{"id":468,"date":"2018-01-01T18:23:43","date_gmt":"2018-01-02T01:23:43","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/?p=468"},"modified":"2018-01-01T19:07:02","modified_gmt":"2018-01-02T02:07:02","slug":"presentes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/?p=468","title":{"rendered":"\u00a1Presentes!"},"content":{"rendered":"

 <\/p>\n

Alfred Arteaga<\/strong> <\/span><\/h2>\n

We could talk about how his heart was taught
\nthe secrets of the serpent\u2019s tail.
\nWe could confer hours
\nincalculable
\nupon the small chamber that holds
\nthe ultimately unknowable blue bed
\nembodied within his very core
\nand how our own beetle and bug infested
\npoor mats and cots
\nand bags of straw
\nof incommunicable colors
\ncompare.
\nInstead,
\ninstead let us talk about his eyes
\nand how they see
\nthe things they see,
\nand let us talk about them
\nfor one minute and 50 seconds.
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

He sees<\/span>
\n as did Plato and his gadfly mouthpiece\u2026<\/span>
\n a breath, a flux,<\/span>
\n a fiery pneuma shoots forth<\/span>
\n from the black-centered rainbows<\/span>
\n of his eyes\u2026<\/span>
\n this jet of flame<\/span>
\n meets in mid-sun<\/span>
\n the streaming eidola issuing<\/span>
\n from the contours of the apple,<\/span>
\n the naked woman,<\/span>
\n the far off mountain,<\/span>
\n the morning and the evening star\u2026<\/span>
\n and this visual current,<\/span>
\n this tes opsis rheuma,<\/span>
\n flows back through the all-devouring<\/span>
\n void of his eyes<\/span>
\n to touch and impinge<\/span>
\n upon the wax of his soul.<\/span><\/p>\n

He sees,<\/span>
\n he IS,<\/span>
\n as is every man and woman,<\/span>
\n the quincunx<\/span>
\n of red and black<\/span>
\n and white and yellow<\/span>
\n and green,<\/span>
\n los colores del maiz,<\/span>
\n the five directions<\/span>
\n of our flower-loving fathers.<\/span><\/p>\n

And he understands the world<\/span>
\n juste comme Stendhal a compris le monde<\/span>
\n \u2014le rouge et le noir,<\/span>
\n day and night, hot and cold,<\/span>
\n rich and poor, sweet and bitter<\/span>
\n the thing in and of itself and the thing perceived,<\/span>
\n day and night,<\/span>
\n the living and the dead.<\/span>
\n And though he loves the Red Venus,<\/span>
\n he does not fear the Black,<\/span>
\n for he knows that backward-footed Xolotl<\/span>
\n will guide him to his peace<\/span>
\n across the river of nine waters,<\/span>
\n through Mictlan itself<\/span>
\n and on to the misty green eden<\/span>
\n of Tlalocan.<\/span>
\n And here and there<\/span>
\n he will write<\/span>
\n in the inks of East and West<\/span>
\n sus poemas de felices opuestos,<\/span>
\n taking,<\/span>
\n with cochineal fingertips,<\/span>
\n the blooms ecstatic and open,<\/span>
\n withered and sere,<\/span>
\n petal and stem,<\/span>
\n pistil and stamen,<\/span>
\n for the flower songs<\/span>
\n that will ever perfume<\/span>
\n sus aires cris\u00f3stomos.<\/span>
\n Alfred Arteaga<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jos\u00e9 Antonio<\/strong><\/span><\/h2>\n

Pero \u00bfqu\u00e9 m\u00e1s podr\u00edas querer?
\nIt was a life full
\nof marvelous inquietudes
\nUna jornada espiritual
\npricked by the spurs
\nof a ceaseless, spasmodic,
\ngolden curiosity.
\nSon muchos los
\nque escogen su via,
\nbut few are really
\ncalled by it.
\nFew are the true
\nvocations and provocations
\nin the halting careers
\nthrough this blind valley,
\nand Jos\u00e9 Antonio Burciaga
\nwas called to examine,
\nto muse upon,
\nto shape, form and relate
\nthe ancient, new,
\nlegitimate, illegitimate,
\ncastiza, mestiza
\nglossolalia of his Raza.<\/span><\/p>\n

