Tuesday, March 24, 2026

Things falling apart, the center must hold on

Things Falling Apart, Be the Center

Michael Sedano


Raza are walking around with a dazed expression on their faces over the revelations of rape and sexual abuse by Cesar E. Chavez. The Chavez family’s response acknowledged their abject dismay and acknowledged the man’s crimes. That should put a finis to the controversy and remove the term “alleged” from the public discussion.

But no. Conspiracy theorists are writing crap like “why now?” and their addled readers scream “Yeah!” because, why not? Numerous writers jump into the fray rehashing the same ground as if repetition will make the truth less hurtful to themselves; their discourse contributes little to public knowledge and can have a deleterious impact on the writer's peace. Pax, gente, let us find the center and gather together.

It’s been a horrid week changing street signs, renaming schools, feeling shame for being duped. But that’s not all that’s falling apart.

The poetry community, too, has gotten entangled in pedo that may have been kicked off by the Chavez debacle. Over in Texas, a poet announces she’s pulling her book from Flowersong Press. Why? The announcement hints at dark news without sharing it. Pulling a book is a big deal. Flowersong Press is a big deal, among the nation's premier publishers of poetry.

In Southern California, another poet writes to describe a man’s abuse by his common-law wife. Stomach-turning examples of the man’s suffering--a noted poet-- get exacerbated by a group of “mean girl poets” whose presence at readings has some influence on the poetry community. Subversives chip away at the solid foundation that has grown since movimiento days. The movement lives, and it requires affirmation, reaffirmation, purification. Not the crap that's so easily penned and posted.

Things are falling apart. Mean girls, icons, bad stuff hinted at, conspiracy theories, rejectors of truth; these people are filled with passionate intensity. They’re not the worst—those are the MAGATs who rub their hands in gleeful schadenfreude seeing beautiful raza and allies cohesion being torn apart.

And what about the Epstein files? And a meaningless attack on Iran?

Things fall apart. Our best don’t lack conviction, and we are not whelmed by the crap these worst-of-us scatter into the winds hoping to ignite a conflagration, seeking to hold onto clearly failed hero worship, or simply to hear the sound of their own words.

Things come together when people make them come together. This is poetry month and the month of International Women’s Day. Poetry is a way of observing, making sense, being heard, of finding beauty and truth even as things fall apart.

A recent Saturday reading at the appropriately named El Tranquilo Gallery in the heart of Los Angeles’ Olvera Street, finds these truths to be evident if not self-evident. Four poets and a small audience gather to share longer poems celebrating womanhood, antipatriarchical insights, joy and protest in the context of love, not division. The afternoon’s readings offer not only respite but medicine.

La Bloga-Tuesday was there with camera in hand and would love to have some of the work to share in an online Floricanto. Ni modo. Poetry readings are meant to be seen and heard in person. These portraits of the writers capture key moments of expression by four superb writers and performers. They include Jennifer Baptiste, Rio Diaz, and Andrea Lee. Lupe Montiel, organized the event.  

The gallery walls create an arresting ambiente for the reading. The show, “She Rises, Women of Strength and Beauty,” curated by Ginette Rondeau, features women artists whose work exemplifies the exhibition’s title. In fact, the poets read in front of a large Margaret Garcia canvas that reflects the strength and beauty of the words and the readers themselves.

Portrait Gallery in the Gallery

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Jennifer Baptiste

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Rio Diaz



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Andrea "Coach" Lee

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Lupe Montiel

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Sunday, March 22, 2026

“Equinoccio” por Xánath Caraza

“Equinoccio” por Xánath Caraza

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Xanath Caraza

El equinoccio de primavera de 2026 empezó el 20 de marzo a las 9:46 de la manñana. Hoy, para celebrar el equinoccio de primavera de este año, les comparto un poema originalmente escrito en español que forma parte de mis poemarios Sílabas de viento / Syllables of Wind (Mammoth Publications, 2014) y Le sillabe del vento (Gilgamesh Edizioni, 2017). Hoy incluyo una traducción al francés.

¡Qué la poesía nos salve!

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Xanath Caraza

Equinoccio 

Cuando la noche y el día se hacen uno

La tierra canta al unísono- La Serpiente

Emplumada desciende con su sombra.

 

Equinox

 When night and day become one

Earth sings at unison - the Feathered

Serpent descends alongside its shadow

 

Equinozio

Quando la notte e il giorno diventano uno

La terra canta all’unisono - Il serpente

Piumato scende insieme alla sua ombra.

 

L'équinoxe

Quand la nuit et le jour ne font plus qu'un

La terre chante à l'unisson - Le serpent

Plumé, il descend avec son ombre.

