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Yamashita_Orange_97815668948691-356x535
This is the ultimate book about Los Angeles because there’s no ultimate book about Los Angeles. There’s no last stop on the L.A. railway whose yellow trolleys went out of service in 1958, there’s no end to Oaxacans, Zapotecs, Mixtecs, Central Americans and Bengalis inventing new lives in Koreatown, no one’s heading to the Ambassador Hotel on Wilshire to disrupt the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy, there’s no end to white hipsters and “creative types” coming to Los Angeles from NYC and points East to make it big, just like there’s no last offramp on the 10 freeway from heading across the desert to Texas and Florida. Which is to say, as the last city of the American civilization before the Pacific Plate subducts under North America and uplifts the ranges of the West, L.A. never stops, it never stops—L.A. never stops. Tropic of Orange dares to go there.

L.A.’s the city at the end of the continent that grinds out industrial daydreams and nightmares for the rest of the planet. “Hollywood will not rot on the windmills of eternity/ Hollywood whose movies stick in the throat of God,” Allen Ginsberg wrote, “Money! Money! Money! shrieking mad celestial money of illusion!” This city industrialized the imagination of the species. This city unspooled reels of Buster Keaton and W. C. Fields, killed Sam Cooke and Janis Joplin, buried Marilyn Monroe and the shadows of ten thousand Indians, Japanese and Vietnamese who dared to attack John Wayne and his cohort of innocents. Driving Route 66 to the edge of the continent, L.A. arrived at the end of the world first. Giant ants, earthquakes, aliens from outer space. The city limits, the Outer Limits. Time and again, even as it was wiped out by Martians in 1953 in War of the Worlds or in 1964 while Charlton Heston drove the empty avenues of downtown in Omega Man looking for vampires to machinegun, the city plowed the civilization’s subconscious and planted alien pod plants.

Roman Polanski’s 1974 noir classic, Chinatown, ostensibly set in 1937, makes no mention, of course, that in 1936 most of Chinatown was razed and buried under the newly built Union Station. Dodger Stadium commemorates in no way the Chicano neighborhood of Chavez Ravine, whose residents were forcibly evicted, whose properties were buried under landfill for baseball parking lots. Entire Japanese American neighborhoods emptied of residents for concentration camps during World War 2: East San Pedro Japanese American residents were given 48 hours to pack and leave—their fishing village then razed, their boats sold or burned. Entire Mexican American neighborhoods were razed and buried under famous freeways. Displacement, dispossession and dislocation continues these days under the guise of gentrification. These are stories that Hollywood can’t seem to imagine, because they’re actually happening. Look in vain for them in Chinatown, Blade Runner, Short Cuts, L.A. Confidential. The ostensibly intergalactic imagination of the movies doesn’t begin to approach hard-bitten realities reflected in the lives of the seven characters central to Tropic of Orange.

Tropic of Orange refracts the city’s passion like skyscrapers against the setting sun. This book holds in solar heat like a piece of granite. Even as the desert east of the San Gabriel mountains refracts the city’s energy like dream lightning in murky dreams of ex-L.A. hipsters gentrified out to Joshua Tree, in sun-bleached dreams of old rock guitarists and rock climbers, as wind scours trinkets of aluminum and plastic across the sand and gravel. Out there across the sand and gravel of his artist’s compound, Noah Purifoy’s human-scale monuments broadcast South Central passion to the cholla, creosote, and the stars. Out there, young black and Latino families from the Marine base shop at the Yucca Valley Walmart. Out there, errant music recorded in L.A. wafts like lost heat waves. Those lyrics, those phrases and rhythms re-emerge inscribed in these sentences, in these chapters. The revolution will not be televised, recalls Tropic of Orange on page 218, even as a romantically entangled Chicano and Japanese American couple, journalists, tragically try to prove it wrong.

