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Writings of East Los Angeles, Views from City Terrace Hills
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and Black pearls into perils the perimeter
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There Are No Criminals Here
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T h e r e Ar e N o Cr i m i n a l s H e r e Writings of East Los Angeles, Views from City Terrace Hillsmmmm
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Red Salmon Press Salmoncito Series 2010
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There Are No Criminals Here © 2010 Jonathan Daniel Gomez. Cover photo by Jonathan Daniel Gomez. Design and layout by Cal A. Vera. To contact the author email: jdgomez727@gmail.com Red Salmon Arts is dedicated to the development of emerging writers and the promotion of indigenous, Chicana/o, Latina/o literature, providing outlets and mechanisms for cultural exchange and sharing the retrieval of a people’s history with a commitment to social justice.
Red Salmon Press 1801-A S. First St. Austin, Tejas 78704 (512) 416-8885 revolu@swbell.net www.resistenciabooks.com
Funding is provided in part by the City of Austin through the Cultural Arts Division & by a grant from the Texas Commission on the Arts & an award from the National Endowment for the Arts, which believes that a great nation deserves great art. Additional funding is provided through the support of the Youth Emergency, Inc./The Phogg Phoundation for the Pursuit of Happiness.
Hecho en Aztlán. c/s
CO N T E N T S The Rain Washes East Los ... 4 We’ve Snorted Death and Came Back to Life Again ... 6 They Come in the Morning ... 9 Underneath the Cesar Chavez Avenue Bridge ... 11 Bus Stop Vida ... 13 Massacre of the Kisses ... 15 Julian and the Homeless Tribe ... 16 Rosa ... 18 Solidarity ... 20 There Are No Criminals Here ... 22 Author Bio ... 24
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The Rain Washes East Los East L.A., sitting on Herbert Circle thinking of mama, Big Dad and Big Mom, and injustices Early Spring 2009
The rain washes East Los Filthy,
stinky,
dirty,
beautiful,
lovely East Los Born again to the sun A baptismal ritual offering a painted mural to the masses through the eyes of Botello Public masterpiece of gente taking up space put together by the hands of Ramirez The rain washes East Los A new beginning and the answer of prayers to the barrio Goddess What washes gutters and streets where El David did the Marijuano Pachuco Boogie to El Hoyo A labor of love washing stains from side walks sending Malo’s blood to the sewer then to the sea The gentrifying force that displaces alleyway syringe and holly Cobra tall can burial grounds What opens the valve of rooster song awakenings that birth child hood memories and poems of the old days
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The rain is what cooled Chico’s skin as he lay on the corner of Brannick and Folsom having heroin dreams It’s the custodial artist of the hood coming by just before the card board house is erected from market cart dwellings The sacred beads of life that cleanse the pathway where Lucy walks her kids home from school The rain washes East Los Not nightmarish neoliberal politico/a dreams, or I.C.E. raids with “best” intentions It’s the rain that washes East Los Filthy,
stinky,
dirty,
beautiful, lovely,
thriving East Los
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We’ve Snorted Death and Came Back to Life Again For Cuzn Frank and Jimbo 6/10/09
We’ve Snorted Death and Came Back to Life Again Pink Champagne crystals crushed to powder then sniffed to send the mind on a wicked train ride to present any unsociable with the gift of gab once past the nose bone Toxins inhaled to deepest depths of child hood lungs spur bronchitis coughs that echo sound waves from home to the factory gates just two blocks away Dizziness spells accompanied with suicidal thoughts summoned from the smell of grey fuzzy mold that grows beneath the bed in an LA County Jail cell The sickness that lingers with every cough welcomed with the wave of the hand to flag down buses that deploy thick fumes into the air with every halt and departure Yes, we’ve snorted death and came back to life again With deep yawns and heavy gasps for air that follow Vacuum of jet engine fumes from planes allowed to soar higher than the dreams of youngsters who live in the communities they pass over It’s in the chopped up pieces of justice diced up by helicopter routers, served in the name of heavy-duty surveillance and criminalization machines spotlights It’s in the name of freezing trembles of midnight fevers that heat the body of the custodial artist
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who pushes mops across business floors with chemicals that release fumes that temporarily open up permanently congested nasal passages Yes, we’ve snorted death and came back to life again To treat blisters on the hands that mow the lawn To discover tumors buried deep within the breast that match the size of ripe Roma tomatoes plucked from the vine, but it’s too late For death in the Barrio and Ghettoes can be as sweet as aromas that tickle noses and trick stomachs to growl, come and get it Cheeseburgers, pizza, burritos, and fried chicken with fries, buy two get one free Tuesday specials for a dollar twenty-nine that ravage gallbladders and clog arties with every bite and gulp of soda in hand Wagers of bodily war that any dose of insulin injections cannot win, yet we survive Mama, we’ve snorted death and came back to life again With deep breaths of freeway pollution taken in with a nervous fashion when the screeching breaks of “one-time” strike the ear drums to resurrect a call and response interaction that awakens restless emotions and Fanon’s dream at anytime--Run Young Brother, we’ve snorted death and came back to life again to run, jump and scream To escape a premature death from toxins that fly with feathers in the wind; Imposed annihilation of a certain segment of society Young Sister, we’ve snorted death and came back to life again
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To put up a struggle and overcome the legacy of colonization that storms the temple of our bodily love Tired, but not asleep Off the clock, but forever working to overthrow their systems that have forgotten about the people with tools forged in the furnaces that hold the mould for tomorrow My peoples, we have the power! For yesterday We snorted death and came back to life again, because of this, Yes, we have the power to win!
