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 shunned by strangers...

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 their unarmed...

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 of the gloomiest...