i want a good heart .
i want it to be made of good stuff .
i want the stain glass window builder to be my drinking buddy .
i want to drink only the punch of a million gender queer school kids taking free martial arts lessons to survive recess .
i stopped calling myself a pacifist when I heard gandhi told women they should not physically fight off their rapists .
i believe there is such a thing as a non violent fist .
i believe the earth is a woman muzzled , beaten , tied to the cold slinging tracks .
i believe the muzzled have every right to rip off the bible belt and take it to the patriarchy’s ass .
i know these words are going to get me in trouble .
it is never polite to throw back the tear gas .
just like its never polite to bring enough life rafts .
they crowd the balconies where the wealthy shine their jewels .
but sometimes love ..
sometimes real love
is fucking rude .
is interrupting a wedding mid vow just as the congregation is about to cry .
to stand up in your pew to say
“ is everyone here clear on how diamonds are mined ?”
hallelujah to every drag queen at stonewall who made weapons out of her stiletto shoes .
hallelujah to the blues keeping the neighborhood awake .
to the activist standing in the snow outside of the circus
holding a ten foot photograph
of a baby elephant in chains ,
when it’s probably some little kid’s birthday .
hallelujah to making everyone uncomfortable .
to the terrible manners of truth .
to refusing to clean the blood off the plate .
bend this spine into a bow
i can pull across the cello of my speech .
love readies its heart’s teeth ,
chews through the etiquette leash .
takes down the cellphone tower after millions of people die in wars in the congo fighting for the minerals that make our cellphones .
love blows up the dam .
chains itself to the redwood tree ,
to the capital building when a trailer of mexican immigrants are found dead on the south texas roadside .
love insists well intentioned white people officially stop calling themselves color blind .
insists hope lace it’s fucking boots
always calls out the misogynist , racist , homophobic joke .
refuses to be a welcome mat where hate wipes its feet .
love asks questions at the most inappropriate times .
overturns the defense of marriage act then walks a pride parade . asking when the plight of poor single mothers will ignite our hearts into action like that .
love is not polite .
deadlocks our rush hour traffic with a hundred stubborn screaming bikes .
hallelujah to every suffrage movement , hunger strike .
hallelujah to insisting they get your pronouns right .
hallelujah to tact never winning our spines .
to taking our power all the way back to that first glacier that had to learn how to swim .
to not turning our heads from a single ugly truth .
to knowing we live in a time when beauty recruits its models outside the doors of eating disorder clients .
that is not a metaphor .
this is not a line to a poem .
an indian farmer walks into a crowd of people and stab himself in his chest to protest
the poisoning of his land .
a buddhist monk burns himself alive on the streets of saigon .
a united states' soldier hangs himself wearing his enemy’s dog tags around his holy neck .
may my heart be as heavy
as a tuba in the front row of the mardi gras parade five months after katrina .
may it weigh the weight of the world
so it might anchor the sun
so it might hold me to my own light until i am willing to sweat as much as i cry .
until i am willing to press into the clay of our precious lives .
a window .
might our grace riot the walls down .
may the drought howl us awake
may we rush into the streets
to do the work of opening each other’s eyes .
may our good hearts forever be
too loud to let the neighbors sleep .
Visitors had flown back home...
The much-longed for respite
Finally, was at hand.
It felt good...to be on your own...
Leaning on the bed, alone, though
Still nursing a cold from two weeks past.
To catch up with sleep
Was all that mattered.
Quietude was a blessing.
There was no noise at all
At 5:00 in the morning.
What? 5:00 AM?
No rushing footsteps? No showering?
No flushing of the toilet?
On a school day?
This can't be!
Rising from the bed was a struggle,
Everything seemed light...floating,
Panic lurked in all corners of my room,
Loomed, it did, and spread all around,
In the midst of a widening cloak of fear.
The vacuum...in the right ear...
Cleared those fuzzy thoughts.
My right ear could no longer hear.
Whether lying cringed or curled,
Prostrate, or supine,
Predominated in the days that followed.
Diagnoses and prognoses, all were bleak.
The cruel, deadly virus did it all...
The loss superceded, and
Displaced every strand of confidence...
A downward pull was imminent.
No phone calls were accepted.
Unexpectedly, true colors surfaced,
Real friends came forward...
