Wildfires–

We are engulfed in fire
the soil dry and it becomes
drier
each year more homes
scorch
each year, the hottest year
recorded

                                ...

We are engulfed not just in California
as the flames rise higher but as a nation
surrounded by the indifference to facts

                               ...

Wildfires raging, images flashing from your screen
–wildfires in the mind igniting –
over the land and soon
over your old way of life

you burn too
slowly, inevitably
for the world is unmistakably one

one large fire of change made up of what
Galeano saw were small
little fires

ablaze creating fertile ground for new thought

when someone dies with a forest full of light in their mouth
there is no asking “can we replant those tall oaks”  
there is no longer any waning of the moon
not waiting for the fullness to add to the fluorescence of a mouth
when someone dies with so much light
you thank the earth they every sprouted from its minerals bathed in flesh with shiny eyes that reflected like the oceans water

When someone dies with a forest full of light in their mouth
you can weep for beauty complex to do so

you be so lucky to die with a forest full of light in your light

Today I love the moon and all the dreams in my belly that speak of sweet womanly passion, of sweet burning match sticking life’s wick
of sweet, oh so sweet fervor to be everything I am with out compare
of sweet, sweet, willingness to release myself and continue

there is nothing to chase
to fill you
so there is
only giving

I do not always have to do it alone
I always felt I had to but I am more open to receiving help now; I am more open to resting my head over a shoulder and admitting my own limitations
I am not ashamed of being imperfect I am blessed by it because I can see that I am just like everyone else
and I like that ordinary people can do extraordinary things together
nourishing one another for as long as skin, body, and who knows maybe even spirit goes

I am in a field of lilies
collecting flowers–making bundles
I will not come unless I am called

throbs of pain that materialize from the air
i hold my chest,

i try to imagine two warm hands embracing
the heavy iron stakes of sorrow that pierce you and then me

sometimes the earth flies away from me
drips through my fingers
slipping like thick honey into cups I have left out for too long
too many handled mugs on the counter that I confuse them for
confuse past with what is now

I as I wake try to shake this dream of something that never came to be because I
would love to pour my morning tea into along with the wildflower honey into a fresh cup

We have been friends for 15 years her and I
like the waves that retreat to the sea
and then come back to the shore
we change shape so often
in the smallest of ways
but the essence, it never changes
it is her marrow, her quintessence  her light that burns bright

we were born four days apart
"for the fishies" she had engraved  
on a leather journal she gifted me years ago
I take it everywhere I travel

the years go
the seasons go
the days go
without a visit
and somehow we listen to the same things
same albums –shamelessly repeating them
until everyone around us has had enough–

I laughed so hard when she wrote to me
how could it be
telepathy? lol

Flashbacks of laying on the floor listening to music for hours
sharing headphones
singing our little hearts out

shamelessly repeating and repeating
shamelessly drowning in the sonic landscape

fishes who still know they are indeed
surrounded by water
flowing through it and calling it "life"

I leaned my head all the way back and watched the snow fall to ground
magical
nothing less than magical

I sing to you the way a butterfly sings to a still flower
I sing to you in the midst of winter as your petals wither
I sing not just to you but to the wind that shakes your stem and to the sun the feeds your belly, when I sing there is water in my breathe and the flower’s  carbon
food on my exhale
I sing because to sing is to nourish the earth; it is to breath with the everything
at once

May this be something with the potential of humanely beauty

Not:
one who gives and another who takes
that could be classified as exploitation

Not:
two selfish people who only expect from each other because if expectations are not fulfilled tyrants can grow resentful and angry

Yes:
to two people who give and nourish one another in this dance of life leaning on each other when needed, and springing back up on their own two feet so as to not lose themselves in the identity of each other

Yes: to partnerships deeper than personality and skin that bind at the spirit
and whose intimacy becomes richer with the years

Yes: to unconditional acceptance & love–
no judgement zones, the space to be openly flawed without shame

