happy new years

Comunicado:

“Porque l@s anarquistas somos prácticamente prácticos…

Mediante el siguiente escrito reivindicamos la autoria de las explosiones que tuvieron lugar en diferentes puntos de la república mexicana:

1. San Luis Potosi: La explosión de un artefacto en un cajero de Banamex ubicado en las calles Jose galvez y la carretera a Queretaro.
2. Coacalcalco, Estado de Mexico: Una artefacto explosivo fue detonado en una agencia de Nissan.
3. Ciudad Nezahualcoyotl: Un artefacto explosivo fue detonado a las afueras de una sucursal de Telmex.
4. Toluca : Una bomba fue colocada y detonada el cajero de un banco BBVA-BANCOMER- ubicado en Isidro Favela y Gomez Farias. ACLARAMOS QUE NO SE DEJO NINGUNA PINTADA O PAPEL Y MUCHO MENOS CON LA FRASE “EUROPA COMUNISTA”.
5. Metepec, Toluca: Detonación de un artefacto explosivo compuesto de cantidades limitadas dinamita y anfo en el cajero de Banamex ubicado en avenida Tecnologico en donde tampoco dejamos ningún mensaje.
6. Milpalta Df: Colocación de un artefacto explosivo que no funciono debido a una falla en su elaboración.
7. Iztapalapa DF: Detonación de un artefacto explosivo en un cajero de un Banamex ubicado en la colona juan Escutia y avenida Zaragoza.
8. Tlanepantla, Estado de mexico: Detonación de otro artefacto explosivo en una agencia de coches Fort.
9. Atizapan, Estado de mexico: Explosión de un artefacto en una entrada de rastro municipal.

Lo ocurrido hoy es una pequeña muestra de que dentro de nuestras filas no ha penetrado el miedo, sino al contrario, nuestro odio a su sistema ha crecido enormemente por muchas razones: las torturas y detenciones a jóvenes que simpatizan con la idea libertaria, por la burla a nuestro pueblo que con esta “crisis” actual nos mantienen sobreviviendo en la miseria, no conformes se atreven a despedir a miles de trabajadores condenándolos al hambre y al olvido, por haber orillado a l@s campesin@s a morir de hambre con la entrada del T.L.C., por haber matado y desaparecido a mas de 60 personas en el conflicto oaxaqueño del 2006, por el brutal desalojo de la colonia mano con mano en Tampico, y , por hasta la fecha, seguir masacrando a campesinos e indígenas al sur del país. Por el asesinato de la naturaleza mediante la producción de maquinas no utiles para la condición humana, por el indiscriminado asesinato de animales para alimentar su sistema capitalista. Con estos motivos podríamos llenar hojas y hojas tanto de abusos como de burlas a la clase desposeída…”

Brigadas de Acción Revolucionaria por la Propaganda por el Hecho y la Acción Armada “Simon Radowsky”.

Comando de Ajusticiamiento 25 de mayo de 1910.*

*El 25 de mayo de 1910 una cuadrilla de revolucionaro@s anarquistas del PLM atacaron el tren donde viajaba el tirano de Días, lanzaron dinamita y se enfrentaron con los militares que cuidaban al tirano. Para ellos era claro: No iban a dejar ir con vida al dictador que tanto sufrimiento le causo al pueblo de mexico.

http://conspira1970.wordpress.com

guatemala images

pesadillas of my mother in combat

she promised not to shoot (maybe they all did, once)

the dream ends with warm, sticky blood

from frida kahlo´s painted deer, caught in the crossfire.

at the guatemalan casino, an hbo advertisement takes inspiration

from the images of disappeared people,

while the real images are so dangerous they are only put up at night,

by small roving packs of graffiti artists.

and at the church by the market i think a mother asked me to bless her child

by pushing the girl´s head into my stomach

and not leaving until i touched her.

credo

De pronto uno se aleja
de las imágenes queridas
amiga
quedás frágil en el horizonte
te he dejado pensando en muchas cosas
pero ojalá pienses un poco en mí

vos sabés
en esta excursión a la muerte
que es la vida
me siento bien acompañado
me siento casi con respuestas
cuando puedo imaginar que allá lejos
quizá creas en mi credo antes de dormirte
o te cruces conmigo en los pasillos del sueño

está demás decirte que a esta altura
no creo en predicadores ni en generales
ni en las nalgas de miss universo
ni en el arrepentimiento de los verdugos
ni en el catecismo del confort
ni en el flaco perdón de dios

a esta altura del partido
creo en los ojos y las manos del pueblo
en general
y en tus ojos y tus manos
en particular.

en las fauces de la muerte

“Once they met at a teashop: she was wearing a red sweater with short sleeves, and her bare arms glowed red by her sides. She hadn’t any make-up on, the first time he’d seen her so. Walking to the car, she takes his hand and puts it, for a moment, lightly between her moving legs. Roger’s heart grows erect, and comes. That’s really how it feels. Up sharply to skin level in a V around his centerline, washing over his nipples…it is love, it is amazing…

With her hair pulled back of her ears, her soft chin in profile, she looks only 9 or 10, alone by windows, blinking into the sun, turning her head on the light counterpane, coming in tears, child’s reddening wrinkling face about to cry , going oh, oh…