Family, other voices kept whispering:
"Shibashi waits, tai chi helps,
Both can alleviate, heal the heart,
Heal the mind, to be able
To accept the unacceptable."
Fourteen days seemed a year already,
Moments spent in soul-searching...
With prayers and courage, gathered within,
I dared cross that busy street,
Though shaking, quivering from fear
And from the cold winds of February...
Almost got hit by a car,
Cursed by its driver,
But reached the church grounds in one piece.
Practice started at 7:00 AM, sharp.
Movements were calming,
Concentration was perfect!
It was a sunny day...
Wind blew softly,
Carrying small things, floating, flying...
Tiny strips that went with the wind...
What I thought were garbage...
Strips of thrash paper... from a shredder, maybe...
Thrown from a house I passed by...
Blown even further, higher up...
I walked back home,
With strips of paper on my head.
Two weeks were too short, I was still confused,
Unaccepting, mad, sad, felt cheated,
Still in denial, of what had occured...
Standing in front of a vanity mirror,
Wondering what God's message was this time.
Strangely, I thought of those strips of thrash paper...
Confetti from Heaven???
My situation wasn't a festive event!
Could I have overlooked something here?
Was God trying to call my attention?
I wasn't sure...all I knew was,
I was depressed...
I lost equanimity, I lost my serenity...
I was distraught, I was everything but happy.
But, those strips of paper...
Falling on my head...
Made me look up to the sky that morning....
There were no tears before, and even today...
I am a bit afraid, but
There is a calmer me...
There is solace in the fact that,
God gave me two ears...
I could still hear with the other...
I live a quite active life 'til now...
I move briskly...
I sit where the speaker's voice is most clear
To my left ear.
When something is difficult to hear, or understand,
I get so frustrated..
Sometimes, I forget about it,
It has its good effects.
It would soon be seven years after...
I have learned to
adjust to my limitations,
And still wanting to know how to overcome
Or resolve these limitations...
One day, I might just...
One day, I might just
Accept what should be accepted...
There'd be much gratitude for my sole request:
To be understood...
And not pitied...
Early morning ,December 11, 2013
(From journals of 2007-2008)
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
And all hell breaks loose in my house
The day I move out
I'm not coming back
I've sucked it in for a long time
But there's only so much a person can take
But I've reached my breaking point
When I leave this house I'm leaving it for good
Only talking to the people I can stand
Tired of most of y'all anyways
Always beating me down
I'm not good enough for ya'll
Sucks to be me right
At least you have one perfect child
I'm going to pull a you on you
Just like you did to my grandma
Beyond angry but now it's time to think
And collect my thoughts
I refuse to go to bed angry
So I won't
How do you help yourself
When you are lost
In your head
As there is no path to tread
Nor no stars to guide
Just the complexity
And the ambiguity
Loneliness grows into fear
And fear grows into a parasite
Until you are no longer lonely
In every way
Who do you confide in
When you are lost
Trying to reach for a hand
That will never pull you up
But rather push you farther down
Because they can't see you
Only through you
Right into the emptiness
To the victor goes the spoils
You can't find your way
If you're lost in the world you created
Because when the angels come down
They look for the living
Not the lost.
I know we are meant to be
For my heart pulls
Like a magnet toward yours
And when we collide
And it's so hard to pull away.
I know we are meant to be
For my heart pulls
Like a magnet toward yours
And when we collide
And it's so hard to pull away.
I do this for the ones who died to bring about the change
it's hard to stop the crying when you're standing in the rain
Our politicians lying they're just on a campaign
I realize with three eyes on my astral plane
breaking down a swisher filling it with Mary Jane
So I won't go insane from this knowledge that I've gained
the consequence of speaking out a bullet in your brain
or a one way trip to Guantanamo Bay
Join Forces with the Killers Rest In Peace J.F.K
Man Lacking Knowledge of who killed M.L.K
Like a wolf in sheep's clothing they are not who they portray
as yall can tell I'm back with the word play I see
Brothers killing brothers over colors that they claim
While our sisters are exploited for a dollar and some change
their fathers either dead or locked up in the chain gang
cause they were labeled felons for trafficking cocaine
Mama drop out of school and entered the dope game
was known to pull tricks and do strange things for change
they wanna chill with the gang but when it's time to bang
you'll find out that some of these suckers just wanted to hang
Millions are locked in a cage millions make minimum wage
It's like we're trapped in a maze trying to fulfill our days
while we're wasting our nights we're slowly fading away
Do you understand the message this is trying to convey?
