Un colibrí llega a mi azotea chilanga y de repente todo me parece posible, aunque improbable: flores donde no hay colores sino cemento, metrópolis construida sobre metrópolis, metrópolis suspendida sobre lago, nervios tensos esperando tremores, craneos esperando volcanes, en fin todo, al final, todo finalmente. Entonces colíbrí, ¿así? ¿Pero cómo? Esta ciudad es cemento oxidado,[…] See more ⇒

the ink writes the poet. Headlines write the politics. Sentences write the prisoners. Textbooks write the memory, lessons ignore everyone. Grades make the student. Students learn the teacher. Jobs work the employee. Streets drive the car. TVs watch every household. Religions rely on the fanatic. Prices buy the customer. Drugs do the poor. Lines wait[…] See more ⇒

Some video from a late-night performance at Mapa Teatro in central Bogotá, as part of the 7th Hemispheric Encuentro of Performance & Política. ¡Noches surrealistas!   “This Poem Writes the Ink” “La Posibilidad de Esto” “Vancouzy, High As Fuck”

There is so much happening in the sky it’s all we can do to keep ourselves distracted. The monsoons roll in the late summer. We set the mowers against the grass, they graze like domesticated helicopters. Their growl fills up the neighborhood. Hawks fly down from the foothills bending the wind with their wide arms.[…] See more ⇒

I, the teacher with the twisted imagination say draw yourself finding a treasure chest just like Arnold Duncan. And they, the students, eyes burning with kidfire, flash bright teeth and smiles across their brown faces. They know who Arnold Duncan is, that old gringo with the beard from the story we’re reading, another English story[…] See more ⇒

The Student Movement, México, 1968 I. EL ZÓCALO, 27 AGOSTO You cannot tell us to return home, not tonight y no nunca. We have 300,000 question marks assembled in this plaza, arm-in-arm. We have the railworkers, we have the constitution, we have climbed to ring the bells of la catedral, we have marched through the[…] See more ⇒

The dinosaurs didn’t die out. They went underground and waited for you mammals to build them palaces. They sent the birds to spy on your hubris. It was a dinosaur who leaked to human science that it is possible to burn their dead bodies as oil. The dinosaurs giveth and the dinosaurs yanketh it all[…] See more ⇒

There is a small boy with the world in his pockets, he has continents in the contents of his pockets and seven seas spilling out the holes in his blue jeans: Right pocket: a box of matches, a rock, a penny. Left pocket: two rubberbands, another rock, a chain. Back pocket: a crushed flower. Back[…] See more ⇒

There is a woman in Sonora, México who has a voice like cracked adobe. She stands outside her casita at noon and sings as loud as her small lungs will let her into the still bright desert sky. People think she is completamente loca. But other people come and they pay la viejita to sing[…] See more ⇒

The first thing you need to know about Mexico is not a thing or a place He’s a man more than a noun and the man’s name is Memo Two more things you need to know: Memo’s 1983 Full Size Van and how the man lives on butterflies The fourth thing is that the most[…] See more ⇒