Leave It All, Once More.
--Soviet science fiction writers scratching their faces at midnight.
--The infrasuns (Drummond would say happy proletarian boys).
--Solitary Peguero and Boris in a lumpen room foreseeing the wonder behind the door.
Who has crossed the city and for music only had the whistling of his kindred, his own words of amazement and rage?
The beautiful guy who didn't know that girls' orgasms are clitoral.
(Look for it, not only in museums is there shit.) (A process of individual museification.) (Certainty that everything is named, revealed.) (Fear of discovery.) (Fear of unforeseen imbalances.)
Our closest relatives: sharpshooters, lone rangers who destroy the Chinese coffee shops of Latin America, the broken in supermarkets, in their huge individual-collective quandaries; the impotence of acting and of seeking out (at individual levels quite muddied in aesthetic contradictions) poetic acts.
Small stars full of light winking an eye at us eternally from a place in the universe called The Labyrinths.
--Dance-Club of misery
--Pepito Tequila weeping for his love of Lisa Underground.
--Suck it to her, suck yourself, let's all suck it.
--And the Horror.
Curtains of water, cement or tin separate a cultural machinery, which doesn't care if it serves as conscience or ass for the dominant class, as a living cultural event, screwed, constantly dying or being born, unaware of a large part of history and the fine arts (daily creator of its crazy history and amazing vine harts), body that for now experiences within itself new sensations, product of an epoch in which we move at 200 kph toward the shithole or the revolution.
"New forms, rare forms," as old Bertolt would say somewhere between curious and chuckling.
Sensations don't come from nowhere (most obvious of obviousness), but rather from a reality conditioned, in a thousand ways, to a constant flow.
--Multiple reality, you make us dizzy!
That way it's possible, on the one hand, to be born, and on the other we are in the front row of the last straws. Forms of living and forms of dying swirl daily through the retina. Their constant crashing gives life to infrarealist forms. THE EYE OF TRANSITION.
Put the whole city in a madhouse. Sweet sister, tank howls, hermaphrodite songs, desert diamonds, we will only live once and the visions each day thicker and more slippery. Sweet sister, car rides to Monte Alban. Fasten your seatbelts because the cadavers are getting watered. One missing move.
And good bourgeois culture? The academy and the fire starters? The avant-gardes and their rear guards? And certain concepts of love, nice landscapes and the precise, multinational Colt?
As Saint-Just said to me in a dream I had some time ago: even the heads of aristocrats can work as weapons.
A good chunk of the world goes about being born and another one dying, and we all know we all have to live or all die: there is no middle ground on this.
Chirico says: it is necessary for thought to move away from all that is called logic and good sense, that it gets away from all human hindrances in such a way that things appear under a new aspect, as if lit up by a constellation appearing for the first time. The infrarealists say: let's stick our head in all human hindrances, in such a way that things begin to move within one, an awesome vision of mankind.
--The Constellation of the Beautiful Bird.
--Infrarealists propose indigenism to the world: a crazy, shy Indian.
--A new lyricism that begins to grow in Latin America, to brace itself in ways that don't cease to surprise us. The entry to the material is the entry to adventure: the poem as journey and the poet as hero revealing heroes. Tenderness as an exercise in speed. Breathing and heat. Experience shot off, structures devouring themselves, crazy contradictions.
If the poet is intruded, the reader will have to intrude as well.
"erotic books with no spelling."
There precede us A THOUSAND CHOPPED UP AVANT-GARDES IN THE SIXTIES.
99 flowers opened like an open head.
The massacres, the new concentration camps.
The white underground rivers, violet winds.
It's hard times for poetry, some say, drinking tea, or listening to music in their apartments, speaking with (listening to) the old masters. It's hard times for mankind, we say, heading back to the barracks after a day full of shit and tear gas, discovering/ creating music even in apartments, looking long at cemeteries-that-grow, where the old masters desperately drink a cup of tea or get drunk out of sheer anger or inertia.
HORA ZERO precedes us
((if you lie with zambos you will wake up with knees))
We are still in the Quaternary Period. Are we still in the Quaternary Period? Pepito Tequila kisses the glowing nipples of Lisa Underground and watches her walk into the distance along a beach where black pyramids spring up.
The poet as hero revealing heroes, as a fallen red tree announcing the beginning of the forest.
--The attempts at a coherent ethics-aesthetics are paved with betrayals or pathetic survivals.
--And an individual could walk a thousand kilometers but in the end the path eats him up.
--Our ethics is the Revolution, our aesthetics, Life: one-single-thing.
The bourgeois and the petit bourgeois are always partying. They have a party every weekend. The proletariat doesn't have a party. Just funerals with rhythm. That is going to change. The exploited will have a great party. Memory and guillotines. To intuit it, act it out certain nights, invent wet edges and corners, it's like caressing the acidic eyes of the new spirit.
Shifting of the poem crossing the seasons of uprisings: poetry producing poets producing poems producing poetry. Not an electric alleyway/ the poet with arms separated from the body/ the poems edging slowly away from its Vision of its Revolution. The alleyway is a multiple point. "We are going to invent to discover its contradiction, its invisible forms of denying itself, until clearing it up." Shifting of the act of writing through places not at all apt for the act of writing.
