“At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love. It is impossible to think of a genuine revolutionary lacking this quality.”
“Hatred is an element of struggle; relentless hatred of the enemy that impels us over and beyond the natural limitations of man and transform us into effective, violent, selective, and cold killing machines. Our soldiers must be thus; a people without hatred cannot vanquish a brutal enemy.”

“One must endure – become hard, toughen oneself – without losing tenderness.”
“Hay que endurecerse sin perder jamas la ternura”

“The Expedition you are appointed to command is to be directed against the hostile tribes of the Six Nations of Indians, with their associates and adherents. The immediate objects are the total destruction and devastation of their settlements, and the capture of as many prisoners of every age and sex as possible. I will be essential to ruin their crops now in the ground and prevent their planting more.
I would recommend, that some post in the center of the Indian Country, should be occupied with all expedition, with sufficient quantity of provisions whence parties should be detached to lay waste all the settlements around, with instructions to do it in the most effectual manner, that the country may not be merely overrun, but destroyed.
But you will not by any means listen to any overture of peace before the total ruinment of their settlement is effected. Our future security will be in their inability to injure us and in the terror with which the severity of the chastisement they receive will inspire them.”

From In defense of Lost Causes – Slavoj Zizek – page 466

Delicious, tender, pink,
fresh piece of garbage.

Born of lymph nodes,
fats, ovaries, testicles
and other mammals’ inner.

You go around and around,
waiting for ketchup and mustard.
Food of democracies,
unemployed, doctors
and 7 Elevens.

Your oily flesh,
melted in flour, water and saliva,
activates the sybaritic spirits
of all generations.

“Completo,” “Pancho,” “Salchicha,”
they call you in the Spanish language,
while they feast on you with cabbage,
onion and avocado.

You are the symbol of fast food,
practicality and convenience.
Feeding the dreams of an industrialized
High Tech. Mythology.

Perhaps the Sufis envisioned you and wrote.
“The garbage of one is the treasure of another.”

And after all these years,
with pleasure I eat you,
with nothing else
than mayonnaise and Coca-Cola.

From Bluff Fandango 1999 – Gathering of Poets and Writers.

“Our slavery is multidimensional: politically, spiritually, religiously, we are slaves in every way, and fear is the root of it.
You are virtuous because of fear, you go to the temple because of fear, you pray to G-d because of fear. And a man who lives through fear can not be intelligent. Fear is poison to intelligence.” Osho.

Ana becko’ach G’dulat Y’mincha Tatir T’zrurah
Kabel Rinat Amchah Sagvenu Tahareinou Nora
Na Gibor Dorshei Yechudecha K’evavat Shamrem
Barchem Taharem Rachamei Tzidkatcha Tamid Gamlem
Chasin Kadosh B’rov Tuvcha Nahel Adatecha
Yachid Ge’eh L’amcha P’neh Zochrei K’dushatecha
Sav’atenu Kabel Ushma Tza’akateinu Yode’a Ta’alumot

Baruch Shem Kevod Malchutoh L’olam Va’ed

There is a time for almost everything
A time to laugh, a time to cry.
A time for beef, a time for lamb.
A time to make mistakes, a time to apologize.
A time to believe, a time to disbelieve.
A time to be smart, a time to be dumb.
A time to look, a time to close the eyes.
A time to eat, a time to lose weight.
A time to accept, a time to criticize.
A time to sleep, a time to be awake.
A time to love, a time to hate.
A time to resent, a time to forgive.
A time to be yourself, a time to be someone else.
A time to recognize your ignorance, a time to ask for help.
A time to be animal, a time to be rational.
A time to have sex with another, a time to masturbate.
A time to tell the truth, a time to keep your mouth shut.
A time to understand life, a time to run around like a chicken with no head.
There is a time and a place for almost everything.
A place?
Please do not make me repeat you the anti-poem again.

Hector Ahumada 1/03/2018. USA

Below

Led home into oblivion
the sociable talk of
our slow eyes.

Led home, syllable after syllable, shared
out among the dayblind dice, for which
the playing hand reaches out, large,
awakening.

And the too much of my speaking:
heaped up round the little
crystal dressed in the style of your silence.

Brief comments:
Paul Celan’s work confront us with difficulty and paradox.
Paul Celan spent his formative years in a Jewish community in the frontier of the Austrian Empire.
In the summer of 1942 his parent were deported to an internment camp in Transnistria, where his father died of typhus and his mother was murdered later by a shot in the neck.
After his marriage in 1952 to Gisele Lestrange, Paris remained his home until his suicide by drowning in the Seine in April 1970.

Although father and son,
we are so different.
At the core of our souls
he is one, and I the other one.

We speak the same languages.
I have no ambitions,
but the intense desire to write.
He seldom reads my poems.

He is my beloved one.
We do not pray together.
We sit on opposite
ends of the garden.

In a every day acceptance
with tolerance in time
we perceive the same differently.
We are united by love

Hector Ahumada 2003, USA

kingdom as wisdom’s words in wind’s rustling
heart beating rhythm she utters as the water’s roar
everywhere song of life the earth quakes of it
ineffable song in peace as the crackling fire
to which birds call or curling smoke
morning sun how they worry with of incense
as dusk brings devil hunger
crickets to sing penetrating intellects chimes of morning bells
with cold intent mutters of evening prayer
moonlight’s chorus getting a grip or silently, in a manger
behind the pines on the sweetest means in stillness
alone in a watchtower of a slow death on a mountain top
King Solomon writes against an empty
of wisdom crying blood runs thick with sky
in the opening of sugar in the veins
the gates lost heart’s connection In the valley
and love of spirit heaven waits to be seen
celilo eyes like glass on the mountain
in the canyons roar drunk and wanting it takes me up
song of life in smoke
on each rock praying for comforts
a tear drop in the valley Gentle is the grass
each blade of grass all creatures stirring which grows and twirls
drop of life there is no rest in folds between my toes
pregnant nor time of day damp on my cheek
nor to waste she feels like
down in the valley on the home
the nations shutter at living
sound of rain while along rock’s faces
electing ghost kings standing at the beginning she dances in peace
they pledge to idols the mindful even the rocks
spelling rejection hearing utterances of the kingdom
of G-d; Make revelation tongue are singing
endless war in mystery
on their it’s secrets
brother unfold

Drowning in tears treading the salted sea
Numbness flares opposite pain in me
Missed a curve and derailed in Spain
Head on later in Switzerland
Safe until something goes wrong

No visitors not preacher, priest, bishop or witness
Not a saint, sinner or whore
Two out of three dogs befriend me
Taco Tuesday pigging out
Regular price Wednesday go without

20th Anniversary celebrating 10 years alone
Mother’s Day cash returned
You put on the official face
And visit my mom and sis

Train shop at Warm Springs
No vendor to be seen
On to Mestizo mocha coffee and cola
Keeps the heart on track
A life derailed a loco is cut for scrap

USA, 08/01/2013