Rigorous
Volume Four, Issue 2



Héctor Castañeda


a fortune for your disaster
1.10.2020

after Hanif Abdurraqib

unwhite bodies crucifying
their pain for all to see
for deep pockets to swallow
with satin veils embedded
in the burrows of their brainfolds
by corporate pale gloved hands.

 

i. witness

within the carried dead

a white night

drowns; he /

backing to surface

in the way

carnations

larynx. every

hollow cave of

blasphemy,


an empty mouth.

an empty wine glass /

in eternal shatter.

ii. Witness


hollow of

a man

is pulled

by baptizing himself /

he plucks

from his wet

blooming, teethlines his

throat with harp strings.

into an empty cathedral.


empty God into

anything / witness crowds awe

in the same pulpit

                as your mending wounds.

                                                           scarred.

iii. [            ]

[carri/on]

[knight]




[ocean]









[echoes]
[gaping]





[Eu/cha/rist]



still [.]




CATHEDRAL JOINT NETWORK (CENTER) - 2.12.2020

Have you ever been in attentive awe over priests and choirs preaching rich reverberation into cathedrals? Awed by how God’s embodied and mediated word would echo and flood your nerve endings in transcendent dopamine via the medium of divinely pedestaled bodies? Awed by how every Exodus-cathexis of oration thru your psyche’s seas unveiled new “promised lands” of knowledge around, through, and within yourself? Are you walking through a cathedral or a crucified body? “Thy body is a temple”: pelvic atrium; umbilical naval navel; coronary transepts; chancel choir vocal cords; arch-bishop sits in apsis cranial catedra, a pineal soulseat. Think Eucharist. Think cruciform. Think. How cathedrals become crucifixes to phoenix-eagle eyes flying East towards born-again sunrises. Ever seen a conflagrated cathedral? All the psychophysical wrath of archi-textured flames as microcosmic Armageddon. Cathedral, or black mirror? Has your attention’s shape become a rectilinear black hole of endless networked cathedrals?




I. Baptism
II. Confirmation

III. Theocannibalism (Masses) [Eucharist/Viaticum]- 6.23.2019

IV. Penance & Reconciliation
V. Blessing of the Sick
VI. Holy Orders
VII. Matrimony

Anything we do as a species, do we do it in pursuit of being like God?

  1. Masses prideful of how they wear their crucifixion;
    in mass; en masse
     
  2. Masses spectacle as Father figures shapeshift
    from serpent to greedful popes
     
  3. Masses lust for body and blood
    to become Gods but find their cells
    becoming beasts they dismembered roots from
     
  4. Masses envy how much more amassed
    white robed padres sanctify-façade their divinity
     
  5. Masses beget gluttony unknowingly
    as they lick every muscle fiber
    and blood droplets of Communion
    Eucharist like civilized savages
     
  6. Masses unleash their wrath
    on folk who do not crave bread
    which shapeshifts into flesh or
    wine which unalchemizes into blood
    to illusion the Self into a false nirvana
     
  7. Masses sloth to write mythology
    even when chosing to unfold their eyes,
    but not unwind their collective hive-mind
    mouth to feed, even when
    they throw it all up in disgust.

0. Were we truly meant to become worshipped, all of us?
And who am I to think,
in my abstinence after spiritual Viaticum,
that I am any fucking different?




Colonizer Corpses - 2.14.2020

May my every word
make colonizers groan
in their gravitied graves
as they turn onto their empty

stomachs, and face the
mouth of soil decomposing
their
every genocidal shatterglass
unsymphony. facing away from

the shining sun. away
from their God.



Whether they,
either God or colonizer
[same complex],

are dead
or alive.

Eu
cha
ris
to
crat.

[no sempaxochitls para tí, Cristobal Colón]

I will
conflagrate their every throned chariot.

I will
Unmanifest their Destiny.




Salt Pillars - 2.19.2020

—after Javi Hernandez, "Mayonnaise Romance"

O whiteness,
how you invert me
into trisplit salt pillars
then demand I dissolve
back into your oceanic limbs.

O white nest,
How inadvertent of you
to unintentionally rebirth me

as I am unmade
with drowning upon drowning,
every screamless bubble from my throat

becomes
an infinite hive
of unresolved cadences.

Becomes
broken body elegies,
submerged potentiality.

