let these hours pass and let them drift off
I ache to come closer
but I sit here like a duck waiting
for this world & its bureaucratic pile of paperwork
I teeter between excitement and longing

if lonesome has ever been a scent
it's the one I wear tonight

I do not want fear or sorrow to be the companion of your heart during these long hours  
dear, if you could see yourself through these two brown eyes of mine
you'd be taken aback at how beautiful are
and you would understand
You are worthy and always surrounded by love
I want you to know this warmth
to feel never alone because this love is traveling, this calm is being cultivated and sent in your direction

Don’t let there be gloom, it is so easy for it to grow when watered
it will cover even the most beautiful of flowers,
you’ve always been gifted with a green thumb, and a large heart
you deserve to harvest
lovely things are coming
water those blossoms because they do give fruit

It is days like these my being howls and wishes to diminish distance, fold miles and come close to you.

this hope
it lights up the sky
and there is no fighting
its right to rise
among all the debris of the past

I push through
hanging little paper notes on trees
pinning up reminders on walls
walking my feet over the grass
and running my finger through my hair
I push through
mustering a little storm of hope
to shake with gusts of wind and cleanse with water
all the negative thoughts

Luna lounges under the sun walk off when it gets too hot, seeking the cover of tree branches and the opportunity to sleep
When Luna gets comfortable, he rolls on his back; his little belly exposed and the hue of his fur darkening as the sun sets over us, I, too, lay on my back looking up the sky observant and still
waiting to see the planets
Saturn at 7:38 pm
Mars at 11:31 pm

during the day there is talk of another cold war & a reignited space race as Amal, mission"Tianwen, and Perseverance " make their way to the red planet I remain over the grass curious to the gifts the night can bring

the guava flowers are in bloom
late in summer they dismount
from the circular green lumps free-falling
down onto the grass

specks of white fill the ground
lulling like dancers do
to the rhythm of song
sinking down in the absence of gust and lifting up when the wind picks up

I think you would find me silly
for closing my eyes not just for the purpose of sleep but for the purpose of seeing your face in a lucid dream

I wan to laugh,
throw off my hat
wave my scarf in the air
and just be languid and in awe
with how my legs can carry all my weight
and how my heart can pump all that blood

and just be reflective and impressed
with the way life tears down all superiority even "moral superiority "
to teach, teach, teach  there is no superiority
and how rhythm is integral not just to music but to words
just like freedom is integral to the shaman, the preacher,
the guru, and the person soaking up their verse

with the grass below my feet and the cooling wind
blowing away the heat
I came to sit under a little tree
trying my best not think about  "later today" or "in a minute"
I had held onto the notion of time so tightly this year
that every time a plan was pried out of  my arms
I did more than cry

I slouched
I cursed
I became a flagging runner with a mile to go
an archer's arrow still far from its mark  

so today as I mediated
I could sense them
ants beginning to run up my legs
and into the forest of hair between my thighs
I was present enough–
I jumped up and shrieked
then I laughed

a friend sitting near me laughed too
I wondered if they had ants crawl up their legs too

I am being stretched and little parts of me are ripping off

but I want to, I want to grow
even if it’s not always pleasant

I want to be a womxn after her own soul
i want my authenticity far more, for I fear
I cannot compromise these lengthy rivers in me
they span too wide
and some too deep 
flowing rapidly down steep mountains
and over vast stretches of land
flooding plains, but also paradoxically
in arid climate nurturing seedlings

At random hours of the day
I feel a warm pulse in my chest
and the image of you surges from the depths of my mind

I lean into trust as if it were a warm bath
my skin bare and submerging into it’s therapeutic waters to be embraced and calmed

silence
has never suited young mouths
at least not these

the line is long and only continues to get longer
there so many mouths to feed and this food bank
does it have enough ?
are there hymns for the hungry
like the ones the protester sing in Portland as they march tonight

May it pull all your seams
tightly together so that today
you feel whole

May your eyes source the world
catalogue its pieces
so that in silence you fall gently
into its beauty
again, and again and again
Until you dissolve
into it’s charm

There are four mariachis sitting in a circle  and two more bolitas of three standing a few feet away. Across the street, there are two more sitting on a bus stop bench, neither seem to have the intention of boarding a bus, as they keep letting them pass by. All of them are waiting–

I see four more in a white mini-van with the passenger door open to let in the cool breeze.