  

“Equinoccio” fue publicado por primera vez en el poemario Sílabas de viento/ Syllables of Wind (Mammoth Publications, 2014) con la traducción al inglés de Sandra Kingery.

 

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Xanath Caraza

En 2015 recibió el primer lugar en Poesía / Poetry para los International Book Awards for PoetryTambién en 2015 recibió Honorable mention “Best Poetry Book in Spanish” para los International Latino Book Awards.

 

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Xanath Caraza

Le sillabe del vento (Gilgamesh Edizioni, 2017) fue traducido al italiano por Annelisa Addolorato y Zingonia Zingone.  

La traducción al francés es de S. Holland-Wempe.

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Xanath Caraza


  

Friday, March 20, 2026

If Dr. MLK, Jr. Could Speak to Us Now...

If Dr. MLK, Jr. Could Speak to Us Now, What Might He Say?


Thelma T. Reyna


Historians and political scientists know best, and I am neither. I am simply a poet. In 2017, as our nation reeled from the chaos and upheavals of the first Trump presidency, I wrote a book, Reading Tea Leaves After Trump (link), trying daily to parse how our country was being dismantled. Here is a persona poem in which one of our greatest Americans again spoke for many.


MARTIN, FROM THE GRAVE


If I could turn, I would, but this coffin holds me still. I whisper to you now through fifty years of tears for what you have endured.

We’ve marched these sizzling streets before, these bridges blocked by dogs, batons, and helmets of hate.

We’ve pitched these battles before, teeth tearing ankles, rubber bullets burning backs, clubs dense as rifle butts cracking skulls.

We’ve locked arms, locked eyes, locked hands on heads for safety when they came with boots and hoses to shut us down. We’ve dragged cheeks and chins on concrete when they pulled us by our feet across blood-stained streets. 

We’ve been shot unarmed, flayed to the bone, hanged like dead rabbits by back doors, white folks picnicking by trees where our mangled bodies turned in air, photo ops galore. 

If I could spin, I would, for what they did, what they do, should’ve died decades past but won’t. So my rasp will filter like earthworms through these clods, through stones,  through smoke of churches burnt, through ether and miasmas of stillborn hopes, through centuries of hacking on the shackles. No amount of blood we shed can satiate their hate.

I whisper to you now through fifty years of hush, for I hear boots tramping once again, and smell the Ku Klux stench in the People’s House. I rush my rasp to you right now, for I hear the rattle of voter-suppression chains, hear our ballots torn and tossed, hear us mocked again for marching arm-in-arm.

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I send my rasp to you, from here, for I see ramrod arms stretched high, and the man who would be king tell daily lies, and see billionaires with secrets taking reins. I whisper to you now, from here, for I see zealots in towers and lounging by lakes, our people’s money raked into pockets mysterious and soiled.

You’ve stared in these men’s eyes before, withstood forked tongues that turn equality to roulette wheels. You’ve heard their codes and veiled slurs, taken shields against these wars. If you can hear my whisper, remember what my heart once said: The measure of a man is where he stands at times of challenge and despair. Today these heartbreaks bore to the core of earth.

If I could spin or turn, I would. My coffin keeps me prisoned while my spirit weeps for you. My dessicated eyes, vacant mouth,  ears filled with dust ceased mattering on that balcony in spring. My lips are stilled and filled with worms, but your feet hold fire, your arms still link, and your voices are oceans unleashed.

-----
Reading Tea Leaves After Trump, by Thelma T. Reyna (Golden Foothills Press, 2018). Winner of seven national book awards, the book is available through the press, booksellers like Libromobile, and amazon. Here's a link to the publisher, Golden Foothills Press.

Thursday, March 19, 2026

Chicanonautica: Whatchcallus, Anyway?


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by Ernest Hogan


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I did a display of science fiction by writers of what I call the Latinoid Continuum and I used the term Latinx. There will probably be objections from some of my peers, so here’s an explanation:


The sign is for the patrons of that library where I work, and while we get my fellow Chicanos here, we also get a lot of others, African Americans, “whites,” et cetera. . . It’s in a public place and as inclusive as possible.


Also, not all of the writers featured are, if you want to get nick-picky, Chicanos. Silvia Moreno-Garcia is Mexico born and lives in Canada. V. Castro is a Tejana who lives in England.  Speculative Fiction for Dreamers: A Latinx Anthology includes “Those Rumors of Cannibalism and Human Sacrifice Have Been Greatly Exaggerated” one of my best stories, along with “Old Folks” by Scótt Russell Dúncan (note the accent marks–should I do it too? Érnest Hógan . . .) editor for Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow–Codex I (out now, buy it, read it, live it) and works by a diverse crew of writers from cultures transmogrified by contact with the Spanish Armada.