And so I trick myself
to rebecome anything bodylike,
reinvert my sodium into calcium
to attempt alchemizing me into bone,

but still too ivory
to be crowned margin-ally
skeleton in your pale pupils.

O why am I next
in line, to crown you margin
ally skeleton in your kind's pale pupils.

O whiteness,
Why are you sooo
obsessed with race?
I'm not the fucking one
drowning enough brown spines

to Messiah us to
an American oasis
then call out "wetback",

not the one naming brown
after my brow's stale sweat, and
misnaming us colonized colonizer like

"Spanish Person In Custody" when
every policed jailcell threshold mouth
screams louder than undocuchildren cry,

quieted under America's right wing.
The left wing tokenizes me so gilded
I become treasurebox full of medallions

holding a brown bomb in my throat,
its white wick cockloaded to scream, "S.P.I.C.!"

The wick's every twined hair
always prepared to ignite itself

to combust me into shrapnel.

Right wing, left wing,
same fucking bald eagle
with a meadow of brown scalp
graveyards under every golden feather.

O hwite lochness,

In response I scream,
"Subjugated Person Imploding Cathedrals",
all the Manifest Destiny groaning Armageddons

when I stone all the stained glass
for stoning my stainglass-heart queers too.

O unHighness,

In response I scream
"my maize-blooded people
thorn-crowned you their unMessiah"
and so you cruciformed their bodies aflame.

And so I
conflagration your congregation.

I wildflare inferno every unBible
to uncathedral the sour bread of Christ,

to unKKK all the staled wine
spilled from melanated blood.

I scream out
what you did.
Kill. Kill. Kill.

In response I scream,
just scream.

For all those with honeywood skin
who could not.

Who still cannot.

O whiteness.
divineless God.

unAmen.




Brown Boy Epiphanies - 12.26.2019

-after my uncle Gus and his partner Liz visiting us Christmas night, all the way from Tacoma to San José.

With every return home,
Brown boy realizes
How much of him
is walking revolution.

Steps into college.
Sees almost no one like him
In his classrooms
except behind
skycollar dining hall ladles
and paperskin papercollar bosses.

They, one of many
ghost limbs to his mouth.
Most certainly honeywood hands picked
These warmly plated chromatic crops.
Palms with insufficient money
for thriving.

Immigration imitation.

Realizes not everyone
Tries convincing themselves
Neighborhood bullet cacaophonies
Are just shattering firework.
Just like he unearths
His sustained selfconvincing
of secured masquerade Whiteness:
just orchestras of crumbling missionaries.

One
by one.

He always wants to believe.
But knows one day he'll be blasphemous
Without him even knowing,
Bullets fronting firework voices.

Another cathedral built
then collapsed only
when every brown body in it
Prays to white Jesus.
Colonial cathexis.

This not abstract.
This neighborhood gunshots.
This preventable violence.
This horizontal hostilities.

This death certificate
He walks past
Just littering sidewalk pavement.
Both the paper and his neighbors
Galetorn from familial hurricanes.

Every papered fiber:
water, damaged from booze, and waterdamaged.
Sunkissed, soilkissed parchment.

Hold brown corpses up to the light:
Novel sunray veins from seeing sun,
after both birthed from so many bones;
both certificate and Death.

Every disproportionate liquor store prescence
An extra brownhole artillery
Slowly cocking additioned gunpowder
Into every resulting earthquaked house
hold,
trembled by near-doorstep
fermented bottled colonialism.

I live
on the edge of a
food apartheid.

So you can hold
kale in one hand,
alcohol and hot chips in the other.

Let's go to
the liquor store.
Which fucking one
within a square mile unradius?

This not pro hibition.
This pro family.
This pro health.
This pro survival.

Tacoma uncle and partner
imagination me to alchemize
even just ONE fermented
bottlehouse into bookhub.

Knows potential bureaucratic challenge,
Knows potential East Side Renaissance,
Knows potential semihood purgance,
Knows potential.

Steps into striking streets
for his microclimate.
Grew up with
freeways for neighbors.

Realizes its no accident,
His predetermined asthma
Undone a breath more
with each soiled solekiss in his walk.
Outgrown childhood inhaler.
Past shell, past lungs.
Same thing.