If L.A. is that recombinant hybrid of the culture’s imagination and the civilization’s final history, of its weird and frequently terrible desires taken to their ultimate logical ends (freeways and car culture, cults and crazies, a police state hidden behind sunglasses and sun-tans), few novels live to tell actual Los Angeles stories and effectively take anything like its full measure. Tropic of Orange takes that apocalyptic tale on with Surrealist nerve and Futurist verve. Karen Yamashita looks on what the civilization wrought on this place, unafraid—she doesn’t turn away; five years after the 1992 riots (“the largest civil disturbance in modern times… 60 dead, one billion dollars damage…“), columns of smoke still rise from those conflicts of race and class. Seven voices, each distinguished by a distinct voice and POV, tell stories that sojourn the Pacific, traverse the Sonora Desert, cross mean streets and ethnic divides to meet, folding into one another in a wild (and wildly imagined) 7 days in Los Angeles.

In 2011, as visiting professor of creative writing at UC Santa Cruz, I wandered into the lunch counter at a cafe that Karen liked, and found her hosting a party of out of town visitors. She invited me to join them, and as I pulled up a chair, one of the visitors, Robert Allen, was talking about the Port Chicago mutiny, the largest mass mutiny in U.S. naval history, when 50 black sailors were court-martialed in 1944 after 700 men were blown apart (320 died) loading munitions aboard ships heading for the war in the Pacific. “Robert!” I said, jumping up, “you’re the only person I’ve ever heard talking about Port Chicago!” I ran over and gave him a hug. “The last time I saw you was in Nicaragua! How long has it been? Twenty years?” He’d written a book about Port Chicago and edited the Black Scholar journal for decades. I’d only learned about Port Chicago more than twenty years earlier and more than three thousand miles away, in Managua, in 1987, when Robert told me about it as we sat at a table with Alice Walker. I’ve only heard the story of Port Chicago twice in my life, both times by luck, the kind of luck and the kind of stories you get when Karen Yamashita invites you to sit at her table. Tropic of Orange invites you; try your luck—you’re in for seven kinds of L.A. stories that fold into an origami flower of razor-sharp titanium.

Sesshu Foster

see:

http://coffeehousepress.org/authors/karen-tei-yamashita/

The Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center hosted “CrossLines: A Culture Lab on Intersectionality” at the Smithsonian’s historic Arts and Industries Building Saturday and Sunday, May 28–29, 10 a.m. to 9 p.m., in celebration of Asian Pacific American Heritage Month. Featuring the works of more than 40 artists, scholars and performers, “CrossLines” exhibited array of art installations, live performances and interactive maker spaces.

Lawrence-Minh Bùi Davis said, “We had a “poetry listening salon” with an iPad station set up with the video as well as several audio poems–by Juan Felipe Herrera, Arlene Biala, Rigoberto Gonzalez, Brandon Som, and Tarfia Faizullah. Response was great; 12,000 people came through the event, and a lot of people sat in the salon and used the station.”

At the de-installation of the exhibit, Lawrence sent this picture of Clement Hanami and Sojin KIm checking out the video by Arturo Romo-Santillano of a poem of mine, “Hell to Eternity: The Movie Version.”

See: http://parrafomagazine.com/issues/06/foster/movieversion.html

 

clement hanami and sojin kim

Clement Hanami and Sojin Kim

2011, Nightboat Books

 