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They Come in the Morning For George and Jonathan Jackson Summer 2010
And they come in the morning Strong and unbearable like the morning cafesito that mama sips So hot that it burns the lips without a show of respect or if taken in without a bit of caution. In letter-form spreading the word of “Notice of Action: Your Food Stamps Terminated” And the mind is pushed to wander to East Los hoyo’s and hill tops Past the edge on Thomas Street with desire to bear witness to the capture and massacre of EBT cards with their elders printed in pink, purple, yellow, and brown; Potential tickets to feed the mouths of children, but instead are buried deep beneath the ground Stomachs ache with pains that speak the universal languages of hunger; those terrible rumbles They come entering the premises with gun strapped to the side and one in the hand Through the calles like doses that surpasses tecato dreams, even when on a good one Rupturing the veins of the barrio with over-doses of hate and hyper-individualism
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You can feel it in the morning Entering with a kick to the door; the scarry sound of a noknock search and seizures that strike the soul And mama waits in the blue early morning cold as the dogs ravage the home as back-up storms through the crisscrossing streets of City Terrace hills as the kids cover their ears till the trauma is over And they come in the morning Pushing homeless on Skid Row to rise from houses made of card board with news paper blanket covers so that beds can be transformed into sidewalks for business suits and art walks with six dollars for a small cup of coffee shop’s Yes, we know they come in the morning! Entering through the window of the dwelling in sonic penetration to give chills to the kids that go up the spine with the pa pa pa of the police gun target practice shots Roaring sound from Sybil Brand agony and Biscailuz Blues preceding the search and destroy missions Chopping heads of the Permanently Unemployed with grand guillotines of economic austerity Out on the streets so early To spread hate, and make hard living a little harder Yet we still fight with our heads held high in the struggle and we’re ready, for we know, They come in the morning...
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Underneath the Cesar Chavez Avenue Bridge For Tina and Lorena, East Los Summer 2008
Together we were born to a buzz of whiskey Dancing our way in the June sun to underneath the Cesar Chavez Avenue Bridge where trains cross just above the concrete river and tracks consume the arms of people who live there, bruised in purple and pink Refuge place of the wretched troll, ruptured vein realities, and spray painted masterpieces with styles of burners, bombs, and tags Domain where God’s ears hold no quarter and the prayers of the disregarded dangle violently in the wind like racist nooses stuck underneath the Cesar Chavez Avenue Bridge Pathway to the other side where one walks through holes in chain link fences like rips in a perfect spider web, down wooden crate steps and across a sea of yesterday’s newspapers, worn out boots, and discarded rags to reach Where dear friends run from guard dogs back to the street up above the darkness before returning to the shady life and guard-women hold broom sticks and not polished Billy clubs buckled in belts, as they patrol their home underneath the Cesar Chavez Avenue Bridge We ventured away from the busy city streets
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to a place where people roam with loving hearts and back pockets that hold Polaroid’s of better days and still life moments of loved ones that make tears trek down faces to blossom smiles like the most beautiful of barrio and ghetto roses underneath the Cesar Chavez Ave Bridge We took off to the arena where poetry, whiskey, and saints became gifts mended in green thread with a promise to always remember Tina who lives underneath the Cesar Chavez Avenue Bridge
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Bus Stop Vida For the People of Skid Row, L.A. C.A.N., Jordan Camp, and Christina Heatherton East Los, 2008
I’ve been waiting here so long This place with gum spots the likes of cobblestones Mean streak marks over advertisements of the good life It trips me out how it pulsates with struggle that dislocates mind from body The ability to gather warmth from the holey blanket that just covers brown toes of homelessness in the cold Living proof of how neglect of the streets can be a weapon of mass destruction too The speckle spatter just underneath the metal seats; Pee-pee that drips through the grates to stain sidewalks with an aroma belonging to its own culture of bus stop sitters The jingle of change in hand accompanied by prayers so there will be enough pennies for public limo passage to somewhere other than grey concrete enclosures Sacred resting place of the forgotten one’s with offerings of smoke rituals that pay tribute to their invisibility at every bus departure; fumes a dangerous mess to inhale with screeching break cries; the opposite sounds that come from birds of peace Sanctuary for trembling bodies that asks for any amount of money to help purchase the tools for a ceremonial fix
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Palace of exile that resembles deserted camping grounds equipped with a market cart for urban outdoor survival The station where diabetic episodes play all day and night, and where schizophrenia with toothless smiles of the forced-uninsured air next Platform of the forgotten Barrio and Ghetto Queen in the cold, for them to whisper their poetic verses to the moon, and tell tales about how brutal bus stop vida can be in the 21st century.