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The x is still esoteric and controversial and not really known outside of college campuses and bureaucracies, but I consider exposing people to things from outside their comfort zone part of my job.


Once near the ruins of Monte Alban, I identified myself as a Chicano to a Zapotec guide. He had never heard the word. I tried to explain, but ended up leaving him thinking I was from Chicago.


In my career, I’ve found that it helps to use words that outsiders—Anglos (some take offense, “I ain’t from Angola!”), gringos, (et and cetera)— can understand. When dealing with more than one culture, declaring an official name never works. What usually happens, quite organically, is new languages are created.


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New life and new civilizations. Chicanidad evolving into Xicanxfuturism. Talk about a concept that could cause trouble. 


The word Yucatan is based on one of the many Mayan dialects for “I don’t understand you.”


I’ve never been picky about what people call me. The internet thinks I’m a cyberpunk, though I’ve never been part of the movement. People have a hard time figuring me out, so I let them slap a handy label on me and go on with my business. These labels are usually insults or place-holders for something they don’t understand.


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So what? Political correctness is for losers and I’m  a bizarre phenomenon. I’m lucky they don’t call in the military.


You usually don’t get called what you choose, you get called what your enemies call you, if they win, that is . . .


Chicano started out as a vile insult. Like the N-word.


The Navajo call themselves the Diné. The many Apache tribes call themselves variations on Ndé, Ndee, N’de or even Diné. Yes, they are related, but then aren’t we all? 

 

Do you have Neanderthal or Denisovian DNA? Or both?


Navajo and Apache are Spanishized versions of Zuni and Tewa Pueblo words for “enemy” and “cultivated fields in the valley” as in  apachu from the navahu’u.


We all call the Kanien’kehá:ka the Mohawks, a Dutch/English version of the Algonquian mohowawog, “man-eater,” cannibal, if you will.


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So rather than arguing about what we should be called and what language we should be arguing in we need to form a united front. But first there will be a lot of fighting about it.


Meanwhile, I’m using Latinoid Continuum . . . 


ICE can’t tell Mexicans from Chicanos from Latinos from Latinx from Xicanx from brown from black from white. And a warehouse is being converted into a “detention center” not far from where I live. 


New languages, and realities, will be created in the process. 


Xicanxfuturism is the future!


Or as Jean-Luc Godard’s evil computer Alpha-60 said in Alphaville:  “Sometimes reality can be too complex to be conveyed by the spoken word. Legend remolds it into a form that can be spread all across the world.” 


See? Chicano really is a science fiction state of being.


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Ernest Hogan, Father of Chicano Science Fiction, wants you to buy Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow / Codex I, read it, and start building the rasquache future of our choice. His Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars story “A Wild and Wooly Road Trip on Mars” will be in Codex II, soon . . . 

 

Wednesday, March 18, 2026

Popo The Xolo- Popo El Xolo


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Written by Paloma Angelina Lopez 

Illustrated by Abraham Matias 


*Publisher: ‎Charlesbridge

*Print length: ‎40 pages

*ISBN-10: ‎1623544572

*ISBN-13: ‎978-1623544577

*Reading age: ‎6 - 9 years


2026 Pura Belpré Illustrator Award

An emotionally resonant, visually stirring picture book illustrated by Pura Belpré Award–winning Abraham Matias, exploring life, death, and celebrating loved ones for children navigating grief.

Inspired by the 9 levels of Mictlān and the role Xolo dogs play by guiding those who have passed on in Indigenous cultural understandings of present-day Mexico.

Nana is surrounded by family and takes joy in her many grandchildren. She's also tired and feels pain. Soon she begins her transition from life into death, accompanied by her beloved Xolo dog, Popo.

Together they go on Nana’s journey, and by the end of the story, Nana's family celebrates the many years of love they shared with her. And a grandchild will now care for Popo.

Beautifully told by debut author Paloma Angelina Lopez and featuring stunning blend of colored art by Mexican illustrator, Abraham Matias, Popo the Xolo helps kids understand how loved ones live on in our memories. An unforgettable picture book that's grounded in the importance of the 9 levels of Mictlān and the role Xolo (show-low) dogs play in Indigenous cultural understandings of present-day Mexico.


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¡Edición en español! Un libro ilustrado emocionalmente conmovedor y visualmente estimulante sobre la vida, la muerte y la celebración de aquellos a quienes amamos. Ideal para los niños con preguntas importantes, que están lidiando con el duelo y experimentando una pérdida.