Essence, the conviction of the write,
shall reorganize the rations for those in practice.
This vision is the measure, and pressures will these passions,
manifested softly by pen.
Thus are fancy and cleverly written for your poetic heart.
The seed of the write is wisdom.
Undressing for simplicity is merely a token,
simply a diluted meal for the mind of reason.
Compromising style for form is seedless, a pit, un-fancy ~
sacrificing ones wit. A simple notion, a quietness of pen,
are seams without thread ~ and thus are sent in a haste.
Present your share in color ~ refresh your intuition.
For reasons that shall spill out from the heart.
Mental these thoughts sent...
With conviction, steady away miss- guided intentions ~
milk the ink of your composition, lose yourself in poetics.
Writers crave reasons to mend their sheltered words.
Monumental the blessings of your pen ~ trust it, write...
Savvy away grievances, mend your instinct,
refine your wit. Engage your readers.
Paint them fancy as promised.
Grow willingly to heavy your intelligence,
essential to your work.
Thus pen without compromise.
Deliver it until the ink runs dry...
Passion is art. Grind it to a discipline.
Reason alone ~ is the venture, not for pennies ~
not for a payout or a new home.
Fortune found ~ is in the share.
Pay enough for any writer.
So polish your send, edit away loose words ~
Clichés, a ticket to ride ~ are but a fast fix,
a passing of your intelligence.
Be fair to mind ~ be disciplined stay on edge ~
justified to the left, then write.
Diamonds are the fortune ~ not in count as coins ~
but golden as words reserved for two.
Slices of life are served here.
Quotes echoed from the friendly are the writers pay,
enchanted in rhythms, make a meal of this plate.
Cultured arts, flavored in time are dressed
and ready for marinating.
Marathon the heart ~ fine-tune your pen.
Simply hold the pen and write.
Clever, calm, true to scope of diction.
Memory strands of life are in bloom.
Shell it, drape your lingo.
Blossom to your duty.
Words shuffle for a climb off the rim of your page.
Guide them gently, an evenly pleasure them ~ sow ~ it shall grow.
Steady them away from formula blink at the mirror of repetition ~
crutch the pull of rhyme. Discipline the sharpness of your tool.
Pen your vessel to ride. on the waves of wonder and your words shall live ~
pleasure them ~ trust them ~ row to your bank ~
the poetic heart, jewels found by this promise are sent by feather ~
embrace it ~ write until the sheet is no more…
Silent crackle, tingle,
The smell of a sticky must. Floating dust in
An abandoned attic, where the rats roam and the dead skeleton of a fish
Still lies in an empty bowl of moldy rocks and plastic plants.
Yet, despite the emptiness, a girl curls up in the corner, black
Running down her face as she weeps for the things she longs for most.
She looks out the dirty, broken window at the cloudy sky and imagines it
Blue. The brightest of skies with only few hints of cirrus.
A blanket on the ground and the man she loves, nothing else in sight.
The expanse of green in her head is contrasted to the rotting floorboards she lays
On, dreaming. The steady beat of Boy in Static thrumming through her headset
As she struggles not to scream and jump, finishing the job on the window
From troubled teens years before. The sound reminds her of VHS tapes,
Press rewind, take a turn and start over. But she can't, when something has changed.
The boy she knew, looking down with his hood not up, but covering his face, shielding
Himself from her. She knew he had a screw in his head, but she just looked away. He never answered anything she asked. He was unable.
But her heart still dropped, she smiled her best. An amazing actress, fooling everyone, makeup allergy keeping her eyes dry. She just read Huck Finn as though nothing was wrong.
Now she sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry, but her mind kept wandering to that attic.
She was there again. Blankly staring at her star charm anklet. A simple blue ribbon.
And the throbbing of her heartbeat through that one spot on her thumb,
That pressure point that hurts more than anything. But one thing could be worse.
Being left. Just like the broken rocking horse in the corner and the baby's cradle
Lined with blue silk that was shoved into a box. That baby is probably dead. Just like all
Of the others who lived there, burned by the fire. Goose flesh raises, prickly
Hairs on her legs from a week of no shaving. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Bleed.