Jos\u00e9 Antonio knew that words<\/span>
\n were at the root of all<\/span>
\n and that at the root of words<\/span>
\n were more words<\/span>
\n more profoundly rooted<\/span>
\n en el lodo negro<\/span>
\n de nuestra existencia<\/span>
\n porque en el principio<\/span>
\n was the word,<\/span>
\n y si conocemos las palabras,<\/span>
\n we know who we are<\/span>
\n and where we came from<\/span>
\n and what we said<\/span>
\n along the way<\/span>
\n and if we could know<\/span>
\n we could be made whole<\/span>
\n and stronger than Wachuseh.<\/span><\/p>\n

Juegos de palabras,<\/span>
\n palabras de juegos,<\/span>
\n argot, cant, cal\u00f3,<\/span>
\n pachuquismos thronged<\/span>
\n his etymological uneasiness.<\/span><\/p>\n

Jos\u00e9 Antonio turned the rocky ore<\/span>
\n of our language de todos los d\u00edas<\/span>
\n in his jeweler\u2019s hand<\/span>
\n searching for the streaks<\/span>
\n of the noble metals<\/span>
\n of our history.<\/span>
\n He scanned the casings<\/span>
\n of the spent rounds<\/span>
\n of fired speech<\/span>
\n for the clues,<\/span>
\n las llaves,<\/span>
\n la placa<\/span>
\n de las explicaciones<\/span>
\n that might satisfy,<\/span>
\n if only for a moment,<\/span>
\n his yearnings<\/span>
\n for the definition.<\/span>
\n And now,<\/span>
\n our loss, his gain,<\/span>
\n these yearnings are over.<\/span>
\n Jos\u00e9 Antonio Burciaga<\/span>
\n is one with the logos.<\/span>
\n He is the word.<\/span>
\n \u2026\u00e9l es la palabra.<\/span>
\n Y \u00c8l es protegido<\/span>
\n para siempre<\/span>
\n por el con safos diamantino<\/span>
\n de la eternidad.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Francisco X. Alarc\u00f3n<\/strong> <\/span><\/h2>\n

is<\/span>
\nhas always been<\/span>
\nruled by Ollin.<\/span><\/p>\n

Thrumming fingers<\/span>
\nrestless<\/span>
\nhands and feet<\/span>
\nnodding head<\/span>
\nrapid words<\/span>
\nunceasing movement<\/span>
\nfrom the pain-filled<\/span>
\nawakening to life<\/span>
\nto the dog-led<\/span>
\njourney to the underworld.<\/span><\/p>\n

Ollin,<\/span>
\ninspiraci\u00f3n<\/span>
\ny respiraci\u00f3n<\/span>
\nde los cuatro vientos<\/span>
\nthat exhale<\/span>
\nthrough<\/span>
\nthe gasping,<\/span>
\necstatic awe<\/span>
\nof his voiced,<\/span>
\ntattooed<\/span>
\npoetics,<\/span>
\nsoftly shouted<\/span>
\nto the cardinal<\/span>
\npoints<\/span>
\nof the<\/span>
\nspinning ball<\/span>
\nhurtling<\/span>
\nin double-mirrored<\/span>
\norbit<\/span>
\nentre el quinto<\/span>
\ny el sexto<\/span>
\nsol.<\/span>
\nNuestro poeta<\/span>
\nha canturreado<\/span>
\nremedios and cures,<\/span>
\nhas spelled hechizos<\/span>
\nfor the continued flow<\/span>
\nof the blood<\/span>
\nof Mayahuel.<\/span><\/p>\n

