Hola mi Gente,
First, I want to say that because the generosity of so many of you, I might be able to rent a room and pay for my storage and phone. You don’t know how much this means to me. In light of my decision to ask for help, my friend (and lover in a past life), Nina, said the following:
There is no shame in loving and if people never need us, when do we get the opportunity to love and care for them? It is an honor to be needed and trusted with a person’s heart, their pain. It is an honor to be allowed to give and not just take.
That about says it all. I don’t want to jinx it, but I might have some good news this Monday. So stay tuned and keep your fingers crossed. If you can give, click here:
Most people here know my love for art and poetry in particular. A few years ago, I purchased a sweet surprise of a book, an anthology titled The wind shifts: New Latino poetry. It’s chock full of new vibrant voices. I’ve included two here today. Art saved my life – literally. Enjoy and have a great day.
* * *
The Shifting Winds
— Naomi Ayala
War begins right here on my street.
It begins with me.
I see her weapons in the eyes of a child,
her face on windowpanes.
There are times I want war.
I lie down with her.
I stroke her back.
There are times she enters my house
and I enter into battle with her.
War slips in, into my name.
I have her in my blood.
She sweetens my morning coffee on Saturdays.
I betray her. I hide from her. I run away
but already war knows the course of my dreams
and wants to steal the children of my soul.
War begins with me.
It is with me that war begins
right here on my street
in the small showers of bullets
in an empty garbage can
in what I say and do not say
in the bewitching ivy of tedium
in the soap I use to bathe.
She is in my fingers
in the shadow of my eyes
in my lover’s hair.
I sing to her so that she may leave
so that war leaves me.
Today I sing to her
and she lets me sing.
* * *
— Lidia Torres
New York City, August 13, 2003
is not unusual in DR or Iraq.
The city’s extension cord shorts.
Afternoon, offices evacuate.
The focus is on feet,
some people walking through the boroughs
for the first time. We stare at our feet,
elbow to elbow eyeing packed buses.
Some hitch rides on the back
of trucks. An orderly mob of feet,
legs pushing past fearless
grocery stores. Lincoln
center, Harlem, finally
in Washington Heights the street
party has begun. Batteries boost
the curbside music, click of candlelit
dominoes, night meeting a stream
of car lights, congestion
of bodies. Everyone is polite and briefly
romantic in the dark. On my block,
there’s a woman selling hot pastels
on paper plates, with ketchup
if you want.
* * *
My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization…
Aragón, F. (Ed.). (2007). The wind shifts: New Latino poetry. Tuscon: University of Arizona Press.