Inspirado por los 9 niveles de Mictlān y el rol que desempeñan los perros Xolo al guiar a quienes han fallecido, según las creencias culturales indígenas del México actual.

Nana está rodeada de su familia y disfruta de la compañía de sus muchos nietos. También está cansada y siente dolor. Pronto ella comienza su transición de la vida a la muerte, acompañada por su querido perro Xolo, Popo.

Juntos emprenden el viaje de Nana y, al final de la historia, la familia de Nana celebra los muchos años de amor que compartieron con ella. Y ahora, un nieto cuidará de Popo.

Hermosamente narrado por la autora debutante Paloma Angelina Lopez y con una impresionante mezcla de arte colorido por el ilustrador mexicano Abraham Matias, Popo el Xolo ayuda a los niños a comprender cómo los seres queridos viven en nuestros recuerdos. Un libro ilustrado inolvidable basado en los 9 niveles de Mictlān y el rol que desempeñan los perros Xolo (sho-lo) en las creencias culturales indígenas del México actual.


REVIEW

Lopez deftly lands on a bittersweet note, a message of love that transcends life and death. Gently magnificent. —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

Matias’ captivating illustrations, executed in cut paper and digital media, illuminate the story with rich jewel-toned colors and texture. Details such as Nana’s and Popo’s bony reflections in water offer interesting visual cues, while Spanish words throughout the text add cultural authenticity and warmth. This is a triumphant, moving reflection on death that pays meaningful homage to Indigenous Mexican culture. An author’s note about Mictlān, xoloitzcuintle dogs, and grief and a Spanish glossary conclude. Also available in a Spanish edition, Popo el Xolo. —Booklist, starred review

Matias’s jewel-toned cut-paper and wash-style digital illustrations leap off the page with a vivid light-and-shadow dimensionality suggestive of puppetry, making for a luminous tale of comfort. Back matter discusses the Nine Levels of Mictlān and more. —Publishers Weekly, starred review

This picture book focusing on the passing of a loved one and their journey through Mictlān is an excellent addition to children’s picture book collections, and a solid choice to discuss loss and to share on Day of the Dead. —School Library Journal


Paloma Angelina Lopez is a mother, student, and creative living in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. She is a dual citizen of the United States and Mexico. Her maternal grandmother’s family comes from Jalisco and Guanajuato and her father’s family is from Zacatecas and Sinaloa. Paloma married into a Cherokee family that is heavily involved in language and culture, and she works as a full-time Cherokee language learner. She hopes to become an educator and author in the Cherokee language. This is her debut children’s book. She hopes to publish more children’s literature inspired by her culture and upbringing.

Abraham Matias is an illustrator, designer, and filmmaker based in Los Angeles. He spent his childhood in Mexico making his own toys and miniature sets and drawing stories. Abraham works with paper-cut puppets staged and photographed inside a toy theater to create 3D, handcrafted, dreamlike scenes. https://abrahammatias.com






Tuesday, March 17, 2026

Huizache Movin' On

The many lives of Huizache

Michael Sedano

I’d just graduated from working for a living when Abel Salas asked if I knew Huizache? I did not. I learn from Abel Huizache grew as the brainchild of author Dagoberto Gilb. Him I knew, been following his writing since stumbling across a collection of stories, Winners On the Pass Line. Abel invites me to a kick-ass party celebrating the launch of the current issue.

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There was pedo in Victoria, Tejas. As a result, Huizache moves to northern California where the Huizache tree doesn’t grow. Ni modo. Davis becomes the new centro for Huizache with a new editorial team. How impressive, I think, that UC Davis’ Office for DEI, C/S Depto, and other University organizations, support the literary arts magazine founded in 2011 by Dagoberto Gilb

Ya, quíen sabe porque, maybe DEI got axed at UCDavis, maybe “budget constraints”, maybe Texas wanted Huizache back? At any rate, Huizache has a new home at UTEP, El Paso Texas and a new editorial board.

There’s no geographical limit to excellence. Huizache established itself as the definitive monitor of contemporary Chicano writing, no matter where it’s housed. 

Huizache 12, Fall 2025, is on the market now, with an engaging array of graphics, essays, stories, and poetry. Plus, there’s a bonus volume, A Central American Folio: Part 1 and Part 2.

That bonus volume offers a bilingual treat. It’s one of those dual books, turn it over and it’s a different book with its own contents. Part 1 is Curated by Francisco Aragón, translations by León Salvatierra. Salvatierra curates and translates Part 2. It’s a collection of work by writers from America Central who live in the San Francisco Bay region.