He has cast<\/span>
\nwhite magic<\/span>
\nfor the corn,<\/span>
\nhas made treaties<\/span>
\nwith the serpent<\/span>
\ny ha declarado<\/span>
\nguerra contra la<\/span>
\nbilis verde y negra<\/span>
\ndel odio y prejuicio<\/span>
\ncon palabras cortas<\/span>
\n–en breves l\u00edneas–<\/span>
\nque van directamente <\/span>
\na las cuartro c\u00e1maras<\/span>
\nof the four-winged<\/span>
\nOllin monarch<\/span>
\nthat throbs within us,<\/span>
\nthat pulses<\/span>
\nwithin him,<\/span>
\nthat he will ride<\/span>
\nsome day<\/span>
\nwith flower song<\/span>
\ntoward the North.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

JOS\u00c9 ERNESTO MONTOYA<\/strong><\/span><\/h2>\n

Hoy enterraron al jefe<\/span>
\n–el comandante general–<\/span>
\nand the earth will enfold<\/span>
\nese vato, a vate who sang<\/span>
\nin baritone, vernacular<\/span>
\nbardic strophes<\/span>
\nof the lowly and despised<\/span>
\nthose who labored, thieved, loved<\/span>
\ndrank, smoked, spat profanities<\/span>
\nand worshiped<\/span>
\nbeneath an indifferent sun.<\/span><\/p>\n

Hoy enterraron al jefe,<\/span>
\nand these streets and avenues<\/span>
\nde Sacra<\/span>
\nthat shade under dark wooden bones<\/span>
\nwill no more feel his tread.<\/span>
\nLos callejones y las cantinas de oro<\/span>
\nwill ever be haunted<\/span>
\npor un fantasma<\/span>
\ncon disembodied horn-rimmed,<\/span>
\ntinted lentes y stingy brim.<\/span>
\n\u00a1\u00c1guila! Que ah\u00ed va el esp\u00edritu<\/span>
\nde nuestro poeta<\/span>
\nen busca de suaves licores,<\/span>
\namables pl\u00e1ticas y un taz\u00f3n dominguero<\/span>
\nde tripitas y pata<\/span>
\nhomeopathic pancita for belly remedy<\/span>
\nfor the hanging miseries<\/span>
\nof late Saturday revels.<\/span>
\n\u00a1Dale paso al jefe! Dale paso,<\/span>
\nfor here he comes singing,<\/span>
\na derelict upright dog<\/span>
\nwith his hunchback vihuela<\/span>
\nchiming in tenor accord<\/span>
\nwith that unforgettable vozarr\u00f3n<\/span>
\nque ten\u00eda when he was young.<\/span>
\nWhen he was young\u2026<\/span>
\nNothing but pity for you<\/span>
\nif you only saw the man of four score.<\/span>
\nComo gato and ligero on his athlete\u2019s legs<\/span>
\nhe was.<\/span>
\nEra un gal\u00e1n con \u00e9lan.<\/span>
\nHe strode through the world<\/span>
\nconfident but wary just the same.<\/span>
\nThe stage was his world,<\/span>
\nand every stage was his<\/span>
\nthe instant he took it.<\/span>
\nHe was a Greek creature for panic,<\/span>
\na companion of nymphs,<\/span>
\na bucking capricious, goateed<\/span>
\nfulano de tal.<\/span>
\nQuick era su salero.<\/span>
\nHe punned like a chuked-out<\/span>
\nGertrude Stein,<\/span>
\narroz es arroz es arroz.<\/span>
\nToo much folkloric irony<\/span>
\nperhaps\u2026<\/span>
\nToo much self mockery,<\/span>
\ncertainly\u2026<\/span>
\nthe weaponry of the assailed,<\/span>
\nof the put upon,<\/span>
\nof those put on guard<\/span>
\nfrom the age of reason\u2026<\/span>
\nBut the mouthed beauty<\/span>
\nof the phrase,<\/span>
\nthe words so liquid<\/span>
\nas to not be dammed upon the page,<\/span>
\nthe words that were meant to be heard,<\/span>
\npalabras l\u00edricas that were as nothing,<\/span>
\nwithout that voice\u2026<\/span>
\nIt did not matter what he said!<\/span>
\nBut what he said mattered<\/span>
\nwith a switching of codes<\/span>
\nwith the lightning<\/span>
\nof the syntactical synapses<\/span>
\nbetween castellano, ingl\u00e9s y cal\u00f3,<\/span>
\nthe three-cornered wit of our fathers,<\/span>
\nthe incomparable beauty<\/span>
\nof the plenty of our language,<\/span>
\nthe mercury of our words.<\/span><\/p>\n

