Friday, June 13, 2014

Silent Auction- Home Page

Vinyl Art Pieces
Item Number
Noah Kessler

7” Vinyl Figurine
Lisa De St. Croix

7” Vinyl Figurine
Emily M. Sperry

7” Vinyl Figurine
Liz Sanquiche

7” Vinyl Figurine
Miriam Saba

7” Vinyl Figurine

7” Vinyl Figurine
Paul Robinson, a.k.a. “Mostly Harmless”

7” Vinyl Figurine
Warren Montoya

7” Vinyl Figurine
Rudy WL Montoya

7” Vinyl Figurine
Mendy Mills

7” Vinyl Figurine on a 6 foot Frame
Ria Mazumdar and Enlace Comunitario

18” Vinyl Figurine
Gabriel Eloy Martinez “GEM”

7” Vinyl Figurine
Samantha Huynh

7” Vinyl Figurine
Cyrus Moses Gould

7” Vinyl Figurine
Michael Gates

7” Vinyl Figurine

Joel Henry, a.k.a. “Bearface”

7” Vinyl Figurine
Savannah Bustillo

7” Vinyl Figurine
Nick Griffith

2.5” Vinyl Figurine

Poem Number

Natalia Trevino

Levi Romero
Adam Rubinstein
Liz SanQuiche
Irene Lara Silva

Natalia Trevino
Carlos Contreras
Jessica Helen Lopez

Tony Mares


Silent Auction- Poem- Outside the Margins

Outside the Margins
Anonymous, 2014

We have set aside our primeval brethren.
They were the first children to utter the names of light and dark
And now they are discarded by the same tongues that named them.
Each one, as they slouch beyond the gates of oblivion turns to us
They ask what they have done to be forgotten
But we do not hear them.
They say their names and the echoes shake the girders of belief
                                And yet we do not hear them.
“I am the tongue of Eden,
I am Yggdrasil, the world tree,
I am Fuerza, who stood at your door on your naming day
I am pride’s light, I am Ra, who is always inside you
I am the Seven of Wands,
I am the living wound; I am the name of broken homes,
I am the repository of unrequited love,
I am quicksand and I am dignity,
I am the forced smile and I am the historical rape,
I am the fields of kindness, I am eager, and yet I am the ashes that mark the first birds,
I am desperation and I am consumed,
I am the barbed wire; I am Odin’s wheelchair,
I am the purchased, a hole in utopia’s gutter,
I am the electric ether, I am anonymity,
I am the stillborn, the unpretty color,
I am the yucca that baptized the oldest stones,
I am the first to sit on the throne of poverty,
I am the Guardian of Oppression.”

And despite the call of these ancient names
                                We do not hear them.
We betray them and send them one step beyond their own names.
One day in shame, we shall all discover that we are all there too.

We will one day learn that we are pilgrims of a common exile.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Silent Auction- Poem- The Legend of the Scarecrow

The Legend of the Scarecrow

Once upon a time
crows flapped around the scarecrow
macaws, parrots, blue herons,
birds of every hue had no use
for the scary stand-in for humans
scarecrow didn’t like it
the birds are okay he said
I want to be their friend

okay said the humans until
they dropped their smiles
tortured and killed the scarecrow

one blind crow saw it happen
remembered he’d squawked
at the friendly scarecrow
he saw it all, he repented

there was general mourning in birdland
they knew they’d made a mistake
so the crows dressed in black
the macaws, the parrots, the blue herons
all dressed in black

now we grope our way in the sunless
bombed out world we live in
we dress in black inside ourselves
once upon a time is now

Tony Mares

Silent Auction- Poem- The Bodysmooth Consumer is a Woman

The Bodysmooth Consumer is a Woman
Jessica Helen Lopez

For we are all factory with smooth metal legs and consumable parts
Necks like smokestacks and Bic blades pink on a frosty Sunday morning
We are sexy consumers and passive violent offenders, sleek credit card swipe and mad jangle of the gold coin rising.  We are third world racketeers. The bodysmooth consumer of a first world woman.

We are debt and glory.  We are wrinkle free foreheads and frozen crow’s feet.
We have no time for time.

For we are hot breath hangover and hot yoga class two for one
so we take our best hung over friend and sip Bloody Mary’s post-bliss

For we are all about dancing on barstools and kissing cigarettes into ring shaped smoke. We are ass shake and bend-over-hos. We are bendable.

For we wear ladders for shoes and tower over our competitors. 
We are stealth and young forever.

Praise the artificial breast and its swooning sloshing beauty.  The rhinoplasty and the third
first world nose job. Admire the toe worship. The bejeweled cuticle.  The summer diet.  The winter diet.

The spinach puree cleanse.  Admire the summer house in the Hamptons. The ski season in the Aspens.

The Mexican maid.  The Korean maid. The Honduran maid.  The Venezuelan maid. 
The breast milk by proxy.

