21. Ibid., 3.
22. Ibid., 66.
23. Ibid., 6.
24. Bataille, Erotism, 145.
25. Tejada, Exposition Park, 66.
26. Ibid., 5.
27. Ibid., 28.
28. Erich Fromm, The Art of Loving (New York: Harper and Row, 1956), 50.
29. Tejada, Exposition Park, 21.
30. Ibid., 39.
31. Bersani, Baudelaire and Freud, 77.
32. Tejada, Exposition Park, 40.
33. Ibid., 49–51.
34. Roberto Tejada, Full Foreground (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2012), 1.
35. Ibid., 8.
36. Ibid., 12.
37. Ibid., 32.
38. Ibid., 29.
39. Ibid., 65.
40. Ibid., 30.
41. Ibid., 34.
42. Kaja Silverman, Flesh of My Flesh (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009), 45.
43. Ibid.
44. Tejada, Full Foreground, 36.
45. Ibid., 38.
46. Jon Clay, Sensation, Contemporary Poetry and Deleuze: Transformative Intensities (London: Continuum, 2010), 137.
47. Tejada, Full Foreground, 26.
48. Ibid., 14.
49. Judith Butler, The Psychic Life of Power: Theories in Subjection (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997), 146–47.
50. Tejada, Full Foreground, 26.
51. These ideas are echoed and expanded on in Tejada’s poetics statement.
52. Roberto Tejada, “Liquid M,” a Perimeter 3 (2015). Available online at aperimeter.com.
53. Bataille, Erotism, 65.
54. Bersani, Baudelaire and Freud, 10.
55. Roberto Tejada, “Venus a Polygon,” a Perimeter 3 (2015). Available online at aperimeter.com.
56. Roberto Tejada, “Three Poems by Roberto Tejada,” Pen America, February 11, 2015. Available online at www.pen.org.
57. Bataille, Erotism, 37.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Works by Roberto Tejada
BOOKS
Mirrors for Gold. San Francisco: Krupskaya, 2006.
Exposition Park. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2010.
Full Foreground. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2012.
BOOKS IN TRANSLATION
Todo en el ahora. Selected poems. Translated by Alfonso D’Aquino, Gabriel Bernal Granados, and Omar Pérez. Mexico City: Libros Magenta, 2015.
SCHOLARLY BOOKS
National Camera: Photography and Mexico’s Image Environment. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2009.
A Ver: Celia Alvarez Muñoz. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2009.
EDITED VOLUMES
Modern Art in Africa, Asia and Latin America: An Introduction to Global Modernisms. Edited by Elaine O’Brien, Everlyn Nicodemus, Melissa Chiu, Benjamin Genocchio, Mary K. Coffey, and Roberto Tejada. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012.
EDWIN TORRES
POEMS
FROM The PoPedology Of An Ambient Language
Dirtspeech
dirtspeech
earthtongue
race be language
before nation
what space
be racer if not
nation maker
where two be one
by race erasure
heartspeak
in translation
of nation chaser
each tongue
be
sacred nature
licked
by liquidy
creation, mere
definition
interferes
because of its
ubiquity
love
is two lenguas
every lang
uage
should be bi
lingual
The Theorist Has No Samba!
there is a new instantism > a language of tangent =
tanguage > ambient funguage > there is a modern path
>invented through accidental spontaneity + of mock
language sport = fractured intelligentsillys > there
are sage athleticists + important children farmed out
to the furthest reaches of nowness > … > … >
I propose a New Instantism. Take spontaneousness out
of the ether and smack it into the throes of the wild
screaming bastard maggot that IS poetry! I propose a
New NEWness, where we refuse to comply by the aged
fumblings of mere MEANING and instead descend into
mere HEARING! I instigate a NEW failure of
listening … so we may one day walk hand in hand with
our own ears and say … THANK THE MIGHTY LOUD
THAT I MAY THANK THE MIGHTY LOUD THAT
I MAY THANK THE MIGHTY LOUD! I have
a NEW Instantaety, a modern NEWness, a
post NOWism … I have a fear … of hiding this fear,
instead … I choose a revelry of failure, an opportune
dimentia into the song of my pacifism.