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Massacre of the Kisses For Briseida, for making me smile and keeping life poetic in the midst of the good and hard times, and for Danny “Troubles” Trejo, for the Routina! Gracias, a ti! East Los, Cleaning up Twin Towers, 2009
The witness stares at the executioner Legs shackled and sitting quietly in County Jail Blues gazing at the massacre of the kisses Thick plated visiting glass separates them as it’s wiped clean of red lipstick and greasy palmed presses of I LOVE YOU’S! What gets him through Hope in the days while stuck in the dungeon as the kisses try their best to survive like colorful moths resting on a tree, a dull shade An invitation for a feast So the bluebird picks them off one by one devouring each with a spray of Turbo Kill and swipe of the county bleached-white towel in hand The inmate witnesses humanity’s death For I am the executioner And WINDOW LOVE does not stand a chance, Wax on wax off.
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Julian and the Homeless Tribe For the impoverished, may your dreams prepare our state of mind for a ‘permanent readiness for the marvelous’ Late Winter 2010, East Los, Belvedere Park, pond-side
Julian, you were always on the brink of despair And you finally fell over to the other side; What a struggle Pushed to a place where the beast prefers for you to reside Relegated to sidewalk corners and bus stops, In communion pose with hands reached out to the heavens asking for change that doesn’t jingle Forever on the outside of the window looking in A life trapped in the cold and a part of the homeless tribe The sleepers upon concrete under cardboard Taker of absolute misery with daily experiences of people attempting to deny you dignity Product of a declining-system with fetishes of riches, and domination; Where thoughts of love and cooperation are madness And masturbation for orgasms of power and free-market flexes with swipes of visas for them and probation I.D.s, and EBT’s for us makes sense Julian, what land do you traverse? With missing teeth nonetheless Gaps between enamel that rot more and more with each fatal dose of neglect to resemble failed attempts of childhood Halloween jack-o-lantern smiles For you, ese, there are no ‘samba pa ti’ remedies, But only soundtracks of madness blasting from the depths of absolute impoverishment Julian, Julian, once a child in the arms of a loving mother now lays at the corner of Floral and Mednik with forced dreadlocks in the beard and soars that kiss the skin as he dreams constantly of a better tomorrow as he cradle himself in the cold Dirt now caresses the soul and ceremonies of abandonment
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are blessed with the sign of the cross by people passing by joined with hallucinations of shaking the hand of a “Chicano� mayor while rolling through East Los mud in the moonlight just after the rain has passed... Julian, tell me the truth, is that personal choice, or are those the cringes of the forced-uninsured Diabetic? Person blame or pneumonia coughs that release lung pieces to the winds of the West as your bare feet point to the East? And what are those gasps for air that follows your laughs at the savage system that now echo endlessly in my mind? Julian, with no kin you are the son birthed of oppression and hunger; one of the living-dead who walks among us as time keeps passin you by Brown prince, they turned you into a problem Hermano, you roam the calles with no place of refuge, so you sit outside No hot meals or shelter to rest your head from the pain that comes with street vida agony No shoes to protect your feet from glass cut infections that now bubble with green on your soles, No medication for bronchitis coughs, Yet you still sing the songs that hold the answer to the riddles that puzzle us for a socially just tomorrow, Julian, what has come of us? Tell me, because I will listen to the story of how you became the King of The East Los Homeless Tribe.