Praise the glitter song. The tiara.  The sexy five-year olds on parade.  The barroom brawl lyrics and the maddening microwaves and UV lighting. Keep clipping coupons girl.  You are almost there.

You are 957 Ways to Turn Him On.  You are 101 Recipes for a Skinny Bitch. You are the latest anti-aging technology. You are obsession.  You are infatuation.  You are beautiful neurosis.

For we are Summer’s Eve mask-the-smell make-overs. The polite douche bottle beneath the bathroom sink. The tucked-away tampons.  We are hairless bodies and waxed, tucked, plucked, fucked, goosed, and chemical peel. We are overcrowded mouth and bleached cusped.

This is for all the women whose hearts hum electric.
Whose hearts are shrink wrapped cadavers.
Whose hearts have been deodorized.

We who palpitate with key strokes and Facebook posts. We who stir with caffeinated online purchases.  We who gulp pharmaceuticals and green-eyed margaritas. We who haunt drug stores and strip malls.

Go to sleep.

Sleep. Sleep soft. 
Sleep hard.  All the signs are mounting.
They point to sleep.  The mellifluous halo of stillness.
The small explosions behind the eyelids like white static chrysanthemums.

Your middle name isn’t happy hour. It isn’t Eau de Parfum. You are not your nervous breakdown.

You are 200,000 years of slanted rain.  You are Lilith rising, bald and golden-headed baby. You are Thought Woman and a satchel of eggs webbed to your eighth leg.   You are the squall and thunderous storm.

Your femur, the longest mile. Your body, anything but smooth, and never a factory.
Never a cog or mechanic fulcrum. Never a this for a that.

We are rough-patch hewn of the fossil.  The calcified woman.

We were here first.

Silent Auction- Poem- Swallowed


What does it mean
to be figured out of the picture
Missing as if I wasn’t a figure at
a figment, of imagination.
Even when I have one… an imagination,
that is. I can believe myself to be better
than the collective thoughts
that amount to nothing, when folks
see me, or better yet, don’t – as exactly, that.

There is little that can be said for nothing,
and I am something more than
this: a lot to say, I might add.
If you’d only listen to my story,
rather than choosing not to even
Hear me.

Swallowed by a system with teeth
of concrete and steel – still, I fight
from within the belly of this beast,
to not become one, myself. Devoured
by the isolation of cinderblock and the
cacophonous sounds of what bounces
off correctional facility bars and walls -

Silent, I am not – silenced I will not be
and so when the time comes and it is
loud with the chaos of thoughts
and lack of compassion when I ration
my emotions and return them to you,
like clothes that did not fit,
when I give sadness and silence
absence and disregard back,
like returned presents I need not play
with…. What will you do then?

Possibly nothing -
but find another person to forget
another body to throw behind walls
and lose the wonder about whether or not
they too will get any better – with little to
rely on but themselves.

I am, myself, an example of what happens
to over 2 million human beings when

We forget that they are exactly that. It’s a wrap -

my wrap sheet, a noose
the jury already executed me, with decisions,
because of decisions I made -
I will not die -
but what is alive, inside,
when nobody chooses to see me? 

Silent Auction- Poem- No Third Eye

No Third Eye

Your take my large green head and roll it in your mouth like it is a new kind of gumball.
And my eye at the end of my flowered tongue is not the third eye

they always talk about. It is not the first or second eye that floats at the front of my head.
Some dancers talk about the need to curl their toes and spin on a point,

the need to tell a story without words, without the locks our we wear
on our helmets.

Didn’t you know the grass in the field grew into your lungs
the day you flew that kite?

Didn’t you know I became this color because I had a thing for bees?
And I could tell you a thing or two about their fight. 

The day I saw the tree heavy with avocado growing out of that concrete slab--
The day we decided we had to let the tree go-- after its long service--

The day you held me at a distance because
you had an allergy to the gardens on my tongue--

that was when it came, that sole eye
the one that says

we are both awake.

Natalia Treviño

Silent Auction- Poem- Little House for Sale

excerpts from
Little House 4 Sale

A particle board sign leans from the dirt of Johnny’s front yard
against the Tuff Shed he converted to a loft, letters spray-painted red,
“Little House 4 Sale $7000”

This is home, a triangle plot bound by his father’s house,
the acequia, and a South Valley road without sidewalks.

County gave him six months to move.
Turns out he’s squatting on their land.

To think they never would have noticed if his dad
hadn’t pitched a roof on his cinderblock house—without a permit
blocking the neighbors’ view of the Sandias,
those neighbors who retired from somewhere back east (or was it California?)
on an acre in a fixer-upper that a from-here family couldn’t keep—or maybe they could
but why when you get more house on the west side and it’s new?
The same neighbors spent a year in and out of planning
and zoning just to build a higher fence around their property.