None of the musical charros are playing music. The only tunes being played in a plaza named  after them in Boyle Heights comes from the señor with a plastic tent selling masks and other trinkets. He’s playing old school Mexican boleros ( the kind I really love) through a loud speaker.

I hum along to the ones I know as I walk to the bookstore only to find it is also closed. I start to look around, and everything with the exception of  a corner coffee shop are closed. That’s why they are here, that’s why there are so many Mariachi in the plaza today, no one has come. They are waiting for employment to put some food on the table and pay some bills.

Everything is in waiting–
a forced wait that requires hope. That is also why there are lots of Mariachi at the plaza.  They woke up, tightened their red bows, dressed up in their black suits and left their home with their instruments ready to go.

i close my eyes and open my palms
to catch a dream i cannot yet see

wholesome love sits here
in the many "may's"
in the hope for what can be cultivated
and in the hope of what can come about

in the staircase of thoughts
and in the apex of

              /\          \               /     /\  
            / s \          \   self  /     / s  \
          /  elf \          \  lo- /     /  elf  \
        /      -    \          \ve/     /  -acce \
      /   value  \           \/     / ptance  \
                            
                      
            
stacked up against each other in the form a trapezoid

               \            /\           /
                 \solid/&\stro-/  
                  \    /  ng \     /
                    \/            \ /

we share mantras her and I, sisterly maneuvering through this life

"We want to feel better" & "we want to be better",
...and so we set about finding the right equations
stacking meditations upon visioning upon affirmations upon counseling upon books of poetry, and teary-eyed artworks that carry our twisted knots that do not undo with words or the spitting out of crunched up syllables onto the ground

so we make shapes, some geometrical like the ones above

May better thoughts link arms
and dance their way into your mind.

Has there ever been a desert this wide
and hands as dry as mine
my feet are calloused but still keeping on route
nights of anticipation are betrayed by the rising over dry ground on the next day
nowhere near the destination

In the absence of water
sadness is beginning to fill my mouth
and in the heat, the mirages start to take human form
they speak to me of the treacheries of time
and the intervals of fate

am I, too far to know
or am I willfully bind
no, I close my eyes and I hear
the low voice
propelling my limbs onward
through the haze

Has a desert been this long
has it caused any other such an arduous
and throat-knotted journey with self-designated phlegmatic feet  

I thread forward with my two palms placed over my heart
And I speak to it “if this desert takes my mind, let it at least not take you and the hope that lingers in your chamber”

this heap of words is soft
like old sweaters piled up
warm only where my body presses into it and molds
valleys of fabric and wrinkles of textile undulating
the shape of my hope
curving the scent of far waters
like a fountain spouting out and quenching
my mind with stillness
not far
but here in my palm
I hold patience

I muster everything I have got
into a small wooden mortar and begin
to press down on the pestle

A remedy, an elixir something to get me through these weeks, something to give me the patience
and most importantly
to give me the strength

I scrape of the paste-like substance off the stone, and lay it over my tongue

Tomorrow, I will wake up and repeat

I touch the insects bites
that have swollen up
and become bumps
on my right arm

I run my middle and index fingertips
over them and trace the Summer Triangle: Vega, Deneb, and Altair

I think to myself
It’s July, I should be able to walk outside at night and see them shine brightly in the sky

I see brilliance
wrapped around
their eyes

labyrinths that end
in the same place
which in truth
are gardens teeming with
all that spouts

I see them arrive light footed
and light hearted to this gentle abode
having circled and found their way
into our home

May you be engulfed by laughter
chuckle hard and feel at ease
At one with the flow of
life around you
May whatever negativity comes
your way fall of your shoulders
and dissipate like a cloud of dust