Hoy enterraron al jefe.<\/span>
\nHoy enterraron al jefe<\/span>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"Journal-Entry\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Upon Reading an Entry in a Journal<\/strong><\/span>
\n Kept by the Poet Victor Martinez<\/strong><\/span><\/h2>\n

He had a groping understanding,<\/span>
\n–amounting to a realization<\/span>
\nthat he did not yet understand–<\/span>
\nof where he wanted to be,<\/span>
\nwhere he wanted to stand,<\/span>
\nstanding on his two feet<\/span>
\non that surmised point of departure<\/span>
\nfrom where he could fix his two eyes<\/span>
\nand stretch his hollow bones<\/span>
\nto let the sky take him in<\/span>
\nSin estar completamente<\/span>
\nconsciente del hecho,<\/span>
\nera un arquitecto<\/span>
\nde edificios contradictorios:<\/span>
\niglesias, nunneries, abbatoirs, and burdeles,<\/span>
\ndwellings self-negating and self-affirming<\/span>
\nin a throbbing singularity of space.<\/span><\/p>\n

He was one of those few poets,<\/span>
\nsince the murder of the old gods,<\/span>
\nwho actually seek to dwell<\/span>
\nwithin the houses of their own words<\/span>
\nand though he could see<\/span>
\nthe great gaps<\/span>
\nin its four stammering walls<\/span>
\nof earth and mortals<\/span>
\nand rumors of divinity,<\/span>
\nhe seemed to grasp<\/span>
\nthat the bird within and the bird without<\/span>
\nwould be able to penetrate his poetry,<\/span>
\nto find liberation within and without<\/span>
\nthe infinite aviary<\/span>
\nof his clattering nouns.<\/span>
\nThere is a fear,<\/span>
\namounting to a welcoming joy,<\/span>
\nof the annunciating bird.<\/span>
\nA dark omen, a bringer of joy,<\/span>
\nthe house-entering bird?<\/span>
\nWe do not know.<\/span>
\nOur poet did not know.<\/span>
\nHe only knew<\/span>
\nthat neither he nor the bird<\/span>
\ndwelt in a world with empty spaces,<\/span>
\nthat whatever the bird did<\/span>
\npropelled him,<\/span>
\nthat whatever he did<\/span>
\nmoved the bird across here and there,<\/span>
\nacross yesterday and tomorrow.<\/span><\/p>\n

On a day in February,<\/span>
\nthe cleansing,<\/span>
\nchastening month<\/span>
\nof a pagan world,<\/span>
\nthe bird flew into his house,<\/span>
\nand our poet,<\/span>
\nour onyx bird,<\/span>
\nel ave de voz ronca,<\/span>
\nflew into that everywhere house<\/span>
\nof limitless sky and infinite gods.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

