was greatly appreciated and because of your votes the art piece and story was awarded top honors in the "Art With A Story" online gallery exhibition.

If you care to view the original art piece and story, they will be exhibited during January, 2011 (including the January First Friday Artwalk) at Artwork Network Gallery, 878 Santa Fe Drive, Denver, CO. (For further info: 303-388-7420)

Thank you again,
Robert Maestas, artist

Below is the e-mail I received from the Creative Director of Artwork Network:

"We received 83 artist entries in our “Art with a Story” juried show. It was a tough deliberation, for both the public and the jury. We received over 1,500 votes, and had to enlist a fourth juror to help us narrow down our favorites.

"I’m sending this email to say congratulations! Of all those entries, the Public has awarded “A Father's Struggle” with Best Story/Art Combo! This is a fantastic piece, and we’re thrilled you gave us the privilege of hearing the story behind your work.

"Of course one of the prizes that comes along with this honor is an exhibit in the Artwork Network showroom in Denver, Colorado. We want to showcase your winning piece during the month of January 2011 including the January First Friday Artwalk.

"Again, Congratulations!"

(signed) Jessica Bradley
Creative Director
Artwork Network
______________________________________

Y este pendejo . . .

This was brought to our attention by one of Juan Vasquez's nieces from Mexico. It's a great LOL reflection of how the American world (meant in its widest context) has changed. At the same time, it shows that change is not necessarily one smooth path, but instead can result from opposing forces of progress against forces of what?--illness? get-high? You fill in the word you feel is appropriate.

We're only translating the first parts of the piece, since it's one of those things that might be funnier in the original. Even if you only know a little Spanish, the point might be obvious. Specifically, here is how it starts:

"El político más poderoso del mundo es Negro."
[The most powerful politician in the world is black.]

"El líder del Comité Nacional Republicano es Negro."
[The leader of the Republican National Committee is black.]

Then comes Oprah, Tiger et al, but will you get the end? You'll see. For the remainder, go here.