Steps into realization that
Those like him often
Aren't unbound towards
unhome long enough
To find a rally of unshattered bone and nerve in his colloquial waltz.

Always gravitized to
streetless household tile
By family worry,
By haunted ghosts,
By gunshot echoes,
By smogged exhaust,
By underfunded buses.

Hometown house to downtown SJ,
or downtown station to Santa Cruz?
Same fucking time spent,
Cheaper mile difference,
Expenser cash escaping pockets.

And City Council
keeps cutting funding
for buses in
brown and black
neighborhoods.

Steps into Facebook summit
Youngest and one of brownest.
Educational justice youth organizer
Amongst philanthropist oceans
that would gentrifuge his neighborhood
and NOT his neighbors.
More groceries and bookification,
Less funhouse beerism, no gentrifism.

Steps outside the house.
20 minute walk to Boy Scouts
in urban farm park
where chickens, peacocks, kids alike
iridescence freely.
Food justice garden
just paces away,

under veined skyhigh freeways,
Past littered liquor stores,
Past mom and pop shops with
bold brick font prisms
for nametags.

Uncle applauds his
ex-highschool guts cause
"No one walks
'round East Side".

Steps into white gaze mics,
audience bearing skin like [G/g]od[']s.
Just like cathedrals taught him.
He, already raw and Raptured rupture.
Unasks [G/g]od[']s and God itself
for repentance, for forgiveness.

And
Isn't this
so Brown Boy:

Instead,
Continues step.
Continues shapeshifting[,]
bullets into pens.
Continues exorcisms of Self.

Continues unhaunting family for himself.
Continues unhaunting family.
Continues unhaunting.
Continues.




Home
12.18.2019

after Princess Nokia and Ocean Vuong

0.

If this shit
"abstract" to you
then you probably
lucky as fuck.

i.

East Side
San José.

Home a potent Purgatory;
still home.

Auditory lines blur between
Gunshots and fireworks.

4th of July both
Exorcism and
opportunity.

Dogs whimpering
Barking fear
Into my
Plexus.

No solar.

No SWAT team
at my neighbor's door
this time.

No running up stairs.
No room amalgamating into
a 4 -body family caucus
for how to dance
between invisible bullets.

No rummaging
through bathroom cabinets
For last minute weaponry.

No having to shed my calm
to become raw craftsman:
Anything relatively teeth or dagger.

Yet we were safer
than the moment
three bullets struck
the air behind my room
and resonated bells
of sheltered fight-or-flight.



Window open,
One,
two,
three
sounds I recognized
Only from ancestral memory.
Wanted mythology to firework each uncocked bullet.

Again,
Living room caucus


Brown body family Congress


We discuss


...


Self-displacement.
Mom worries.
Dad dials.

"911, what's
your emergency?"
The words I knew
He heard, not me.

Novel to me & sister's cartilage, yet
So familar to our parent's bones.

Substitution sub suburbias
d
r
i
p
from every throat,



Forcibly nostalgic.
Our bodies shall
memory movement

again?

Mother Spanish dictates
"this area becoming
more like Oakland"

She refrains,
"no matter
where I've lived,
I've always
been in the
jaws of the
wolf".
Verbatim.

My mother is well known
for being lucky.
She always wins raffles.
Always.
Don't tell me otherwise.
Both because
I won't believe you
And because
I can't.

My birth is proof.
These words are
Celebration of it.

With her poetic truth,
I remember our bodies
And the bodies before us, like:









...


























Have always been



Walking through Armaggedons
And silver bullets merely graze skin
Kiss with misfire, their unfortune.
Such fortunate epidermis.

Every grain of gunpowder



A pestled werewolf tooth.



The colonial cathedrals
our blood mixed in
Pigment us in
beige and honeywood
and Declaration-parchment.

Family.

Birthed of our own Interdependence
From each other's unwound wounds.

Alchemy.

Laughter into
frijoles de la olla.

Every hug's heat signature
the warmth of
Christ
mas Pozole.

Every homecoming
Feastly salsa merengue.
Choral choreos

Gravitizing my bags
on the way back to my
Santa Cruz apartment.
Date-stuffed with promises
of nourishment.


...

People shadow.
Shadow people.
Haunt
and haunt
us.

So we
copal clapback
with
Unioned word and
sacred smoke.

