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Colmena (photo: arnoldo colibrí) In winter, my dreams dream themselves, the stories play on our beds And life is life again making love making to procreate the spring . . . Every season has her nights and days moons and disasters Every season depends on winter to rest to recover our voices to renew the roots of the spring that can never be stopped: The Palestine spring of humanity The revolution to become a human spring The spring of no borders, no wars, no prisons, no prolet

The seeds must be protected : Art by A.G. charcoal sketch in the tradition of Käthe Kollwitz (charcoal on paper 9x12” | 2003) The Bolshevik-Buddha Meditation Breath Put your feet apart a little wider than your shoulders, so you can bend your knees and sway from side to side, forward and backward, without losing your balance. Relax your hands, Take a deep breath, inhale slowly, deeply. Hold for a count of three. Then breathe out slowly (for a count of five) As you exhale slo

arnoldo colibrí: mano a mano, cariño (Pastel on paper; 24" x 18" | 2006) Cuerpo a cuerpo ¿Quien soy sin ustedes? ¿Quién son ustedes sin mí? Somos una teleraña que capta vientos y verbos palabras y puñetazos senderos y los sures de nuestras raíces moviles Soy y estoy hecho de la melancolía de las matriarcas Mi cuerpo no es frontera para patrullar ni écstasis para amurollar Es tu cuerpo que me despoja de la muerte Y me alivias la herida humana con tu lluvia terrenal Body to Bod

Stairwell. Mexico City | Escalera . Ciudad de México (2018). Foto: arnoldo garcía (c) Return I am going back to my grandfather’s land Where the rainforests shelter volcanoes and the disappeared. I am going back to my grandmother’s land (Her father fled that ancient place so old god would have visited to be served bread made of ashes). I am returning to ruins and people who sing the chorus of bullets piercing the lyrics of love. I am returning to be welcomed by ghosts and shun

Graffitti posters on wall; somewhere in Oakland ( photo: arnoldo colibrí) No one hardly praises our children till they’re shot down on the streets Desi’s mural did not ward off the bullets or the liquor stores that blew holes in the soft bodies of teenagers and the livers of hopelessness Hip hop has one more one less octosyllabic story to rhyme Now not even a street corner altar No candles No balloons No empty bottles of Hennessy no photographs no vigils Just the ghosts and

Sketch for the painting "Guitarrista in SCC" (8.5"x14" charcoal on paper; 1994) by arnoldo garcía el colibrí After Atahualpa Yupanqui The guitar, before it was a guitar, was a tree. And before the tree could become a guitar, the tree absorbed and meditated and learned and listened and allowed all the birds of the world and the forest to land on her branches. The tree learned all the songs and melodies sung by birds whether the day was cold, warm, sun-filled, blistering cold