LIBERATION THEOLOGY IN LATIN AMERICA

I was doing some research on Liberation Theology and I came across this extremely keen pdf on Liberation Theology in Latin America, http://www.ts.mu.edu/readers/content/pdf/34/34.3/34.3.1.pdf

"In Latin America "ideology" has the positive sense of an ideology of struggle in an ethicopolitical sense as well as the negative sense of a legitimation of an oppressive status quo. One of the tasks of liberation theology is seen as that of exposing the ideological use of Christian symbols to mask reality, e.g., invoking Christian unity against the reality of class struggle, identifying bourgeois values as Christian, defending "Western Christian civilization," etc." (page 29)

POESIA PARA LA GENTE: POETRY UNDERGROUND IN THE LOS ANGELES METRO

Poetry Underground Rides LA Metro To Bring Spoken Word To The Masses from KLL Video Productions on Vimeo.

REWRITE OF "EL MANDO"

I wrote El Mando a couple of months ago and recently I had the opportunity to read it to some poor unsuspecting riders of the red line of the Los Angeles Metro. On purpose, this version has way more Spanglish and there is a absolute zero point reached where the poem is neither in English nor in Spanish but somewhere in the middle. You be the judge.

EL MANDO
by Yago S. Cura


He who wields el mando es el que manda;
conversely, without mando, uno no manda,
Uno no sostiene su mandate—ni man do, ni man da.

He who wieldeth mando es el que manda?

No, el que no wields mando are the mando-less,
nickel and dimed, hoodwinked and periwinkled
misbegotten and desarriesgados.

Tu y yo somos vics of el mando despite wielding
el mando in our respective jurisdictions, ademas
she who holds the remote control controls
the command console on the programming.

She commands channels of things to come,
strong premonitions and Scooby clues, vapor trails
para que channels reprochen su servidumbre?

She who holds the structure of the relay of el mando
manda astonishing cleavages of anthems, stirs my tine
of all its tenor, embellishes where it importas.

He who wields el mando es el que no contiene el no
o cero subset, which is like a submanda. Entonces: She
holds el mando, manda, holds a turbo just outside threshold
of a prosthetic stylus, holds el task manager for ransom.

He who wield el mando holds silenciosos a index technicians,
holds binary repose. She who has command nears command mas
without possessing el mando. Pity el wielder de submanda.

Para most, el mando es simplemente su arch-enemy.
Solamente, en algunos, el mando son ojos infra-rojos.

EXPO LINE SPLEEN

At this hour from the Culver City platform
of the light blue Expo line, the Exposition Rider,

the Hollywood Hills are effulgent silhouettes (those bitches!)
the crest of the monster hill at Hahn park: slurry
and fuzzy. You can barely make out the wide stairs

hikers use to resist the stubble of the grade in the
challenging landscape. You can make out the lookout house,
the bare-pane, pomo, a-frame visitor center cum hut.

Then, past the humpback canvases of the ginormous fabricas
production houses, factories, keg distributors, sound lots,
auto body rebel bases, bivouacs and trucking school laboratories.

Past squat orange tire churches and overwatered municipal trees,
city-block long Jetro's Cash and Carry Restaurant Depot, that bazaar
of surly wholesale restaurant associates, past gangs of power lines
and telephone switch centers, past cupcake nuclear homes painted
peach and chained to palm trees with blown-back hair fronds.

Still farther as we come up on La Cienaga, her enormous storage
citadels and parking lots and overhangs and undermergings.
We come up on La Cienaga as she unleashes her metallic overbite,
her undertow of Monoxidemobiles.

Immediately, in the background, the rank and file of Westwood
skyscrapers and the Sandstone Rome of U.C.L.A. and beyond that more
mountains, ranges and if you look through the trees of the houses
you can barely make out a ridiculously tiny Hollywood Sign.

Past the Farmdale stop, past the Freshman Academies, Academic Houses
of Dorsey High, and on to the dilapidated alleyways trash-riddled,
windswept streets that slowly go from industrial to residential,
warehouses to individual homes and residences, personal homesteads.

past Crenshaw, the County Probation Depot, there on the corner,
West Angeles Cathedral, its stained-glass knave, crescent auditorium,
humungous semicircle self and then Jefferson gets very two-lane-ish
and stretches for two miles or so before it hits Vermont.

On Vermont it creeps across the Museum of Natural History, the County
Rose Gardens, and the Institute of California or something or other.
Next up the private bricks de la Universidad de Califas del Sur!

And for a good ten minutes

COUNTY KITE

Diamonds of papers
cut from the tusk
of an urgent surge
for words, hand-shaked
into confidential loam
of another pound of teeth
transported to all facilities
under the purview of an M-14.
This one urges war. This one
is a minute reckless message.
This one unlocks a mutiny
on an undermanned shift.
This one pencils silence
more heavy than whetstone.

All the County Kites fight
gag order design of Jail.

All the County Kites finger
the air with bastard cursive.