Doomscrolling isn’t solidarity

By Maxochitl Cortez

I too doomscroll
scroll a screen of California fires
Texas floods
protests for black and brown kin
the news it flows too easy on the screen

I see
police brutality 
LA resisting protecting people 
picked up
piece

by       

piece

off
the     

streets
our streets

stories seep out of me
my language is documentation
not the kind of documents they want 
to see

how do you document a people 
carved from this land
back when my tiabuela’s cheekbones spoke 
of revolution

she reveals to me the stories 
in banned books
banned // barred // black // brown // bars  
our stories must be told

written down carved even 
                       into our skin 
like they have been carved 
                       into our DNA

our people are not trends 
hash tagging their #names 
is not enough
what is the liberation they 
yearned for
burned for

SAY THEIR NAME
repeat           

#repeat         

REPEAT
repeat           

#repeat         


          #LONGLIVETORTUGUITA

say her name 
your abuela, your tiabuela, your vis abuela. . .

what stories do they have stored 
                                                          frozen
                                                                      cold
                                                                                old
will the pages sit 
                        in your freezer too?
preserved to serve
or lay severed in the scorching sun 
that demands our salty sweat 


Maxochitl Cortez is Chichimekah and Coahuiltecan from the lands of Aridoamerica. They are a two spirit Indigenous Resistance Artist, Educator, and Community Organizer—using storytelling as a pathway for collective liberation. They are a host with every.Word poetry, a Black and Indigenous led spoken word organization in so called Austin, Texas. The seeds of their storytelling ask what liberation means, what we will do to get there for all people, and what narratives we honor during our path to healing. Find them on instagram @raya.maxochitl.

Photo credit: Felton Davis via a Creative Commons license.


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Duende and The Great Matter of Life-and-Death

By Karen Morris

 

Garcia Lorca called me last night (Before you get in a twist, he called you too.
You didn’t pick up.) He said, “Disappearance and Death are real.” I suggested he text
but, texting’s too flat for the poetics of death. “Sure,” you said to no one
out loud, ridding yourself of the bitter taste on your tongue.

I feel you quicken, slow drifting away. Turning the trail by checking the volume,
counting the likes, followers, following. Disappearance after disappearance. There’s no
way to count the air. You think you know death. The Day of the Dead is just
ink. Garcia Lorca called you last night. Your line was dead.

Playing at death in the House of Numb.
Ay! Valiant cruising Internet!
Ay! Needles nattering!

Garcia Lorca is calling from Portland. Pick up!
Pick up! You’ve disappeared again, strategized
a pretext. Blackout. Death

is instantaneous. Torture, endless. Hunger,
slow. Shit a scandal of humiliation. Torment
deeper than a half-life is long.

The afternoon is ordinary. You are about to take a next breath, to shoot
an email to your publisher that contains your manuscript, Daily Minutia. The server
is hungry for fresh insights. It drags your text into the nearest hog-
shaped cloud. You have no teeth to speak of.

You ponder atomic particle theory. Trying
to manifest reality,
bitch-slap the keyboard.

He called from the marshes of Satilla Shores where there’s no reception at all.

He called from Minneapolis through a busted windpipe to tell you of the mastermind.

He called from Louisville awakened by a battering ram.

He called from Portland choking out the names of vanished people.

He left you a message from Chicago about meeting up in Kansas City,

He said, blossoms fall on the Day of the Dead.
You are a dreaded weed about to be pulled.

 


Karen Morris received The Gradiva Award for Poetry (2015, NAAP) for her full-length collection CATACLYSM and Other Arrangements (Three Stones Press). Her poems have appeared in Chiron Review, Plainsongs, The Stillwater Review, Paterson Literary Review, SWWIM Everyday, and others. She is a psychoanalyst by profession and an Ambassador of Hope for Shared Hope International in the role of volunteer public educator concerning the impact of the commercial sex industry in the sex trafficking of children around the world. She is a cofounder of Two Rivers Zen Community in Narrowsburg, New York.

Image: David Alfaro Siqueiros Echo of a Scream, 1937, MOMA.

Here in the Future

By Keith Welch

The Future Ain’t What it Used to Be. –Yogi Berra

 

We were promised flying cars,
and condos on the moon, even
racial equality: all those great sci-fi gags.

Those were the glory days,
the Future. Everything polished
smooth and covered in chrome.

In the fifties, we had the scent
of unlimited progress in our
exceptional American nostrils—

the Future marched forward,
smelling of plutonium and plastic,
with just a hint of napalm. The Future
chanted loudly as it came on.

Then the sixties were assassinated
and we got the hard word,
written in blood: that much
optimism might be overly optimistic.

Welcome to the future, where flying
cars remain scarce, the moon remains
distant, and we have all the equality
our police will allow.

 


Keith Welch lives in Bloomington, Indiana where he works at the Indiana University Herman B Wells library. He has no MFA. He has poems published in The Tipton Poetry Journal, Open: Journal of Arts & Letters, Dime Show Review, and Literary Orphans, among others. He enjoys complicated board games, baking, talking to his cat, Alice C. Toklas, and meeting other poets. His website is keithwelchpoetry.com. On Twitter: @TheBloomington1.

Image Credit, “Modern Kitchen” by Mike Licht.