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Juan Felipe Herrera – Johnni Capp Street | Notes from Donut Land 10

Sometimes one poet can cross barriers. Sometimes no one is aware.

10.

We talk about Jack.

Jack H. is always inside Puccini’s on Columbus Street. Under a deific religious and rebel light, as if Dalí had painted him ascending over Cadaqués. I wave at him. Outside on the street. I keep rollin. The Bear Claw is wonderful.(Jack has created a word bridge from North Beach to 24th & Mission Street.) We all know Jack. You won’t believe this — I’ve walked Columbus street since 1958. Jack is explosive and kind. It happens when we both have a poetry reading. Frank Wilmas too. He is the most explosive. I never mention that. He explodes. I listen. I yap. He listens. Jack is tall, kind and knows every thing about poetry. In particular, Resistance poetry. I like that. These days everyone is talking about Central America. About US Intervention in Central America. Jack leads. Frank Wilma is always on it. Wars have a funny way of repeating themselves.

Juan Felipe Herrera – Johnni Capp Street | Notes from Donut Land 9

Name “a window to somewhere and nowhere.” That’s enough.

I go back to Capp Street # 3rd floor. Futon on the flooor. I can see Twin Peaks from the window in the am. No furniture, no TV. Margo says I am ridiculous. Because. I have only two things to eat. One: Half of a cheap can of caviar. Two: half a loaf of soft wheat Roman Meal bread in the shadows cutting across the tiny kitchen table. That’s it. Oh, and water — and the futon. And the sound of pigeons.

One time Ceci from across the street knocked on my door. Open it. I did. She had an incredible bowl of fresh cherries. How can I tell you? It was an unexpected gift. I live in a mind of blanks, voices, scribbles, on and off meditations and the windows to somewhere and nowhere. I can see Ceci’s house from here. And sometimes there are miracles that I do not notice… right in front of me. You would think a poet would notice them.

Hermelinda Hernandez Monjaras – BRAINFØG XV

Visual poem with a title that reads: BRAINFØG XV.

There is a light gray blooming image behind the words. The poem’s orientation is landscape. The following words appear in a single rectangular shape, evenly spaced, in varying font sizes.

The text reads:
ISH SHH SHH ISH WHIR PLOP WHIR FLAP WHIR DODOO
SHH SHH SHRIEK CLASH WHOOSH SLAP SHH SHH EER
SHUSH SHH SHH ISH ISH SPLAT GURGLE AAAAH ISH
DO WEE ISH DEE DOO ISH SQUELCH SQUELCH WHOOSH
SQUELCH AAAAH SHRIEK CRUSH SHRIEK CRUSH FLAP
DEE DEE CRASH CLASH SHUSH CRASH CRASH DO WEE
EEEK CLASH AAAAH EEEK SLASH CLASH CLASH SHH
WHIR SLASH SHUSH ISH EER EER SPLAT SLURP SHH
AAAAH EEEK EER SHRIEK CLASH CRASH WEE EER CLASH
SHUSH SQUELCH SQUELCH SQUELCH SPLAT GULP

read image description (alt text)

Artist’s Statement: For The Fresno 15 Creative Writing Marathon, I used 15 Rorschach I made by dabbing a red rose with paint onto paper. This series is an attempt to write on brain fog: forgetfulness, incoherent thoughts, mental fatigue, lack of clarity, and more. Each day became a challenge: the strings attached within me were reluctant to push, create, and pull; memory became a mass of confusion to frame. Luckily, these 15 days were possible due to persistence and help from my mentor, Anthony Cody, author of The Rendering. Lastly, this series is one step forward toward my future poetic work.

Juan Felipe Herrera – Johnni Capp Street | Notes from Donut Land 8

Invisibility. What is it? Who’s invisible? All of us? How?

Frank takes off. Where he goes no one knows. He’s free. He lives his life. He has many lives. There’s a million donuts in Donut Land. My mother, Lucy, gave me at tray of Arroz con Leche.

It’s at Frank’s place. You gotta have some one day.

Frank is right, I am always talking to myself. My mother lives on 17th & Mission St. Right above Kline’s Piano. Second floor. A hundred stairs. Low light ochre yellow. Apt. #5. My tía Tere in #8. My tios Lela and Ferni, #10. On that floor they exist in a Méxican filter from the 20’s. It is quiet when you pop down the stairs. Step onto Mission St. Fried Chicken, the Excelsior newspaper, the Esto Sports page. Jergen’s lotion at the Bon Ami sundry. Movies sometimes, Clavillazo, Pedro Infante, Sarita Montiel at La Victoria and the Tower Theatre. It’s all within a five block radius. Frank knows all this. There is something about my familia that is too real. We are still invisible. Before you cross the border you want to be invisible. When you succeed crossing you make sure you are invisible. When your invisibility dissolves, society carves out an invisible pattern of tunnels for your daily minimalist life.