THE BOOK OF FORGOTTEN BODIES

The reader who opens the Book of Forgotten Bodies finds nothing. There are no horses galloping through deserted villages in search of the men who used to ride them. There are no children crying for their parents who were thrown out of airplanes and into the sea. There are no soldiers who had their arms sliced off for refusing to obliterate innocent bodies. There are no rich men leaning against paradise trees as the drunk bodies of poor men stumble up to their houses to kill them. There are no bodies of hopeless virgins smashes on city streets by Mercedes-Benzes cruising through the gentle drizzle of a foggy day. There are no bodies abandoned on beaches. There are no corpses floating down rivers. There are no bodies hanging in the military barracks on island XYZ off the coast of nation ABC. There are no bodies that pound rock against rock. No bodies that stand on one leg with hoods over their mouths mumbling words we don’t understand. No bodies covered in mud murmuring to the bodies that lie on top of them. There are no bodies that smell of chemicals and rest in puddles in the rain waiting for flowers to fall on their heads. No blind bodies that are painted by artists who value aesthetics over breath. No bodies that imagine their children’s bodies as ghosts and cadavers and skeletons. No bodies that fall from windows as they try to catch a glimpse of the bodies that have fallen before them. There are no bodies discovered by rabid dogs in houses abandoned before they could even be built. No bodies surrounded by barbed wire as countries die in the distance. No bodies whose skin burns in the strange machines that buzz like tropical nights. No bodies that burn in buildings that have been set on fire by bodies with no reason to live. There are no bodies that fry in the sun, that drown in the shadows, that roast on gas, that ooze algae and moss, that are covered in black rags as the lakes and the mountains die. No bodies that hunt or are hunted, that murder out of charity, that are murdered out of charity. No bodies that shutter the windows and hang themselves in libraries of their favorite books. There are no soulless bodies, no frozen bodies, no bodies gnawed to death by insects. There are no practice bodies, no transient bodies, no empty bodies, no blank bodies that twist between forgotten body and dream.

 

 

borzutzky1

see also http://jacket2.org/commentary/talking-daniel-borzutzky

and, http://entropymag.org/are-we-latino-memories-of-my-overdevelopment/

 

 

ONE SIZE FITS ALL

See that immigrant freezing beneath the bridge he needs a blanket.

 

See that torah scroll from the 16th century:  it sprawls on the floor like a deadbeat; the Jews need to wrap it in a schmatte.

 

The problem, you see, is “exposure.”

 

Thje poet forgot to shake off his penis and pee dripped on the manuscript that he submitted to the 2007 University of Iowa Poetry prize.

 

The literary scholar took off his tie and lectured the class on the post-humanoid implications of the virtual cocktail.

 

He put a pistol on his desk and told the students he was going to kill himself if they didn’t do their homework.

 

Everything in his “worldview” was exposed.

 

The data-entry specialist imagined new forms for the senior administrator who was only a temporary carcass, an anti-poem: a budding literary movement that communed with master works by committing suicide while reading them.

 

The temporary carcass of the bureaucrat, dry as Vietnamese Jerky, called out for “gravy” as it “peppered” the eloquent field of syntax.

 

Abrupt exposure to ordinary language may result in seriously compromised intelligence, implied the carcass as he lipped the trembling lily which hid the police officer, who said: if you look at me one more time I’m going to zap you with my Taser gun.

 

I liked the former “Language Poet” for the speech act he attached to the back of my book, which reminded me of Charles Olson on human growth hormones.

 

The problem, said the critic, remains one of imagination and its insistence on the distinction between thought and action.

 

“I let him touch my wooden leg,” she said, “and when I unscrewed it I was stuck legless in the hay.”

 

Which is to say the detachable penis was and has been compatible with family values.

 

“He was a seriously hardworking boy with a fetish for glass eyes and wooden legs,” she said, “and I really loved him.”

 

The poetry era reached its nadir as the housing market plummeted, said the professor, as he repeated for the umpteenth time the anecdote about the boy who met an underwater woman as old as the hills.

 

“Does Poetry live here,” he asked. “Poetry lives here,” she replied, “but he will chop you up and kill you, and then he will cook you and eat you.”

 

My ideal reader has neither a name, a body, nor an online profile.

 

Which is not to say that I am not concerned with customer satisfaction.

 

Dear Reader, Because we value your input, please take a moment of your busy time to answer the following question, which will greatly assist us in our mission to produce cultural artifacts that will further meet your aesthetic and spiritual needs.

 

Which of the following statements most accurately reflects your feelings about the writing which you have just read:

 

a. This is a splendid poem, distinguished by the clarity of its thought, the force of its argument, and the eloquence of its expression.

 

b. This poem is conceptually vapid, artistically shallow, and contributes nothing to the world of letters. It is little more than a collection of bad sentences and poorly formed ideas.

 

c. I like this poem, but I wouldn’t spend money to read more poems like it.

 

d. When I read this poem, I feel frustrated and annoyed.

 

e. When I read this poem, I feel nothing.