H12 arrives as the swansong of Huizache’s UC tenure. The issue publishes people you know from extensive publication, like Lorraine M. López, Yxta Maya Murray ,Rigoberto Gonzáles, and Sesshu Foster, and writers who’ve published in journals with limited circulation whom readers are “discovering” in H12. 

There are six “special portfolio” sections that feature drawings and some hybrid text-drawing collections. One portfolio, “Dacaments” by Fidencio Fifield-Perez, is printed in color on polished paper. Authors obviously enjoy seeing their work in a prestige journal, I wonder if artists can be as pleased, seeing their continuous tone quality reduced to 120 lines per inch and puro b&w?

Readers will appreciate some gems in the overall high-quality work. Rigoberto Gonzáles’ “Dead You.” Dead you thinks about, remembers, your father. The story revolves around a child’s love for a father who enjoys eating like its his last meal, a father who had to retire from the fields owing to Parkinson’s Disease. There’s a gulf between father and this son, the one in his grave. Distance means little, when you’re dead and you realize “the greatest gift your father ever gave you was you.”

David Dominguez tugs at my heartstrings with a poem titled after a sweet childhood memory around a wood-burning stove, a voice singing that title, “Amorcito Corazón.” The poem is an ode to middle-class domesticity, turned completely inward. I like to compare the feeling of the piece to memories of early Chicano poetry, chest-thumping insistence that we exist, or the quiet calm of a Jefita making early-morning tortillas. Como hemos cambiados, and that’s a good thing.

Eric Alan Ponce’s Mc Nífica relates a companionship between primos separated by language and cultura. The primo from Chile is challenged by English, the storyteller challenged by Spanish. Out of their confluences over a comida chatarra hamburger—in Chile the fancy McDonald’s burger is the title—a star-crossed lovers tale emerges, quondam lovers electrocuted by a defective machine. It doesn’t have to be this way, but it is.

Huizache comes from a rich history of Chicana Chicano publishing. El Grito from Quinto Sol set the standard, the Chicana Chicano, or, today, might be called Chicanx Canon. That standard got zapped by Revista Chicana-Riqueña that emerged to challenge the canon, pointing out that Latina Latino--“Latinx” per Huizache’s masthead—literature extends beyond the borders of Berkeley hasta to Central Ameríca and Puerto Rico. Huizache XII proves the point. Así somos.

There’s now an open question. Will Huizache 13 be like Huizaches one through twelve, or does the western edge of Texas produce a different eye? A ver.

Order the full set or subscribe to the biannual publication at this link: https://huizachemag.org/


Sunday, March 15, 2026

“El viejo guerrero” by Xánath Caraza

“El viejo guerrero” by Xánath Caraza

 

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Xanath Caraza

Hoy comparto “El viejo guerrero” de mi poemario Labios de piedra / Lips of Stone. La traducción al inglés es de Sandra Kingery. Las fotos son de mi autoría.  Ojalá lo disfruten. 

 

El viejo guerrero

 

Para la cabeza colosal número 4 de La Venta, Tabasco, México

 

Leo poesía junto a ti.

Para ti es esta voz.

 

Líquido encuentro a través del tiempo.

Viejo guerrero, escucha mi ofrenda.

 

La jungla nos rodea y las aves

anuncian mi lectura.

 

Tu casco grabado con el águila.

La que ve todo en la jungla olmeca.

 

Alma de piedra.

Jade por corazón.

 

Tus labios entreabiertos

dejan ir la divinidad.

 

Tu mirada: nobleza olmeca,

posa los ojos en mis letras.

 

Leo para ti, en este ambiente

húmedo, sin interrupción.

 

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Xanath Caraza

The Old Warrior

 

For Colossal Head Number 4 from la Venta, Tabasco, Mexico

 

I read poetry beside you.

This voice, it is for you.

 

Liquid encounter through time.

Old Warrior, hear my offering.

 

The jungle surrounds us and the birds

announce my reading.

 

Your helmet engraved with the eagle

which sees it all in the Olmec jungle.

 

Soul of stone.

Heart of jade.

 

Your half-open lips

let divinity depart.

 

Your gaze: Olmec nobility,

rest your eyes upon my words.

 

I read for you, in this damp

environment, without interruption.

 

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Xanath Caraza

 “El viejo guerrero / The Old Warrior” están incluidos en el poemario Labios de piedra / Lips of Stone (2021). Traducido al inglés por Sandra Kingery.

 

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Xanath Caraza

In 2023 Labios de Piedra / Lips of Stone won Honorable Mention for Best Children's & Youth Poetry Book for the International Latino Book Awards.