One night in the dark quilt and cold refuge of their bed, drowsing to and fro himself,  he licked Jessica to sleep. When she felt his first warm breaths touch her labia, she shivered and cried like a cat. Two or three notes, it seemed, that sounded together, hoarse, haunted, blowing with snowflakes remembered from around nightfall. Trees outside sifting the wind, out of sight the lorries forever rushing down the streets and roads, behind houses, across canals or river, beyond the simple park. Oh and the dogs and cats that went padding in the fine snow…”

Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow

these are the things we write about- the warm bodies we cling to in timeless train stations, where love becomes a slobbering muttering one syllabled confession we toss back and forth, drunk on this- the never-abandoned yellow lights, the trains we ride in circles following ghosts, following the hands of mute clocks buried deep in attics, the limbs we forget so easily, lose track of above the rising dust, those goddamn eyelashes, so long and black like the legs of preserved caterpillars, the ever so unknowable face you turn away from me to walk into trains, into dark mouths without teeth that carry you far away.

i am a child walking in ruins, clean and clear and unable to feel but through trivial, magnificent stories that i tell even as i live them, before i live them, if there is even a time in which i live them apart from the telling… and how did i ever convince myself it was otherwise? could i go “back” and convince myself again, believing in purpose or a movement towards, a fight and a capitalism and a love? the girl who shook in the seat next to me at the little church where i sang hymns in malagasy and how she seemed to stop breathing and die beside me. and then to rise again, smiling toothily, a grin, before we all processed out, everyone knowing but no one saying what it meant- a sickness, a spiritual sickness from the outside. to have a sickness, a lunacy, a diagnosis. melodramas and tasks and schedules written in a book kept near. the man vomiting blood against a green so pure i only dream it now and tell myself i’ve dropped acid. psychedelics made it all so acceptable in its fucked up desert suburbia- lucidity without the hangover wide-eyed terror of it just being the way it is, and ever and ever until i die-and even to ponder it is a halting incomprehensibility, the ending of these words, of all of this happening, the happening striking happening eternally into silence, better things falling or burning- the apocalypse is a grand relief, a “fitting” end, for there are so few fitting ends except for all of them, for what is it fitting? movement and noise and skin that is far more flammable than stone or steel can only be fittingly ended by a small twinge, a match or a misstep, silence to silence again and again. and still there is a safety in this room, a childhood room, voices i remember make me want to cry and nothing else does- not even anxiety or being hurt make me want to cry, they make me want to run but before i do i already know there is nowhere to go but anywhere and that’s empty, once scary, now justly there- factual. why don’t i cry? are even tears estranging? the leaking-out, the fluids we put in cups and then leak out? there is a sadness to the everyplace that is not a crying sadness. it isn’t a story sadness either. it isn’t the sadness of lovers leaving or of death (though i have never felt the sadness of a close death, and that too is a kind of sadness. the never having felt kind). it is a sadness that makes me blink and turn away, that makes me want to sit small in a small, warm space, like a womb-away-from-womb, and hum quietly, for there is all the time and space in the world, for now. just for now.

dream

i was tripping on acid with my friend andrew and some more guys i didn’t know. we were in a cabin in a beautiful brilliant green and blue skied forest, such yellow sun. the colors were so clear and bright, and i knew in the dream that part of the visual experience was because of the drug (even though i’ve never dropped acid, or don’t recollect ever doing so). the boys and andrew were playing cards inside, and i started to get really anxious- i needed to get outside badly, into the sun and the forest. andrew told me it would be disrespectful to leave the cabin, as the guys had given us the acid, and they didn’t want us to leave the house. i just got more and more anxious and kind of paranoid, and andrew tried to offer me a peanut butter pot brownie but i said i couldn’t mix my drugs, it would be too much. then i started noticing that my tactile sensations were really interesting and intense. at one point my lips started vibrating warmly while i was speaking, and i was really excited. finally we got outside, i was playing with some girls and all the while pretending i wasn’t tripping. at one point a truck with guatemalan soldiers in the back drove by and i started to get really nervous about them knowing that i was fucked up on lsd. also someone found a louse in someone’s hair and i got really nervous. i took a bar of castille soap and just started rubbing it indiscriminately in my dry hair so it covered my scalp because i thought the tea tree oil would keep the lice away. my hair was all greasy and knotted so i just tied it back.

when i woke up i’m pretty sure i had a fever, and i felt as if i’d been awake for most of the dream, unawares of the dreaming.

our apocalypse

i had a dream of a sunset-colored swaying of bodies furiously protesting in a city i believed was san francisco. beside them a store and its beautiful old silver lettered sign- photography. and there was so much hope in the ever-impending collective collapsing of the streets and i knew it with such astonishment but also a striking lucidity (very much struck me as an instant of knowing), with the clarity of revelations i’ve only experienced while high and usually forgotten- that things had been ruined and were still ruining and we were joyful.

the next day i started to get an estranged feeling that led me to focus on mouths more than voices and so to separate them and to wonder at their attachment to begin with, that easy attachment of sound to its origin. i started to read about “constant deja vu.” the only deja vu i’ve ever experienced has nothing to do with me- it’s this terrifying sense that the world has already seen itself happening, every moment on and on into infinity, and i’m in it but helpless, moving as a young but ancient, eternal event (and oh god how i wish i didn’t know…) so everything became conspiratorial again as the day went, and i wondered how much of it had to do with the dream (the last part i remembered was smoking hash with two young girls).

austin is a convergence.

I thought of my friends from one end of the country to the other and how they were really all in the same vast backyard doing something so frantic and rushing-about…