Let’s say we level expectation with implied tension.
The instant doubt appears, possibility appears next to it as a window.
What was thought to have clarity is now diffused by possibility.
Is possibility the goal … or only the instant before doubt?
The New Instantists will allow possibility room to
doubt itself … inventing a paranoia into the sleepless
monster that is this bastard maggot poetry. The New
Instantist will know that it takes a flat surface to
iron out procedure, that a wrinkled pair of favorite
pants will match an equally wrinkled ass … and mind.
That no matter how just or unjust the outcome … the
New Instantist will always be blamed for what has just
happened! Occurrence … being the signpost
for all things instant.
To what is now
And what is never then
To what has been
And what will never now
To things all thinging
And soon all soon’ing
To what is now
Instantly now
Barrio/Barrier
FROM Yes Thing No Thing
Of Natural Disasters And Love
I haven’t the right to record what I haven’t lived through
I can only write what I know—and how empty is that
and who cares
I am capturing the essence
of what I live through—everyday
the wonder of another breath seems like a new beginning
and here at the gathering
of reader, writer and page—I am made aware
that there is no matter
when what’s outside your grasp
can slip away so easily if you don’t let go first
and my love—has just asked me what I want to eat
because dinner is ready
and I write that down—to remind myself
and who cares besides me
and that’s the point
FROM Ameriscopia
And In Trying
the boy tried writing about the sky
and in writing about the sky
he became the sky pretty gold and blue
and so he tried to write about the water
and in writing about the water
he became the water pretty gold and blue
and so he tried to write about the writing and in writing
the writing became pretty gold and blue
and so the boy tried leaving the writing
and in leaving he became pretty gold and blue
and so the boy became the water
and in watering the him his sky became
pretty gold and blue and so the blue tried
watering the sky and in writing about the boy
blue became pretty gold and boy and so
<
br /> the gold tried writing about the pretty
and in pretty about the blue became boy boy and boy
and so the boy tried boying about the sky
and in skying the pretty pretty became
boy boy and boy and so boy boy and boy
and in boying the boy became
and gold and gold and gold tried golding the water
and in water was the blue who wrote about the boy
who tried writing about the sky
Viva La Viva
I used to be the picture of a family man
I used to have insurance and a family plan
I used to be a fixture for the family man
I used to have endurance for the family plan
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
I used to have a garden with a place in the sun
I used to have a shoulder I could lay my head on
I used to be the model of a bodily soul
I used to hide a bottle in the watering hole
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
I used to be the leader of a nation of woe
I used to push a button and the missile would go
I used to blow the whistle on the fizzle below
I used to put the sugar in the cappuccino
my people suffer more than yours do
my people suffer more than yours do
my people suffer more than yours do
my people suffer more than yours do
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
I used to have a limo but they took it away
I used to have a pillow but they took it away
I used to have a baby but they took it away
I used to have a maybe but they took it away
I used to watch the enemy before it was me
I used to watch the battle be the battle I see
I used to watch theology be all you can be
I used to watch reality before a tv
when people suffer they go d-d-d-dumb
when people suffer they go d-d-d-dumb
when people suffer they go d-d-d-dumb
when people suffer they go d-d-d-dumb
I used to beat around the bush and call it a day
I used to peter out about a third of the way
I used to pay attention to the mention of new
I used to have a useta be addiction to you
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
I used to be the lover of the people I know
I used to be the color of the people I know
I used to be the brother of the people I know
I used to be the other of the people I know
I bet a better booty’s gonna better the flow
I beat a better booty witta bubble o’blow
I better let a booty be the buddha below
a buddha better beat it if he doesn’t belong
I used to suffer but I d-d-d-don’t
I used to suffer but I d-d-d-don’t
I used to suffer but I d-d-d-don’t
