Ana Mendieta Visionary Works “My art is grounded on the belief in one universal energy which runs through everything; from insect to man, from man to spectre, from spectre to plant, from plant to g…
Source: Visionary works of Ana Mendieta
So she took a lover. (Or did the lover take her?)
So many years have passed between then
and now. It’s hard to sort it out.
The painting in the attic old and oozing.
The two of them are strangers now. She’s
grown a beard in solidarity with a dying dog.
Sandblast wind straight to the eye of god.
No more moisture, neither kind is welcome.
And isn’t the truth overrated anyway?
The universe sucked into its own black hole.
Nothingness and nowhere somewhere
on the other side of somethingness. Let us
give thanks for gravity, despite the bags
and sags and drooping downs. It’s not
the end of the universe after all. Gravity,
in the end, is our salvation. There on the lip
of nowhere, there where Gravity dons leotards,
a jock strap, and cape and saves the day. That is,
saves the universe. Some version of something
returns as we bounce higher, farther than the
reach of energy and matter. Begin again.
There was an old man named Michael
Finnegan. Dead so long ago, but the wake
continues. The infinite return of death.
Lust will resume after this break for station
identification. Only the shadow knows for sure.
The dying daddy wanted to know, what is love,
anyway? And she wonders as she wanders
through time and space if he ever knew the answer
before that last breath or at any time when young.
She wonders when will the widows ever learn, pity
is not love. Aid is not commitment. Lust dies.
The first question being answered,
there is nothing more to say.
Art by pd lyons
My poem Voices is the pre-publication weekly feature for Yellow Chair Review, and will be included in the first issue, which is coming soon. My thanks to founding editor and publisher, Sarah Frances Moran, for her generous support of my work, and wish her well with her new adventure in publishing.
From the painting “Matriarchal v. Patriarchal” and other art of Alfonso Valenzuela
A white angel eviscerates a woman the color of terracotta, an indigenous woman sterilized by a blue-eyed doctor, who forgot his oath to do no harm.
The politics of sterilization of los Indigenas, Latinas, Black Americans, and poor White women, raged well into the 1980’s, when almost 70% of Puerto Riqueñas in New Jersey had been sterilized. In the South, poor Black and White women faced the loss of food stamps if they did not agree to surgical excision of their ability to give birth. And in the Southwest, Indian Health Service doctors sterilized women without notice, much less informed, uncompelled consent.
There is a forgotten arm of the movement for reproductive rights, the right to choose to not give birth mirrored by the right to choose to do so, to expand a culture through flesh and blood rather than conquest, giving birth a direct rebuke to eugenics.
The artist captures all this history in a single canvas, its telling title, “Matriarchal v. Patriarchal,” a silent scream for the mutilation of a dark woman’s body beneath the chubby white cheeks and wings of a Rococo angel with blood on his hands.
Let the banners be raised. Coatlicue’s skirt of serpents sways on her heavy hips. Rigoberta Menchu’s face rises above a goddess body, a Pre-Columbian sphinx who saw the massacre of her people. When will the quetzal wings bring back the fair one, he who tricked the heavens to give the people word and song? When will the Jaguar’s roar unleash the trees to dance to drum and flute?
Today a dog chained to a fence died in San Elizario. Let us pray for our sins. Let us pray that Tlaloc hears our sorrow and brings down the rains once more. Let all creatures eat and drink and move freely about creation.
All people together.
Not one above the other.
All people free to choose.
The Ollin Marks the Spot
from the art of Alfonso Valenzuela, with many thanks
From Tlaloc to hydroponics
What’s new is old
What’s old is cutting edge
Feed the masses
even with all the earth paved
The rainforest guardians killed by rubber barons
The Turkish park turned into a parking lot
Paradise lost to concrete and poisoned air
But Tlaloc knows the secret to survival,
food stuff grown from water-fed roots
And Ehecatl whispers secrets into the future’s ear,
harness the wind and his power shall set us free
No more need for non-renewable resources
Hehecatl will never die
And Tonatiuh atones for blood sacrifices,
his rays converted to solar power to light our way
The ancient secrets an old map painted over
Three heads emerge from a giant cake
See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil
The beauty of the Earth’s potential captured in icons
The workers’ hands
once, now, and forever
the source of all bounty
despite their lives of strife
The ollin marks the spot
Two arms like a cross or an X
A day for movement
A day for the purified heart
When humans can see what they are becoming
A good day for change that “arrives like an earthquake”
Leaving behind “the ruins of rationality, order,
and preconceived” thought
 Ollin is one of the twenty days comprising each of the eighteen months of the Aztec year, as detailed in the great Sun Stone or Aztec Calendar. Roughly in the shape of an X, Ollin represents movement, “an auspicious day for the active principle. . . . A good day for transmutation, which arrives like an earthquake that leaves in its wake the ruins of rationality, order and the preconceived.” Aztec Calendar Day Sign Ollin http://www.azteccalendar.com/day/Ollin.html
Einstein’s failed search for the Theory of Everything A truth that mathematically reflects the universe Those poor Platonists so sure that numbers and equations are the true reality behind this pathetic reality we call here and now The ideal realm of which we mere psyches sense nothing but flickers and shadows Those special minds Their beautiful equations bring us multiplicities Multiverses and the immensity of black holes’ negativity A string that leads from this umbilicus mundi to that where sometimes a pipe is not just a pipe And time is not just a moment gone faster than the length of one’s lament