 

borzutzky

 

transcribed at “Type Writer: An Afternoon of L.A. Stories Typed Before Your Eyes” with Marisela Norte and Lynell George

amara

Amara

 

 

How do we start?

I came to L.A. from Minneapolis

and I’m a shoemaker and I work for myself

I’ve literally only been here for three—no, four hours

A couple months ago I met this awesome dude

he’s with the L.A. Philharmonic

and I just need a reason to move

things were really picking up with this dude

they were. And they kept escalating, but they

came to a full stop, he was supposed to come visit me

and he didn’t. I don’t know what I’m doing

I could stay in Minneapolis… but I don’t know,

I didn’t decide…

 

he’s getting a divorce, he’s not really helpful

he’s emotionally embroiled in something I don’t want

to get involved with

 

I’m leaving on Friday, I’m just here for a week

it would be a big deal, to move all my equipment

but maybe, in Minnesota there’s 3 shoemakers

in L.A. there’s a lot more, but most of them are hobbyists

 

There’s a lot, in L.A. and New York, they charge

about $2,000. In Minneapolis my price point is about a third of that

 

Do you want the real story or the one I tell people?

I’ll tell you both

I was in grad school, in the MFA program at the

Art Institute of Chicago, I was a book maker, a writer, a photographer

I’d always done a lot of writing, editing

I got into a serious car accident,

I couldn’t write anymore

but shoes, I could follow

 

I made my MFA project shoes

they altered the way people had to walk,

you know, I didn’t have to say anything,

I didn’t have to explain, they sort of mimicked the healing process

you know what I mean?

 

I wrote a lot, I had a blog

but I lost it, a friend of mine said he found it

I wrote and wrote and wrote, but I lost it again

I couldn’t read anything for a long time

I wrote but I couldn’t read

I just started reading again

 

Are we taking off?

Are you going to put it in your archive?

No I don’t need it, I’ve lived it.

We’re going now, thanks

Nice to meet you

 

 

lynell and marisela

with Lynell George and Marisela Norte

glad we could talk, my students came and enjoyed it—

later, i read some poems with Kenji Liu and Angela Peñaredondo

at the Kaya Press tent, and afterwards went round and caught

your reading at the poetry stage, where I saw the call

and response of “187 reasons mexicanos can’t cross the border”

caused passersby to stop in their tracks, turned their heads; they

drew forth under the trees to see what you were delivering

from the stage. this was before you closed, zapateando.

i should have joined you when they took you to sign books.

it started sprinkling, as it had been on and off all day

and like i had been, i was thinking about the lean girl,

my student who died two weeks ago, swept out by a wave

at santa monica beach, in sight of the pier and surely crowds

of hundreds of people on an ordinary saturday afternoon,

drowned. now there’s nothing to say about it, nothing to be done,

so i wandered through the tents, looking at the booths

full of books and booksellers, writers and readers, and

when i figured that we maybe still had time to talk,

i went back to “the green room” but i couldn’t locate

you—i did a circuit, walking through the crowd and the tents

in the off and on again drizzle, talked to David Shook

at Phoneme Books, bought his translations from the Zapotec,

i guessed soon you’d have minders escorting you onstage

at the award ceremony, though i could have let loose

the dogs of metaphor or raised a figurative hue and cry

as of metonymy, but let the mist in the air settle as it may.

thanks for the hour or more. let’s talk again! maybe

i’ll see Fresno, capital of poetry. hi to Margie!

dirigible poster

welcome to

                LOS ÁNGELES

Writ Large Press presents
THE INSTANT
Monday March 28 • 8pm
Ham & Eggs Tavern
433 West 8th Street • Los Ángeles
FREE
A monthly reading series that serves up local and visiting literary contributors, unique live music/performance and everyone’s favorite go-to food in a cup, Instant Ramen.

Episode 2 featuring noted poets & writers:

Vickie Vertiz
Jervey Tervalon
Jade Chang
Jesse Bliss
&
Toni Ann Johnson

and a live music intermission by:
Runson Willis III

and a trio of top notch instant ramen available on site.