May there
always be kindness
close to you
revealing itself
when you need it most

No se porque Dario se escapa de mi lengua
y porque Sor Juana sale de mi boca
pero los quiero
atrapar con las palmas de mis manos

nunca e ido a Nicaragua
solo a Mexico
pero me gustan, me gusta
la cadencia

quizas ire a chile por Mistral
o puede ser  que descienda sobre buenos aires
en busca del el flaco Spinetta
pues el también fue poeta

puede ser que regrese a San Miguel de Allende
para comprar mandado en el mercado
y ver si Cisneros compra fruta
pues a dado mucha

We drove in search of scenery
native to our southern California

We trodded down the dirt paths
among plants whose names were lost
and quelled by history
here given back
not by scientific categorization but by
the cathartic heat that whispered
of the past and its abiding
presence  

here I snapped the cord
and named the unlisted
parts of me until I
clearly recognized the snapping
of summer's end

soon the leaves
would crisp but
the heat would remain far
into winter I see her eyes twinkle
under the palo verde trees and I know

it never severed the
funis
from my naval, it extends
beyond death, further
than the desert plants
that her and I see on our hike

Who I am supposed to be is a wildly distorted jumpsuit of thoughts that never quite fit who I am
–and who I am is constantly being re-discovered

Let us love
the bodies that
we sit inside

run up the
hills and enjoy
the fast gallop
the slow tread and
the graceful mercurial pirouettes
that make us lose
our balance and fall

Whether we are
full of laughter
at our sudden drop to the
ground amongst the flora
or whether we are enraged
by the spontaneity revealing our
evident lack of
control

Let us love this physicality
these hands
–this–
these hard and
soft breaths
that carry us into
the deep valleys
and crevasses that
form around our eyes

May we hold in esteem
all that we are

I flipped my phone and it read "trying to look at things from a new perspective".

Have I ever turned a daisy upside down to look under its petals?
No, not with the intent to find beauty there; So, I missed it, the sepal's protective curves and the lightly muted white.

Instead of melancholic
I feel thrilled.
How many more things can deepen in beauty?
if only I look at them differently

How many of the same streets and parts of my daily routine can I repaint with more color, so that I can see another aspect of their brilliance?

carrying is the wind
floating is the scent of calm
arriving is the doodle that with playfulness freshes

falling is the temperature
soothing is the array of clouds
restoring is the laugh that puts an end to silence

You sit in me
every once in a while
I swear, I just feel you

Wherever you are–
I hope it’s nice
every once in a while
I wear longing in my heart

I know, my affection for you is deep
Where does that leave me
I hope it’s somewhere close to the fondness of yours

I have followed the bridge to this lovely pond.

There is no one around
only the sound of an acorn woodpecker pecking into the red flakes of a giant.

Floating over the water is a small wooden boat
tied with cordage
to a brown post at the end of the dock.

It is on this dock that I plan to sit and rest.

May the sky always be your ceiling
May the daylight and the bright distant stars always be what you reach for
and may the beauty of living be the reason
that this season you smile

I am not empty
                                               I am Full
even during the most
sorrowful
days

I am not
helpless,                               I Know
my words Create and
my thoughts
Can Built
worlds

Even in the darkest
of rooms, I Know
I am
not just the dim lights
or the darkness

                                                I Understand
I am Brimming with Life,
and                                         that I am
the Daughter of                    Possibility

even when those
around me
shackle themselves
to negativity, to stagnation
and to fear;
                  I Know
           my state of mind
                    is                            Precious
                                                    as is
             my entire                      Body

At the end
their opinions are
no indicator,
no meter or jury that
presides over
my Life’s                                Value
only                                        this Fullness  
of Spirit,
                                                the Wholly
nature
of my                                      Smile
                                                Can tell you,
Yes indeed
even with reasons
to despair
                                                I am
                                               WHOLESOME
                                               to my Core



