What do I say to the Norwegians (my hosts) this coming week? They want to know about American poetics (specifically of the Avant Garde variety) as it relates to “Occupy.” I didn’t quite promise them an in-depth critical-aesthetic genealogy of it, but I also haven’t as yet opted for a Green & Silver Mariachi approach to cultural analysis either, fun and surfacy. I am thinking about going All Black.

All Black Mariachi—used to be called Occupy Wall Street.

I could also (if a trilling trumpet of the moment prompts me to) do the All White Mariachi. The All White—one of its powers, golden satin underwear, is ready at a moment’s notice for flashing internal exertion abroad. It is not without its charms, to say the least. All White Mariachi, though tossed around like a rag doll in realpolitik wrestling rings, tends to survive them!

Import / Export, Cultural Transmission Line—we hope this isn’t just another speculative market moment.


Mariachis—twelve—think of them.

Mariachis—two—check them out.

Mariachi—one, one All Black Mariachi, who can deny? Who could deny?

The movement caught like wild fire because people yearned to find the root causes of this most recent meltdown that crashed the world economy, and with it, millions of people’s livelihoods.


Being Industrial-Democratic, not Anarchist (just yet)—

Being Sectoral Industrial Psychologist, not becoming one with jungle floor worms (just yet)—

I wanna sink said the Titanic—at that point.

I hope I’ve got float, Black Mariachi says, straight from the sternum—at that point.

When you throw a mariachi into an unheated pool at 4:00 in the morning, what do you want? What did you expect to hear?


The inside of minor planetary objects—they want to mine them now.

“I might support it!” Black Mariachi says, from the sternum, laughing heartily.

Environmental Concern absent of Work Environment Reality is Yellow Mariachi.

Question (before you pick at your device 5 seconds from now): where does the vast, extreme vast majority of the world’s known reserves of Lithium reside?


There’s a parade of core facts about class-economic inequality in the U.S. that at night appear like Santa Clause’s reindeers flying past a full moon. The feelings about those facts fall like absentminded snow every morning. And when Wall’s Street’s sun comes up—it’s cold reboot time. Not only are your aunts & uncles possible asteroid mining speculators, but your granny too has to endure unwanted come-ons by Purple & Orange Mariachis, speculation speculators.

What should I say to the Norwegians (my hosts) about a tight network of 3 to 6 poetry scenes continuously “in crises” talking moon about Occupy?


Industrial-Democratic means regulation. Not the kinkiest critter, we know, but Industrial-Democratic is able to flash-weld many loose pieces of Santa’s vehicle on Santa’s nightly flight o’er the moon (at least long enough for you to enjoy it, get something out of it.)


I borrowed a book from the Occupy Free Library and sold it at the Strand Book Store on Broadway and 12th Street. What I should have done is sold the Strand Book Store to a Blue Mariachi on Bedford and North 7th Street in Brooklyn. I had something in common with the motherfucker! Commerce.

Meanwhile, newly financialized reindeers without a sled were flying around free like sputtering firecrackers. Santa was laying in a field somewhere half dead, mumbling, “God Bless America.”

Mariachis—think of them, 313 million; 27 in a dark bar referencing 313 million; and then one, one single Black Mariachi, who can deny?


There was a signal you gave me, but I didn’t quite understand it. It might have been my tendency to over-correlate things into one irresolvable equation, or maybe it was your lack of practice in sending mariachi signals at the right time. Nevertheless, when we both crossed the barrier of Author Pride and became Sectoral Industrial Psychologists (telecommunications, education, mining, manufacturing, publishing, service, transportation, medical, etc) at least then we were on the same page, and perhaps both of us were crowded in the lower left corner scarily still too close to the upper right corner of the document. There we were. Here we are. Otherwise, we’d be totally off the page, no?


Originally Published: April 26th, 2012

Raised in southern California, experimental poet, playwright, and labor activist Rodrigo Toscano's experimental work often takes the form of conversation and physical movement that interrogates, and crosses, borders: the border between poetic and political action, between the made thing and its making, between speech and theater, between languages, between social...