We call this, The Instant.
more info
Avenue 50 Studio presents
ASKEW POETRY JOURNAL
the reading

Tuesday March 29 • 7pm
Avenue 50 Studio
131 N. Avenue 50 • Highland Park

$5 Suggested Donation
featuring many poets published in Askew over the years.
Angel Garcia / Amy Uyematsu / Kim Young / Fernando Salinas / Suzanne Lummis / Lynne Thompson / Patty Seyburn / Phoebe Ozuna / Jerry Garcia / Elisabeth Adwin Edwards / Cece Peri / Alexis Rhone Fancher

hosted by MARSHA DE LA O, FRIDAY GRETCHEN & the Ventura County Poet Laureate, PHIL TAGGART

more info
Writ Large Press presents
ALWAYS IN TRANSLATION
TRANS PACIFIC POETRY & PROSE

Wednesday March 30 • 8pm
Document Coffee Bar
3850 Wilshire Blvd #107 • Los Ángeles

Free
Kim Kyung Ju (trans. Jake Levine) / Kim Yi-Deum (trans. Jiyoon Lee) / Chiwan Choi / Eunsong Kim / Janice Lee / Hannah Sanghee Park
more info
The Advisory Circle of Con Tinta
(a collective of Chicana/Latina Activist Writers), Poets Responding to SB 1070, and Avenue 50 Studio invite you to
LA PACHANGA 2016!!!
award ceremony & celebration

Thursday March 31 • 5:30pm
Avenue 50 Studio
131 N. Avenue 50 • Highland Park

FREE / donations welcome

Honoring the following
Chican@ and Latin@ writers:

Francisco X. Alarcón, RIP // Juan Felipe Herrera // Lucha Corpi
// Luis Javier Rodríguez // Odilia Galván Rodríguez

And celebrating the release of the new anthology Poetry of Resistance: Voices for Social Justice (University of Arizona Press), edited by Francisco X. Alarcón and Odilia Galván Rodríguez.

Reading for the evening:
JoAnn Anglin / Cathy Arellano / Victor Avila / Devreaux Baker / Esme Bernal / Sarah Browning / Xanath Caraza / Elizabeth Caresses / Lorna Dee Cervantes / Antoinette Nora Claypoole / Karen S Cordova / Iris De Anda / Sharon Elliott / Mario Angel Escobar / Odilia Galván Rodríguez / Nancy Aidé González / Claudia D. Hernández / Juan Felipe Herrera / Mark Lipman / John Martinez / Andrea Mauk / Gerardo Pacheco / Melinda Palacio / Matt Sedillo / Edith M. Vazquez / Edward Vidaurre / Andre Yang

w/ plenty of food & drinks & palabra!
& plenty of books for sale & signing! (this is an AWP off-site event)

more info
Against White Privilege:
Writers of Color, LGBTQ, and Disabled Writers
Respond to AWP

Thursday March 31 • 7pm
The Falls Lounge
626 S Spring Street • Los Ángeles

FREE

Jericho Brown // Ava Chin // Bao Phi // Teka Lark // Xavier Cavazos // Neelanjana Banerjee // Dan Vera // Taz Ahmed // Hieu Minh Nguyen  // Orlando White // Regie Cabico // Armine Iknadossian // Arash Sardinia // Linda Rodriguez

(this is an AWP off-site event)

more info
FREE & ALL ARE WELCOME: PUBLIC POOL is diving into existence and we want you to join us and celebrate! In addition to a group of amazing readers, we’ll have a DJ dropping dope beats, beer and wine bar and other refeshments, and free poetry broadside giveaways!
more info
Two Dollar Radio/CCM/Entropy/Action Books/Writ Large
#AWP16 READING 
Friday April 1 • 8pm
These Days Gallery
118 Winston Place • Los Ángeles
FREE

a night of literary readings, booze, socially awkward mingling, shenanigans, metal, metal, and, oh yeah, a raffle!