ALFONSO TEXIDOR<\/strong><\/span><\/h2>\n

There are certain living, breathing<\/span>
\nplaces in this world,<\/span>
\ncertain quartiers,<\/span>
\nvicinati and barrios en este mundo<\/span>
\n–ciertos lugares con almas abrumadoras–<\/span>
\nwhose concrete, dirt and iron souls push<\/span>
\nthrough their trees and buildings,<\/span>
\nspread through their sidewalks<\/span>
\nand red-bloom in their very fire hydrants.<\/span>
\nThere are certain places in this world<\/span>
\nthat have presiding spirits<\/span>
\n–the Mission la Misi\u00f3n<\/span>
\nmisi\u00f3n de dolores exquisitas–<\/span>
\nspirits that wander<\/span>
\nspirits that turn a corner<\/span>
\nand disappear<\/span>
\nspirits that reappear<\/span>
\ncuadras y cuadras away<\/span>
\npoised over un cafecito,<\/span>
\nspirits that are reported<\/span>
\nin disparate places<\/span>
\nat the same time,<\/span>
\nspirits like Alfonso Texidor.<\/span>
\nI did not know him<\/span>
\nand was quite content<\/span>
\nnot to know him,<\/span>
\nfor whenever I ventured down<\/span>
\nla mentada Veinticuatro,<\/span>
\nI was sure to see him<\/span>
\nsooner if not later,<\/span>
\nand when I did see him<\/span>
\nla Misi\u00f3n was set aright<\/span>
\nand all people and things<\/span>
\nbecame as correct<\/span>
\nas the angles of a square.<\/span>
\nFor twenty years<\/span>
\nI knew not his name<\/span>
\nbut sharpened one<\/span>
\nas keen-edged as he<\/span>
\n“Pero \u00bfdonde est\u00e1<\/span>
\nel knife blade?”<\/span>
\nI would wonder to myself<\/span>
\nif I failed to see him<\/span>
\nin La Boh\u00e8me,<\/span>
\nand in so wondering<\/span>
\nI would conjure him,<\/span>
\nand he would razor<\/span>
\nthrough the door <\/span>
\nslicing<\/span>
\nthrough the thick distractions<\/span>
\nof this world<\/span>
\ncomo filo de machete<\/span>
\ncortando ca\u00f1a,<\/span>
\ncortando ca\u00f1a<\/span>
\nand he would sit a sus anchas<\/span>
\nand nod monalisando a smile,<\/span>
\ncharlando con tipos revolucionarios<\/span>
\ny hombres \u00e1vidos por ajedrez,<\/span>
\nand I then would be at ease<\/span>
\nfor all was well,<\/span>
\nall was whole,<\/span>
\nand all was sustained<\/span>
\nfor yet another day.<\/span>
\nHe was essence of place,<\/span>
\nvibration of movements<\/span>
\nof limbs and wheels,<\/span>
\niris of color and light,<\/span>
\nand yes he is gone,<\/span>
\ngone save for the sanctifying<\/span>
\nfictions of memory,<\/span>
\nand there will be<\/span>
\nthe fear of a lack,<\/span>
\nof a mis-balance,<\/span>
\nde una vaga alegr\u00eda perdida.<\/span>
\nYet the Mission,<\/span>
\nyour Mission and mine<\/span>
\nwill persist<\/span>
\nbecause Alfonso Texidor<\/span>
\nwas the Lamed Wufnik<\/span>
\nof the place while amongst us,<\/span>
\nand when one Lamed Wufnik<\/span>
\nbreathes out<\/span>
\nfor the last time<\/span>
\nanother immediately<\/span>
\ntakes their place.<\/span>
\nWe will know the new one<\/span>
\nimmediately.<\/span>
\nWe may not.<\/span>
\nOur tempted eyes will vary<\/span>
\nour contrary minds deny,<\/span>
\nbut the soul of this place<\/span>
\nwill be maintained.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  Alfred Arteaga We could talk about how his heart was taught the secrets of the serpent\u2019s tail. We could confer hours incalculable upon the small chamber that holds the ultimately unknowable blue bed embodied within his very core and how our own beetle and bug infested poor mats and cots and bags of straw […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":24,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[14,6],"tags":[8,9,48,10],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/468"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/24"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=468"}],"version-history":[{"count":13,"href":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/468\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":485,"href":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/468\/revisions\/485"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=468"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=468"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/alternativepublications.ucmerced.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=468"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}