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Rosa For Rosa, Mama and all the women in my family East L.A., in the City Terrace hills August, 2009
When the pots and pans are clean we can all thank Beautiful Rosa Rosa with aching side and bags under her eyes collected from vicious backhands swung by the system She is the workers’ worker, and poquito inglés gets her by... A Woman’s Woman Who stays toiling in the kitchen later than she is supposed to Boiling pasta for tomorrow’s spaghetti and meatballs, and slicing imported meats she will never be able to afford Ohhh “lazy” Rosa, she used to be a good employee according to the boss, but now bites at the hands that feed her 63-year-old grandmother who sneaks pieces of bread out of the service door thinking them a feast while loaves are taken out through the front door with no shame to be fed to the mouths of rusting dumpsters in the back POOR But hard-working Rosa... Behind the counter crawling on arthritic knees to wipe down greasy mayo and mustard floors at distances that make marathon runner’s blush Oh trouble-making Rosa In the hot, hot kitchen,
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causing oil to rebel against the confines of the frying pan with every bead of radical sweat that drips from peach-fuzzy chin to add Chicana flavor to cocina Italiana without feeling shame For she is the proud owner of hands that scratch the bottom of cauldrons at a pace that makes hip-hop DJ’s envious Proud, proud owner of the hands that hold a spatula to spread garlic butter over pieces of bread like a seasoned mason places cement on a brick She’s even developed the nerve to sprinkle the perfect amount of paprika over French bread that is devoured bite after bite dipped into marinara she made two hours after her bus home has stopped running Tired but always slaving Rosa keeps on going with the wrinkles under her eyes that crisscross her gentle face like geopolitical lines that mark a world map to divide and rule, and if read with humane eyes her forehead alone will reveal a lifetime of servitude, 1000-plus dreams deferred, and successful survival at the hands of bosses willing to take, take, and take with no give Rosa, of a righteous people who anger slowly but rage undammed For when the food is served, tray, utensils and all, the blessing should not be in the name of the father, son, and holy spirit, but first and most importantly in the name of Rosa.
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Solidarity For those who fall victim to Police-state violence, in the name of Manuel Jamines, murdered by LAPD police officer Frank Hernandez on September 5th, 2010 near the intersection of 6th Street and Union in LA. Bobo, we’ll get justice!
I’m from the City Terrace Hills, By the Gage of rooster song awakenings in the morning With views of where Sheriff helicopters come from to invade the barrio Where we sit and talk of the creation of a different tomorrow Where we call people coming together for justice: Solidarity and Power of The People Where we’re suckers for a revolution beginning with a “war of position” Dreamers of the dance for deconstruction of the Just-us mentality of American justice that Excludes US Yes, for the reconstructing expression of a love-political practice de raulrsalinas; Articulation of the peace we find in the struggle, in word and voice For it is us who write the songs of humanity; So, come come, and stand together, brothers and sisters hold the line against the monsters blessed with a gun and a badge and bullets with impunity that murder and dreams for agony yet to be inflicted Because they know we are aware, United, The People can NEVER be defeated! An ideology provided rhythm from tunes that come from the palms that strike freedom drums in the streets for the movement Yes, It’s called Solidarity, not outside community meddling, or agitation from outsiders
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For we know the truth, and see the answers for justice in the souls of the living dead who walk among us; Lived experience of inflicted- brutality, yet keep strides towards humanity It’s a love for the community and hatred for a wicked system with state sanctioned and extra legal doom and destruction, so take notice for our eyes have seen more times than any soul should have to... The cries of hungry children Diabetes unchecked causing feet to swell Teeth with cracks like abandoned City Terrace sidewalks The Homeless of Skid Row and bus stop refuge seekers with no place else to go Packed Cages of the LA County Jail Tecato dreams on corner sidewalks at Rowan and Chavez and Eyes of the Lonely at City Terrace and Hazard The negative gaze on the soul of those who swipe food stamp EBT’s and probation card ID’s Candles vigils at sidewalks with burgundy stains from dried blood of the youth-fallen “Failure” written on the backs of children for not amounting to obsolete benchmarks of bourgeois success Illegal Illegal Illegal placed on The People for a FORCED-migration away from home, For when we come together it’s an expression of a shared understanding and for a yearning of a new society, communal-taste for something different Not misguided radical reverie, Get it right, It’s SOLIDARITY!