Mark de Silva, Colin Winnette, Janice Lee, Sean H. Doyle, Dolan Morgan, Ashley Farmer, Alexandra Naughton, Johannes Göransson, Don Mee Choi, Yideum Kim, Valerie Mejer, Wendy C. Ortiz, Rachel McLeod Kaminer, Traci Akemi Kato-kiriyama, Ashaki M. Jackson, and more.
(this is an AWP off-site event, like no other)

more info
Writ Large Press presents
AWP Off Site
VONA/Voices and Willow Books Authors Read
Saturday April 2 • 7pm – 10pm

The Falls Lounge
626 S Spring Street • Los Ángeles
FREE

Writers-of-Color–More Urgent Now Than Ever
Faculty Authors from VONA-Voices
Elmer Abinader // Faith Adiele // Tananarive Due // M. Evelina Galang // David Mura // Daniel José Older // Willie Perdomo

Diem Jones, Hosts

Willow Books Authors
Yesenia Montilla // Cedric Tillman // Cole Lavalais // Mahogany Browne // Rachelle Escamilla // Reginald Flood // Randall Horton

(this is an AWP off-site event, like no other)

more info
The Rejected:
Panels Not Approved by AWP

Friday April 1 3pm to Saturday April 2 5pm
Cielo Gallery & Studio
3201 Maple Ave • Los Ángeles
FREE

Come and experience many of the panels that were rejected by stupid ass AWP16 for no damn good reason. These will be awesome panels.

Brought to you by Lauren Traetto, Writ Large Press, and CIELO.

In beautiful South Central LA.

Please also attend and support our sister event, Not Your Average White Poets, put on Wednesday night by the people of As/Us Journal, along with Medford Street Studios and Xicanxcritores of East Los/Boyle Heights: https://www.facebook.com/events/1128476133852149/

MORE DETAILS AT LINK BELOW!
more info

juan felipe

L.A. TIMES FESTIVAL OF BOOKS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

http://events.latimes.com/festivalofbooks/tickets-and-schedule/schedule/

Seeley G. Mudd (SGM 123)Ticket required; Signing Area 4

11:30 a.m.

SATURDAY, APRIL 9, 2016
SEELEY G. MUDD (SGM 123)

Juan Felipe Herrera in conversation with Sesshu Foster
(Conversation 1092)

Interviewer: Sesshu Foster
Juan Felipe Herrera

Juan Felipe will also be reading at the festival’s Poetry Stage at 2:30 PM

Indoor Conversations require free tickets.

There are two ways to get Conversation tickets:

Online

Advance Conversation tickets will be available from the website starting April 3, 9 a.m. A $1 service fee applies to each ticket. See http://events.latimes.com/festivalofbooks/tickets-and-schedule/ticket-info/

At the festival

A limited number of tickets for each Conversation is distributed at the festival ticketing booth on the day of the Conversation — free of service charges. The booth will open at 9 a.m. each day.

Guests with Conversation tickets must arrive 10 minutes before the scheduled Conversation start time to ensure seating.

a poem by Juan Felipe:

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2016/03/06/magazine/juan-felipe-herrera-you-throw-a-stone.html?_r=1

latest book:

http://www.citylights.com/book/?GCOI=87286100437770&fa=author&person_id=4859

notesontheassemblage

Blood on the Wheel

BY JUAN FELIPE HERRERA

     Ezekiel saw the wheel,
     way up in the middle of the air.
TRADITIONAL GOSPEL SONG

