Mystery of evils

After El Gran Silencio “Lo que el viento a juarez” Y
Analog Pussy “Molecular”

I.
My instinct blooms CHLOROPHYLL SUMMER. The portal to my dreams (((RECOILS))).
Voices & flies infest the altar. Greasy dinner—Tachycardia––SUNDAY SCARIES––thru the
skeleton of the city, 100MPH Fibula Noth, past the rocky ligaments of the valley. My knee picks
up speed; realigns the vertebrae; til it breaks down in the alleys of the waistline.
My body hangs from a hydraulic elevator paralyzed by an army of mechanical men with
screwheads for fingers. They stretch their motorized arms to tear out my hair and my teethiiii!!!
Muammar Gaddafi’s 600 runs; stares. Richard Nixon gets out, sweating smoke. Total losses of
the past. Enemies of good taste.
I-5 vampires drive Shadow 86 convertibles. They suck the oil out my veins. Free the bottleneck
and leave a trail, roadrage red. I can hear the crunching juice of my fried body in every bite.
II.
High schools burn and I keep failing Algebra 2. means no diploma.me no pass my driving
test.me no write no more. Eric Clapton joins the rehearsal but I can’t remember the chords in this
flat acoustics gym. My bald friends got lost in the locker labyrinths. Their faces attempt a break-
in. They too, are fleeing. They flee the uniformed. I also fear humanity but I prefer to fear alone.
Body parts hail down on the belly of the moon. The ashes of the Popo bless la torre
latinoamericana. Mi santisíma hovers over the metal sky. Like a sphinx moth, the color of dry
grass between my legs. Memento mori––we rise into the void; into the warm yawn of a neutered
street dog as she cracks up in the other room

Damn junkie
DJ of my automatic
Torment.

Moteado Manifesto

Seek a friend to share a joint with. Be the force of change only after you’ve inhaled.
Never write a poem while high after midnight or its verses will fade in the aleph.
Pay your respects at the Chicano Marin Center no matter the hole you came out of.
Remind poets that no matter how hard they stare at the moonlight it still won’t fix their writer’s
block.
If you teach, your little ones must memorize the poison act of 1913 and should know that their
brown cousin in Florida could get deported for ripping one at the park.
Red or blue don’t matter cause they don’t legalize it, the white house is afraid of canna-bliss
consciousness for the people. They say it’s the second biggest threat after communism.
Cottonmouth is a sign of devotion––drink promptly when the water has turned into wine.
When the music’s over place your hand over your heart and feel the groovin drum beat move
through your body.
Give a Mexican a gallo and they’ll hit the streets preaching puro amor y paz carnales. Mexicans
smoke gallos to heal colonizer wounds, gozar cumbia, bailar quebraditas, and prove that THC is
la molecula de dios but this pinchi government will always deny it.
Auto-combust those limbs on your nearest couch and close your eyes as you blow out the smoke
or cataracts will invade the round black dialated pools of your face and age your blushing earth
mounds of innocence. Inevitably so.
Always get high on your own supply, stay draggin and pass it down before dozing off.
Get your head out of the clouds and never forget: you are the constellation, not just the sun,
baby.
Poets that just want to write weed poems should choose a different path in life; there are too
many of them claiming they’re lost.

Iván Salinas is a Mexican writer & zinester based in the San Fernando Valley. He is the co-founder of Drifter Zine and Paloma Press. His writings and translations have appeared in Revista Generación, The Acentos Review, Mobile Data Mag, Broken Lens Journal, The Ana, and elsewhere. Iván is Programs Manager at Beyond Baroque, the oldest literary arts center in Los Angeles.