Rimbaud, come home!
To subvert the daily reality of current poetry. The chaining that leads to a circular reality of the poem. A good reference: crazy Kurt Schwitters. Lanke trr gll, or, upa kupa arggg, become the official line, phonetic researchers codifying the howl. The bridges of the Noba Express are anti-codifying: let it shout, let it shout (please don't pull out a pencil and paper, don't record it, if you want to participate, join in the shouting), so let it shout, let's see how it reacts when it's done, what other incredible thing we move on to.
Our bridges toward ignored stations. The poem interrelating reality and the unreal.
What can I ask of current Latin American painting? What can I ask of the theater?
It is more revealing and visual to stand in a park demolished by smog and watch the people cross the avenues in groups (which shrink and expand), when both pedestrians as well as drivers have to get back to their storage closets, and it's the time of day when killers emerge and the victims follow.
Really, what stories do painters tell me?
The interesting void, fixed form and color, best-case scenario, the parodying of movement.
Canvases that are just luminous advertisements in the rooms of engineers and physicians who are collectors.
The painter gets comfortable in a society that is with each passing door more "painter" than he himself, and that is where he is found disarmed and signs up as a clown.
If a painting by X is found on some street by Mara, that painting takes on the category of something fun and connecting; in a salon it is as decorative as the iron chairs of the bourgeois garden/ matter of retina?/ yes and no/ but it would be better to find (and for a while to haphazardly systematize) the detonating, classist, one-hundred-percent purposeful factor of the artwork, in juxtaposition with the values of "artwork" which precede it and condition it.
--The painter leaves the studio and ANY status quo and goes headfirst into the wonder/ or he sets to playing chess like Duchamp/ A didactic painting for painting itself/ And a painting of poverty, free or fairly cheap, unfinished, of participation, of questioning the participation, of unlimited physical and spiritual scope.
The best painting in Latin America is the one still done at unconscious levels, playing, partying, the experiment that gives us a real vision of what we are and opens us up to what we are capable of will be the best painting of Latin America is the one we paint with greens reds and blues on our own faces, in order to recognize ourselves in the unending creation of the tribe.
Try leaving it all daily.
May the architects stop building stages inward and may they open their hands (or ball them into fists, it depends on the place) toward that outside space. A wall and a roof become useful not just when they are for sleeping or avoiding the rain, but rather when they establish, starting, for example, with the daily act of sleeping, conscious bridges between mankind and his creations, or the momentary impossibility of these.
For architecture and sculpture, the infrarealists start with two points: the barricade and the bed.
The true imagination is that which dynamites, elucidates and injects emerald microbes of other imaginations. In poetry and all things, the becoming material has to be a becoming adventure. To create tools for the daily subversion. The subject seasons of the human being, with their beautiful giant and obscene trees, like experimental laboratories. To fasten, to catch a glimpse of parallel situations as heart-wrenching as a great scratch across the chest, across the face. Endless analogy of gestures. They are so numerous that when new ones appear we don't even notice, even as we make them/ looking in the mirror. Stormy nights. Perception is opened by means of an ethics-aesthetics carried out to the end.
The galaxies of love are appearing in the palms of our hands.
--Poets, loosen your braids (if you have them).
--Burn your crap and start loving until the incalculable poems arrive.
--We don't want kinetic paintings, but rather enormous kinetic sunsets.
--Fire squirrels jumping from fire trees.
--A bet between the nerve and the sleeping pill to see who blinks first.
Risk is always elsewhere. The true poet is the one who is always abandoning himself. Never too much time in one place, like guerilla fighters, like UFOs, like the white eyes of prisoners serving a life sentence.
Fusion and explosion of both shores: creation like a graffiti resolved and opened by a crazy child.
Nothing mechanical. The scales of amazement. Someone, maybe Hieronymous Bosch, breaks the aquarium of love.
Free money. Sweet sister. Light visions of cadavers. Little boys slicing up December with kisses.
At 2 AM, after being at Mara's house, we (Mario Santiago and some of us) hear laughter coming out of the penthouse of a 9-story building. It didn't stop, they laughed and laughed while downstairs we fell asleep leaning on various phone booths. There came a moment when only Mario kept paying attention to the laughter (the penthouse is a gay bar or something like that and Dario Galicia had told us that it's always staked out by the cops). We were making phone calls but the coins turned to water. The laughter continued. After we left that neighborhood Mario told me that actually nobody had laughed, it was all canned laughter and up there, in the penthouse, a small group, or maybe just one homosexual, had listened to the recording in silence and had made us listen to it.
The death of the swan, the last song of the swan, the last song of the black swan, are not in the Bolshoi but rather in the unbearable pain and beauty of the streets.
--A rainbow that starts in a bad-luck movie theater and that ends in a factory on strike.
--May amnesia never kiss us on the mouth. May it never kiss us.
--We were dreaming of utopia and woke up screaming.
--A poor lone cowboy returning home, which is a marvel.
To make new sensations appear--To subvert every-dayness
LEAVE IT ALL, ONCE MORE
HIT THE ROAD
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|Date:||Jun 22, 2017|
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