                              ...
                Are you on the way?
Have you reached the same address yet ?
I leave messages on the eternal answering
machine hoping you hear them. Do you at least see the blinking red light?
                              ...
               We are wholesome,
                   Maria screams
                      as the orange being cut
                          over the counter
                 unfolds what’s in front of us:
            simplicity.
                               ...
The needle of
acceptance
suturing a wound with
clarity, let’s us know
that this cycle
of harming
of repeating sadness
is not the end point,
just a step before                    HEALING
                                                  OCCURS

Heitor Villa-Lobos plays in the car. The colors spurting onto us. Chromaticism opening the janelas para outro mundo as we ride down the interstate.

I wish I could find the photographs of the fishermen and their long glorious nets near sundown at Lake Pátzcuaro

“This is a little piece of your heritage” my uncle said to me. “You must know the people and the history.“ he drove me through artisan towns and stopped at the side of roads so that I could talk to the ceramicists, wood workers, and weavers. All of them had inherited the craft from their mothers and fathers.

My uncle’s study was full of books, it was a little paradise I took for granted instead of frequenting it I spent my hours with my cousins playing in the orchard and running through my aunt’s flower garden. We stayed half the summer hidden behind an 8 foot fence. Only coming out to travel or  walk two blocks down the road to my grandmother’s house that was falling apart.

At the time it’s was as if her house was me, my walls crumbling, my doors creaking, the spirits of the old loud and  in the mirror brown eyes peered back with more questions than answers.

How do I bridge these worlds? How can the conquered and conquerer find peace?

One day the wooden beams of my grandmother’s house pressed too heavily into the adobe walls and the left side of the house collapsed.  They moved her into my uncle’s brand new empty house, the one he’d constructed expecting to grow tired of living in the States, which was located on the same large plot of land.  

Just like that it fell and one day they tore the rest of it down and built it again.

One day, too
I just decided to tear down all notions, combine all the parts, honor every ancestor, and be everything I was. I didn’t have to belong to one place; I was by nature many things.
A girl who stood at the shore of Janitzio taking photographs of rising nets and the smell of Tzintzuntzan was still very much a large part of me. I wanted those photographs to remember.

The pollen swooped down gallantly
to cause a fuzz inside the nostrils of all neighborly humans strolling down the paved walkways. It was here in summer’s heat that all humid thoughts soaked her and left her smelling of her own sweat.

She should of picked another hour, a different time of day to go out and water the plants, but routine is hard to beat.

the old women in a circle sing
into the long hours of the night
this has never been entertainment
or for the sake of perfect execution

this is has not been “the best rise”
or an assemblage to “showcase”
this has been bare feet on earth
spit chucked out in reverence

calling it a celebration would be close
but you would be closer
if you closed eyes as they sing
for then you too would understand
it is payer above all

The wilderness:

a forest
in the night
is only as treacherous
as our mind

a sapling  
under the light
is only as magnificent
as our thoughts

a human
under all circumstances
is only as pliable
as their self perception

There is nothing wrong with being sweet
When all the grass around dries up and the harvest is sour
it is the sweetness that restores
what was perceived long ago as lost

May whatever comes
sit gentle over your heart
May all the threatening voices
be stopped by a valiant kind-thought
Here too lies your joy in this day
during this hour at your current address.
May today offer you the peace that already resides inside.

Your like a long blade of green grass swaying in my mind.

You come in dreams, and linger in calming fragments of conversation that make my heart sing.

“Dar a luz” literally means to give to light
you are born when you are given over to the light
from their homes people exit
all looking for the sun

the folks chanting “no justice, no peace”
the families driving in an R.V,
the hikers on their way to the closest national park, the young men enlisting, the children throwing tantrums and growing an inch, the littering masses and the crumpling ideologies of the past all open eyed beneath the sunlight
–at least now we can see them all
they are being brought to light
(this is an opportunity)
We are all being given to the light–
this summer, next summer, the following summer, the eternal summers of the our collective strife towards rebirth sit ready in the belly of this earthly mother
where everything will be given over to the light