Blood on the night soil man en route to the country prison
Blood on the sullen chair, the one that holds you with its pleasure
Blood inside the quartz, the beauty watch, the eye of the guard
Blood on the slope of names & the tattoos hidden
Blood on the Virgin, behind the veils,
Behind—in the moon angel’s gold oracle hair
                    What blood is this, is it the blood of the worker rat?
                    Is it the blood of the clone governor, the city maid?
                    Why does it course in s’s & z’s?
Blood on the couch, made for viewing automobiles & face cream
Blood on the pin, this one going through you without any pain
Blood on the screen, the green torso queen of slavering hearts
Blood on the grandmother’s wish, her tawdry stick of Texas
Blood on the daughter’s breast who sews roses
Blood on the father, does anyone remember him, bluish?
                    Blood from a kitchen fresco, in thick amber strokes
                    Blood from the baby’s right ear, from his ochre nose
                    What blood is this?
Blood on the fender, in the sender’s shoe, in his liquor sack
Blood on the street, call it Milagro Boulevard, Mercy Lanes #9
Blood on the alien, in the alligator jacket teen boy Juan
                    There is blood, there, he says
                    Blood here too, down here, she says
                    Only blood, the Blood Mother sings
Blood driving miniature American queens stamped into rage
Blood driving rappers in Mercedes blackened & whitened in news
Blood driving the snare-eyed professor searching for her panties
Blood driving the championship husband bent in Extreme Unction
                   Blood of the orphan weasel in heat, the Calvinist farmer in wheat
                   Blood of the lettuce rebellion on the rise, the cannery worker’s prize
Blood of the painted donkey forced into prostitute zebra,
Blood of the Tijuana tourist finally awake & forced into pimp sleep again
It is blood time, Sir Terminator says,
It is blood time, Sir Simpson winks,
It is blood time, Sir McVeigh weighs.
                   Her nuclear blood watch soaked, will it dry?
                   His whitish blood ring smoked, will it foam?
                   My groin blood leather roped, will it marry?
                   My wife’s peasant blood spoked, will it ride again?
Blood in the tin, in the coffee bean, in the maquila oración
Blood in the language, in the wise text of the market sausage
Blood in the border web, the penal colony shed, in the bilingual yard
                    Crow blood blues perched on nothingness again
                    fly over my field, yellow-green & opal
                    Dog blood crawl & swish through my sheets
Who will eat this speckled corn?
Who shall be born on this Wednesday war bed?
Blood in the acid theater, again, in the box office smash hit
Blood in the Corvette tank, in the crack talk crank below
Blood boat Navy blood glove Army ventricle Marines
in the cookie sex jar, camouflaged rape whalers
Roam & rumble, investigate my Mexican hoodlum blood
                    Tiny blood behind my Cuban ear, wine colored & hushed
                    Tiny blood in the death row tool, in the middle-aged corset
                    Tiny blood sampler, tiny blood, you hush up again, so tiny
Blood in the Groove Shopping Center,
In blue Appalachia river, in Detroit harness spleen
Blood in the Groove Virus machine,
In low ocean tide, in Iowa soy bean
Blood in the Groove Lynch mob orchestra,
South of Herzegovina, south, I said
Blood marching for the Immigration Patrol, prized & arrogant
Blood spawning in the dawn break of African Blood Tribes, grimacing
& multiple—multiple, I said
Blood on the Macho Hat, the one used for proper genuflections
Blood on the faithful knee, the one readied for erotic negation
Blood on the willing nerve terminal, the one open for suicide
Blood at the age of seventeen
Blood at the age of one, dumped in a Greyhound bus
Blood mute & autistic & cauterized & smuggled Mayan
& burned in border smelter tar
                    Could this be yours? Could this item belong to you?
                    Could this ticket be what you ordered, could it?
          Blood on the wheel, blood on the reel
          Bronze dead gold & diamond deep. Blood be fast.

Juan Felipe Herrera, “Blood on the Wheel” from Border-crosser with a Lamborghini Dream. Copyright © 1999 by Juan Felipe Herrera.  Reprinted by permission of University of Arizona Press.

Source: Border-crosser with a Lamborghini Dream (University of Arizona Press, 1999)

from http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learning/guide/244636#poem

 

 

 

Jen Hofer

on / with Antena / Antena Los Ángeles

presents:

¡El AntenaMóvil ya está instalado! Ven a nuestro evento bilingüe este sábado no solamente para compartir comida rica y conversación rica, sino también para ver/leer/comprar libros de muchas editoriales pequeñas y micros de Latinoamérica y Estados Unidos — incluyendo las maravillas locales Kaya Press, Phoneme Media, Ricochet Editions, Seite Books, y Writ Large Press. El Antenamóvil es un triciclo de carga adaptado, equipado con libros que están a la venta y para leer aquí. La selección se enfoca en obras bilingües y multilingües, textos en traducción y textos innovadores de escritorxs de razas marginadas.

