Francisco X. Alarcon, Chicano poet, professor, critic and editor.
A man of gentle revolutionary nature, loyal friend and authentic sincere writer.
He was born in Los Angeles, grew up in Guadalajara, Mexico, and now lives in the life to come.
Whatever you are now my friend poet, I love and miss you Francisco. Hector Ahumada.

FROM “OF DARK LOVE” by Francisco X. Alarcon
I
there has never been a sun for this love,
lie crazed flower it buds in the dark,
is at once a crow of thorns and
a garland of spring around temples

a fire, a wound, the bitterest fruit,
but also breeze and water-source,
a bite to the soul – your breath,
a treetruk in the current – your chest

make me walk over turbid waters,
be the ax that breaks this lock,
the dew that weeps from trees

if I become mute kissing your thighs
it is that my heart is eagerly searching
your flesh for a new dawning

I observe the image
of a lower back x-ray.
The vertebral bodies
are deformed and osteoporotic.
It is the lumbar spine
of a Russian construction worker.
The patient’s translator says
that I look like Engels,
“The philosopher, you know.”

I look at the radiograph again
and imagine the man
pouring cement
among the noises of hammers,
saws and engines.
After work
he whistles and smokes a cigarette
on his way home.

Then, like in the cinema
about a trillion synchronized moving parts
to the past life of the worker
spark action in the mind.
I do not ask questions.
The old man is proud of his pain.
I have no control of the mind.
So I continue the vision.

A series of stereotyped
images of Russia.
From airline posters, stamps,
and ruble bills.
At this moment the mind
suggests the abolition
of all forms of the word
“is” or “to be.”

The narration is fragile,
inconsistent and confused.
It is hard to listen
without prejudice.
So, I sit in front of an image
that appears to be a lower back x-ray of a man,
possible a Russian construction worker.

“IT IS BETTER TO OFFER NO EXCUSE THAN A BAD ONE.”

My heart has become able
To take on all forms.
It is a pasture for gazelles,
For monks, an abbey.

It is a temple for idols
And for whoever circumvent it, the Kaaba.
It is the tablets of the Torah
And also the pages of the Koran!

I believe in the religion
Of Love
Whatever direction its caravans may take,
For love is my religion and my faith.

IBN ‘ARABI, was born in Andalusia and lived between 1165 and 1240.