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There Are No Criminals Here For my God Son Adam, cousin Lily, and all the youth who have been touched, or are in reach of the Prison Industrial Complex. This piece is in response to the blame placed on “two bald headed Latinos” of the City Terrace barrio for the self-inflicted gun shot wound of LAPD officer Anthony Razo. He was later found “guilty” of insurance fraud. A formal apology has yet to be made to the community for the police-mob invasion on that sunny Saturday morning, or for the legacy of racism, institutionalized harassment and hyper-surveillance that pours down violently on ELA and other racialized and working class communities. They continue to “police the crises” and shoot before we speak. East LA, City Terrace hills, 2009
We have been blamed before and we’re sure it won’t be the last time Officer down at 4:15am on a Saturday morning The comal is just getting hot and the barrio near Folsom St. and Hazard is already under siege A search and destroy mission for two bald headed Latinos in a community of bald headed Latino youth But we know the lie was constructed over a century ago We have been blamed before Prosecuted and punished to the fullest extent of the law The Book has been thrown at us with impunity, and it’s not filled with poetry Gun pointed at the back of our heads Hands on the hood as we assume the position Spotlight checked Helicopter surveillance Stop before I shoot called out too But there are no criminals here Just people surviving against all odds Multi and never ending circumstances of racial repression Class war accompanied with post-traumatic stress syndrome-like symptoms Marshal law-like conditions Magic trick tactics transforming Brown and Black pearls into perils with K-9’s searching the perimeter
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Face filled with hate abra cadabra cop smiles with a gun and a badge The bullet is faster than the eye Judges able to devour justice with a single courtroom motion not missing a crumb Now you have your freedom then you don’t But there are no criminals here For we are the people marching in the streets, in the struggle with card board house sleepers; people wrapped in the news of the world to hatch to the early morning cold to be everywhere disregarded, but those of us in the struggle will forever stand with you We’re the street corner people hanging to Billie Holiday’s “Don’t Explain” told to get lost with no place to go Gente trying to survive in the shadows of a racist capitalist eclipse waiting for the sweat that drips from paletero chins between concrete cracks to sprout organic revolutionaries that rise from such wretched living conditions The graffiti artist throwing up the crew on the wall with a roll call of brothers and sisters from the clika Yet the writing on the wall that screams, “we need social justice” is not read with a progressive lens For they see, put your hands on top of your head, kill, incarcerate, deport, gay bash, good for nothing, violate every single one of their rights, divide and rule, divide and rule, and send the dogs But my people, We already know, There Are No Criminals Here!
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Jonathan Daniel Gomez
is a third generation Chicano, born and raised in the East Los Angeles community of City Terrace. He was born on October 23, 1984 to a single mother and a family of support. He believes in the power of The People and a state of mind that is for, what Susanne Cesaire calls, a “permanent readiness for the marvelous,” and, what raulrsalinas calls, a “love-political.” He believes, together, both are important tools for envisioning and constructing the new society. He is currently a Ph.D. student in the Department of Sociology at UC Santa Barbara, by way of “Sidewalk University,” East Los Angeles Community College and UC Santa Cruz. For him, like George Jackson, “it always begins with mama,” Diane Gomez. Together, she, family, comrades and mentors, who he dedicates this collection of writings, drive his motivation forward to achieve his many goals and to find “peace in the struggle.” It has been a collaborative effort, far from individualistic or ahistorical, for him to have passed down the streets he walked yesterday, where he is today, and where he’ll be tomorrow. Through all of this, you can count on him to continue to fight on the side of the popular classes and the impoverished, to read and write, and most importantly, to listen.
From the Author:
May I throw a thank you and respect to the poems and the life struggle for humanity of raúlrsalinas, his poems and story found me when I needed them most, he is with us! To you, Brent, Marianne Bueno, and everyone who made this possible, my heart, soul, and best Oldies sound track wishes go out to you!
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But there are no criminals here Just people surviving against all odds Multi and never ending circumstances of racial repression Class war accompanied with post-traumatic stress syndrome-like symptoms Marshal law-like conditions Magic trick tactics transforming Brown and Black pearls into perils with K-9’s searching the perimeter Face filled with hate abra cadabra cop smiles with a gun and a badge The bullet is faster than the eye Judges able to devour justice with a single courtroom motion not missing a crumb Now you have your freedom then you don’t – There Are No Criminals Here
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