This is not Milagro. Our Johnny did not inherit a field of beans.
In this plot—setting: South Valley, ‘Burque, USA
the hero lives off the land
in a trailer park, halfway house, shed.
This is history.
In the beginning my land was your land was our land. We were made
to share—work, water, harvest. We were made
to relate—to each other, to this place. The elders say, “We didn’t know
we were poor.” The elders say, “Life was hard. All that work.”

This is math.
Land area is greater than cash flow.
Cash equals groceries. Cash equals car.
Land equals time. Land equals work.
Job equals cash, equals taxes, mortgage, and deed.
(Where deed does not equal water or mineral rights, land equals zero.)
Divide and subdivide. Sell.
Using the transitive property,
Land equals cash.  

Some on the margins never leave. They pitch a shed on a triangle of land
and the boundaries shift. You put your knees to the dirt, the whole world
in a squash blossom, and when you look up you find your two sisters ran
off with gabachos, sold out to developers, Daddy’s land is an apartment complex.

This state hit one hundred years.
We still don’t speak American. No value,
but in things.
We were not made for this.

Johnny says, When I sell the house, I’m gonna buy
me a trailer. I’m gonna buy me some land. Maybe
out there in the mountains.

One year later, the sign still leans against the shed, the price
dropped from seven thousand to five. Johnny smokes
on the stoop. Guess he figured out a way to stay. Guess
the county forgot him. These things never go
according to plan.

Ailent Auction- Poem- la frontera: aqui soñamos de mezcla

la frontera: aquí soñamos de mezcla

“In recent years it has become fashionable to write and talk about borders and borderlands, often metaphorically. It is important that we remember that borders are also real, physical places... (with) very tangible consequences for those living along the border.”
                                               -Yolanda Chavez-Leyva

we dream of home      
            and ‘to belong’
we dream of borders
            border crossings
of differences
            highways taking us ‘to’
                                    not ‘from’
transformations and symbols born anew

we forget the riverbeds
forget the desert childen,
cocooned by stilled motherbodies
            traincars hot then cold
            with breath and suffocation
bullets fired from anxious guns
ignorant of nationality or life
            graves sunken ten
            bodies deep
the gnarled branches and their
rope black ringed scars
            the quiet(?) cages of malnutrition
            miseducation   suspicion
on the border there are bodies

with these brown
                                                bodies we dream
of mezcla and mestizaje
melting braiding languages
we dream of fusion
believe in the fertility of chispas
the rolling inevitability of change
this land this sun this sky these hands

but don’t forget
            the border is littered
with bodies laying at crossed angles
a barbed wire fence of flesh
                                    and bone

Silent Auction- Poem- Home Sweet Home

Home Sweet Home

One day
they will realize, that you are not as solid
as the brick walls protecting them
once erected by the strength, and
the courage of your vital force.
Standing tall, you stood for
all the descendants
of a common ancestor.

Those countless brutal winters
take their toll, even on Giants.
Unintended consequences ignored
your weathered mortar crumbling, but still holding together beats
Beating whispers, of
your afflicted conscious.

Your soles should speak
exposing stories, of horrifying sensibilities
our ears never seeping, the
screaming whispers we choose to ignore
details traveling to our senses
your eyes, confessing the particulars
deep inflection, the
mirrored reflection of humanity.

Bitter is he, when
all the sweetness of life is torn away
Misery obscures judgment, yet
we judge him
he sleeps with torment
blanketed by hunger on a crisp night, yet
we torment him.
Passing him we look away
truth be told, with disdain
when his hand reaches out
terror stricken, a reminder
that HE IS US at out worst, yet
he smiles warmly, a sweet token, that
the richness of home is in the heart.

Silent Auction Poem- Blindspot

Blindspot - Adam Rubinstein
After Miss Haze

Dear brother,

I am writing because we are honest men. We’ve tasted our hearts
and know damn well
when we are lying. It’s because of this we know too well
there is a heart that counsels the heart, that suggests
we trample the floor
and scream about credit cards to keep our deeper darkness safe.

It’s just our fear: something we did not ask for
given to us in childhood. That we will be known completely; naked
and obviously lying.

I am writing, brother, because we are the only ones who think our nakedness
is hidden: this skin, this sex, this voice. Our power.

No human is free
of burdens: we all curse our parents or some younger moment
of ourselves. We all carry our bodies through the day,
and dread taxes.

But our friends make less than us and pay more. They’re exhausted.
They just want to negotiate only their own daily questions. We know this, and still

it’s in our blindspot.

When they tell us
we are not listening, we tell them to say it better, deeper
in this fine language we did not ask for and were given
as children.

So even as we agree
they are oppressed by men who look like us, we insist they tell their stories
like we do.

This is my darkness, brother, and yours.

And when they do
what we asked, we call it a hell of a poem. An act of aesthetics

we can compliment for how well it speaks to us.