I used to suffer but I d-d-d-don’t
you ever get a feeling life is passing you by
you ever get a feeling you could never describe
you ever get a feeling you were never alive
you ever get a feeling I could take you alive
I used to be much thinner when a thinner was fun
I used to be the sinner when a sinner was fun
I used to be the winner when a winner was fun
I used to have fun now I’m holding a gun
some people suffer and go p-p-p-pow
some people suffer and go p-p-p-pow
some people suffer and go p-p-p-pow
some people suffer and go p-p-p-pow
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
viva la lala, lala, la lalalala
FROM “Dome” (unpublished poem)
—I was so tired this morning
and here I am—awake
at the jawbone edge of carrion encourager
unsettled on deciphering—my body as Lucifer’s timepiece
the form I accept in the time of its motion—
my motion—my it map—the corners of my room, previous
and tense
—before dome slayed spirit out of form—
what do I call essence—like seed, like energy I release, like demon gentility,
or so it seems … but the seeming edge is what you
never reach
when trying to run from what you know—these words,
how will they affect
what you know—you right there, me right here—
that ageless engagement
between our desperation for alignment—in our time, in our spine
—whose hands are these … scarlessly writ like vapor
—how many moves do I have left … transcending throat
—is there a list you could lift from me … blooded apparition
—if words could only come easy … disembodied enabler
just give in—to who,
my edges—
sudden, and all I own …
o o o
what happened to my indents
the jumps
from margin from garden spot to flutter
from dare to don’t—the collective escape, landing
at the root
we stop—mind, far from home …
formless blinding light over me, finds a knot
—gotta get these kinks out—what I hear,
pressed under skin
as fingers reach solar plexus
the word shhhhh impaled
on din neurons numb divinity
—what does the unknown need
from me—
from newly-edged limbs, as fingers reach
the place I leave—impressions of solar organs
continue sub-whispering their burn, that roam …
where no
can feel safe, where don’t
says “sure I’ll visit you …
will you stay where you are,
take the limit I pour
as purity” I hear myself, outloud—
repeating a line—to hear it
breathe—
by saying it—repeatedly—
phantom poem—rolls what appear to be eyes at the mention
of what clearly strikes a spot—gets back to knot
with invisible pop—ancient hard-ass
uses elbows as knee pads
immortal bricked-in body
quakes fluorescent sinner with
reappearing words
—from gate
to lion—where best
to stretch out for
reception
for clearest signal
undercover of sleight
—to mine for things, that don’t mind
things—
know what I mean
look, there’s a poem on a mist—
“what ignition
teases first
by leaving”
—where are you going … I think, not say—
letting third-eye sight return to maker
—what lets know-how pass through vessel …
I catch, not write—
takes serious lift
to make length
between the meridians
where the fault lines break
dig—into your ment
mo-ment
make-ment
state-ment
say-ment
invent oracle—
while seeing nothing
but intertwining sun, drop down to
Sanskrit inertia
the chakras train the mindful
stain the mind—
both palms down for the inner ride
the game of un
done, as in, I’ve been …
° ° °
born twice because
of you—both low and through
our bloodlines—
peaked in miscalculation … go ahead
—fixate on my discoloration—see me
in you
our lifetimes—so brief
a work-in-progress
scant unknowns, our needs
undone—
the making of our ideas
—the material possessions
incinerating the lovely things
—the headless openings—vividly
self-selecting …
I hear you talking
do you hear me listening—sun
° ° °
every arc or trajectory
carries sensation— we move on, to the lost limbs
of us—our dots—connected
with loss, we break
the luminous details—does this hurt—
don’t ask
what you know the answer to
the apparition in question—the open skull—
does not take pain
in chronological time—the obstacles that
keep you
sustained, by the things you understand
—to wake you up, in your body—
the last resistance I have
is my body—the skin of the poem
ageless—as we age
the human spirit—not physical,
once born
° ° °
the words have always been there—by moving the body
through the body, byproducts of transition
excrete into the system—
let me open your episode—the most visible
poem says—
to work on your inflammatory response
all endings—open to the promise you
put yourself in
under your own hand, realizing
the poem’s spine
is the poet’s—
° ° °
POETICS STATEMENT
American Poets in the 21st Century Page 50