Metaphysical becomes real
when intergenerational wounds
chimera into silhouetted demons.

Black hole voids
Gaping jaws with no teeth
Trying to swallow us
for nourishment.

Hollow poltergeist receptacles
Hold so much fractured water
In their shape.

I think about death
a lot.

I am Atlas
to all the ghosts I carry
on my spine vertebrae columns.

1. bodies failing to cross the
invisible threshold
of "immigrant":
they form

graveyards of desert
ed bones
sliced in ha

lf at the

blades of the



Border.
America:

Oasis mirage.
Fragile ladder.
Television br
oken,
bleeding glit
ched bruises.
Dollar bill tongues.
They cut



ours:
Spanish,

oto
...
mí?

2. I think
about death


a lot.

Around 12 years old
Dad's black belt taught me
And my cousins
how to make my
peripheral vision and hearing
into a landscape.

I've been told
my side of town resembles
a desert.

But I've never
seen a corpsed body
of sidewalked bones.



Yet.

Dad taught me to
Vividify each sight and sound
As to not end up
with teeth
or cars
or claws
or bullets
in your heart.

I think about death a lot.
I call it rebirth so the
low vibrating spirits in me
Don't awake.

If this shit
abstract to you
then you lucky as fuck.

If you find shards
of your story in mine,
we can break together.

Rekaleidoscope.




Excerpt from my piece “Ghosts in the Dreamscape”; a youthful, authored, academic body stumbles upon an abandoned island of ghosts, gods, goddesses, ancestors, and unmuted magick in his-story’s wakes.

[redacted]

Time baton-passes their limbs to Space, cycling. Space takes your left hand and hallucinogenizes your mind’s eye. It speaks through the Goddess’s lantern-eyes.

campsite concentric amphitheater.
you find yourself centered in the [in]finite eye
of a moonlit sunflower. every seed: a midden node
of women with eagle-hooked noses, earth-clay-skin.
ornamented in chromatic beads, clay-red paint
as far as your eye[s] can see.
delicious caving-in of matchstick walls:
collapsed mouth as novel teeth-sets bloom.[5]
as an insigniated serpent-mouth cave splits open
an eyed spiral at the heart of inverted palabra
illuminates two crystalline spheres into your respective palms;
a deep-caved voice speaks from this opened throat:
a spoken curved cloud-window of serpent eyes gazing
amidst its speech-cumuli home; inviting:
visit our home. oracle the architecture and,
within the cloak-cloth of your rosed cranium
unMessiah,              unJuanDiego
these rose-petaled sights back to your plane
for all those able to observe its interweaved intergeographies.


[1] “[redacted] [Bering Straits Migration] [Anzaldúa]” (26). +

[2] “[redacted] [patriarchy in pre-Columbian America] [Anzaldúa]” (27). +

[3] “[redacted] [Nuestra Señora Maria de Coatlalopeuh] [Anzaldúa]” (50). + in this way my words are roses.

[4] “[redacted] [mestizx birth] [Anzaldúa]” (27). +

[5] “[redacted] [second novel set of teeth] [Anzaldúa]” (73) + I invert. Ascend. Every heart in my gut rises to my temples and becomes God. They blasphemize themselves humbly; assert divinity of all else around us. A motion picture of colors, shapes, flora, fauna, and bodies comes into a focus. When the Sacred Feminine holds the hand of my masculine body, a portal opens in my forehead. I become my own Creator. I paint language. This queer neoshamanistic ritual of Creation.



Héctor Castañeda: "I am a poet, music producer, singer-songwriter, graphic designer, event curator, gardener, UCSC junior, and much more. I consider myself a jack of all trades, rooting myself in as many meaningful connections as possible. I come from San José and a proud, hard-working family of immigrants. My writing and musical themes often touch on intuition, ancestral energy, linguistics, surrealism, religion, color, organized chaos, metaphysicality, (in)harmony, philosophy, queerness, biology, marginalized bodies; the rewritten and unwritten. I’m a shapeshifting chameleon night owl bellowing into the oceanic void, constantly phoenixing the architecture of my body. My web site is https://tinyurl.com/ddaomusic."




Top of Page

Table of Contents






Visit our Facebook page          Visit us on Twitter


editors AT rigorous DASH mag DOT com
webmaster AT rigorous DASH mag DOT com