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¡The AntenaMóvil is installed! Come to our bilingual event this Saturday not just to share delicious food and delicious conversation, but also to see/read/buy publications from many small and micro presses from Latin America and the U.S. — including local wonders Kaya Press, Phoneme Media, Ricochet Editions, Seite Books, and Writ Large Press. The AntenaMóvil is a retrofitted Mexican cargo trike stocked with books that are for sale and for reading on-site. The selection features bilingual and multilingual works, work in translation, and innovative texts by writers of color.

Justicia laboral alimentaria + Justicia del lenguaje: Un intercambio bilingüe
Food Labor Justice + Language Justice: A Bilingual Exchange
con / with Antena / Antena Los Ángeles, Cocina Abierta & ROC-LA
12 marzo / March 12
12pm – 3pm
Gratis / Free

Se proporcionará comida, pero si deseas, ¡trae una receta o un plato para compartir!
Food will be provided, but if you like, bring a recipe or a dish to shar e!
https://hammer.ucla.edu/antena12marzo/
Por favor RSVP / RSVP Please
(¡pero ven aunque no puedas RSVP! / ¡but come even if you can’t RSVP!)

Hammer Museum
10899 Wilshire Blvd
Los Angeles  CA  90024

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The Worker Body / El cuerpo trabajador, Cocina Abierta & ROC-LA, July 2015 / julio de 2015.
Photo/Foto: Heather M. O’Brien

Antena y Antena Los Ángeles, artistas en residencia con el programa de Public Engagement (Participación pública), junto con artistas, organizadorxs y trabajadorxs restauranterxs de la colectiva Cocina Abierta y El Centro de Oportunidades para Trabajadores de Restauranterxs de Los Ángeles (ROC-LA), invitan a lxs visitantes del Hammer a compartir comida, ideas y conversación en un espacio bilingüe. Les invitamos a escuchar las historias de trabajadorxs restauranterxs y posteriormente participar en un diálogo bilingüe durante una comida estilo familiar. Se proporcionará la comida, pero cualquier plato o receta que quieran traer será bienvenido.

¡Colabora compartiendo una receta para nuestro recetario! 

Las recetas que logre recolectarse serán utilizadas por Libros Antena Books para crear una pequeña publicación DIY (Do-It-Yourself o hazlo-tú-mismx), que será distribuida a todxs lxs participantes.

Public Engagement artists-in-residence Antena and Antena Los Ángeles, along with artists, organizers and restaurant workers from the Cocina Abierta collective and Restaurant Opportunities Center of Los Angeles (ROC-LA), invite Hammer visitors to share food, ideas, and conversation in a bilingual space. Visitors are invited to hear the stories of restaurant workers and afterward engage in bilingual dialogue over a family-style meal. Food will be provided, but feel free to bring a dish or recipe to share.

Participate by contributing a recipe for our recipe book! 

The collected recipes will be made into a small DIY publication by Libros Antena Books and distributed to all participants.

Jen also notes, NEWLY AVAILABLE:

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¡Ya salió la traducción de Estilo (Style) de la feroz escritora mexicana Dolores Dorantes! Puedes comprar el libro en Small Press Distribution o directo de Kenning Editions .

My translation of Estilo (Style) by the fierce Mexican writer Dolores Dorantes is out! You can by the book from Small Press Distribution or directly from Kenning Editions .

 

 

ucla la poetry symposium

  • Pomona College
  • Ena Thompson Reading Room
  • 140 W. Sixth Street

Acclaimed Los Angeles poet, novelist and current visiting Pomona College Creative Writing Instructor Sesshu Foster reads from his work. Sesshu won a 2010 American Book Award and a 2009 Asian American Literary Award for World Ball Notebook. His book Atomik Aztex won the 2005 Believer Book Award, and his poems have been included in several anthologies.

http://www.pomona.edu/events/reading-sesshu-foster

camp ufo

 

https://gorskypress.bandcamp.com/track/sesshu-foster-reads-new-and-old-poems

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In front of a live audience at Book Show on October 30, 2015 in Los Angeles, CA as part of Vermin on the Mount, an irreverent reading series hosted by Jim Ruland.

 

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