Change the song. Bleed Like Me. Perfect. She draws on the peeling walls, two hundred
Years of wallpaper and lead paint, chalk barely leaving a mark. She sketches a masterpiece.
A child that she wishes she could have. Impossibly too young, but still...
A daughter she could raise better than her mother raised her. A chance to do something right.
More than the mechanic life she has lead, empty and useless.
Confused and pathetic. Like the broken grandfather clock that ticks backwards.
Three, two, one.
Ding-dong, dong-ding. Grandfather never taught me anything. He was not a wise man.
He was a fool. Knew too much and too little, no room to know what was right.
She let another raindrop escape and suddenly it began to pour. Lightning crashes as a glass
Slipper collides with the picture drawn of her dream. Thunder as she releases a
Bloodcurdling scream. "Why!?"
Why her? The pain in her back is unbearable. She slouches too much, and her eyes burn.
She is not Cinderella; her ball gown does not glitter.
Piano is her least favorite instrument, but it somehow gets to her. Small hammers
Striking her heart strings, low notes reminding her of his voice and the soft, feminine
Voices radiating, remind her of when she was young... Immortal. She has aged since then.
Too quickly. Her entire life has been a masquerade ball. Unskilled idiots dancing
Around her and stepping on her toes. Shouldering her in the stomach,
Breaking her ribs. Beats of music guide her skilled toes, swerve around falling raindrops that
Her own eyes emit. And she crashes through the floor of that dismal attic. Broken free,
But she is still trapped. The walls are charred down here.
But the walls are not painted black. They were once a mint color, green and cheerful, healthy.
Until a psychopath lit a match.
"I didn't mean to do it." It was all in her head. The house.
She set it aflame.
She sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry. It isn't worth it to stare. Nothing will change.
She is still just a girl in a glass box, being stared at and judged. Trapped and ridiculed because her eyes bleed and bless the onlookers with bad luck. It's amazing the things
That people don't know. Drifting deeper into a pit of endless darkness. A candle won't
Live down here. No oxygen to let it breathe. But one lit self portrait hangs in the air.
Years ago, drawn in pencil. Symbolic, it wants to be erased. To die.
And the girl on the page is wearing a mask. The girl in the parchment is me.
Medium length hair and a tear painted, permanent. A Parasite. Capitalized for its meaning.
A demon is running through me, singeing
My tissues, blisters on the insides of my bones. Swelled up, show through
My skin. Waves on a shore. But I am not a beach. A bitch maybe...
Still, I hate it. The hate killed whatever flowers I had left planted in my mind.
Tainted me with the horrible visions of a tear streaked face of paper mâché.
She was the one in the attic. Her whole persona
Wilted and ashen, grey. A silent movie might mask it; the hurt, I mean.
The grey lines on the screen hiding the bags under her eyes and the redness of her nose,
Get rid of the twinkling shards of glass frozen on her cheek from crying in the dead of winter.
Slip up once, and everything goes to hell. Well, I must have slipped years before I was born.
Few smiles are left on this dismal timeline. And I shall use them wisely. But, for now,
I think I will just weep, sleep forever and hope that you don't give up on me and pull the plug.
I am still here somewhere, just dormant. Please wake me up. Get me out of this charred cabin,
This glass box. Pull me out of my warped sense of everything, teach me again what
Love feels like. I have forgotten amidst everything that I have felt and remembered.
There is no more room for things to be learned. Only for things to be repaired.
I will give you a hammer. Come inside and fix me; that screw in your head couldn't have taken your knowledge away. You are the only one that knows.
Give a jolt of static and bring your bride to life.
I truly have
what I know
what I believe...
It's a detailed.
an ever present pull...
with stubborn intent
often directly opposed
To the path
which I am on...
When I was much younger
I developed a systemic
and purposeful mission
to design the person
I was to become
I had carefully weighed...
tested and mapped out
finally setteling on
and a type of lifestyle...
the allows me
a precarious balance...
between honor, appearances
and fair exchange ..
friendship, acceptance and fun...
during my colorful
Like I said...
Once I found my path...
I stubbornly believed...
That no others...
...hee hee hee
As we all know...
life happens ...
...and I rolled
and always seed to manage
But I didn't bloom...
I just became really good
at being me.
a really good second...