You sweat through the fury of a blazing love that gave too little and still wanted to call itself love

Life is today
so I wore it like loose blue dress down the streets of Apgujeong on my way to work

gender constructs, piety, nationality, “goodness”  these frameworks I live in are unquestionable for in their deviation there lies true reason of  “understandable” ostracism “yeah of course, how dare they?” & “who do they think they are”  
I thank them for where they have brought us but that is not where we are going it is only where we have already been

a pair of padded pants to save yourself from winter
you look at the next title more padding for the cold that makes you shiver inside

I stand on the dirt arena, the matadors are my thoughts and bulls are feelings. Both strong and assertive. I watch them and breathe.

Lately, my chest has been bursting at a different time every evening.
Although it runs on somewhat a schedule, I keep forgetting.

Sometimes, It catches me in the kitchen with my PJ sandwich and pushes it out of my hands.

Other times, it catches me right before I take a nap; I get up to clean the mess, and then I have trouble closing my eyes again.

On occasion, it sneaks up on me when I've just taken a shower, and I have to hop back in and lather.

However, today it caught me outside next to the Alcatraz flowers, and as it ruptured through my *******, that bundle of purple flora seemed to fit perfectly among the greenery.

I will finally hang Rich’s “Final Notations.” above my door

It will be a 8.3 x 11.7 rectangle holding space for my courage and my will
to not close or shrink from life

it will substitute as an answer to all the question I want to ask you
because I will not ask you for how long
you will hold me at peace in bed or for how long
you will get up and meditate with me over the cold linoleum floor in  the morning, I will not dare and ask you for the sun and
the moon or for the things that bloom eternal

I will just behold you there folding the laundry with me, there cooking next me while holding up a spoonful of soup to my mouth,   
“there,there” as I cry and tell you all my sorrows

I will hold out my two palms towards you in the same manner as I do when we start to dance over my grey turquoise carpet

I will open not just my hands but my heart so that you can come in, so that you can hold me as the sun begins its morning trek, so that you can sit so close to me during morning mediation, that I cannot help but sync my breath with yours, so that if you find the moon or the sun on your way to me
you can lovingly show up with them in your eyes or tucked in the width of your smile and I will be present enough, enough
will recognize them
so that if your love springs eternal you can show me and I will believe you

I will hang her poem up because I believe
I still believe
even though it has not been simple
I believe enough so to welcome you and let you show me who you are and how you can love me
I will hang it needing no guarantees
I will hang as the answer to all my questions

if there is
if there is
If there is all the things that thrive within the being
those that never die, those that perdure untouched, uneffected by the outside lores
then there is always the presence of forgiveness
the room for second chances
and there is return

Expect beautiful things: she runs to me and laughs with her usual pink furry sweater.  we combine “my mãe” with some English “let’s go” and head to the door

“my mãe, let’s go!”. We try to make out the door to downtown to meet her divorce lawyer.

for my mãe, mãe
I finished filling out a declaration and 5 other legal documents. Did her laundry, folded her hospital uniforms and cleaned the yard.

She laughs and smiles and sometimes looks off into the distance, my mãe

everyday we try to find something to smile about

the people sauntering
around us are their own celestial bodies detached from the outside world
in their mind, inside their screens —they are far, far away.

we pass pedestrians on the street, towards
the same corner park, where we sit and chat, but we are light years from the other folks and from one another. and i wondering if i tilted my phone and aim it’s reflection into their eyes if they’d receive it, if the speed of light is really all it’s cracked up to be then how quickly can it reach them play my golden record of connection “hello, from this child of planet earth with oversized limbs”

One deep breath
and the day rises with your chest

the beaming has always been beyond the tiny entrance
of that cave, a cave you could not fathom
would be so deep and so profound

I will construct and cultivate beauty in my life and tend to the soil to make sure I thrive

I will pay no mind or turn my head back to acknowledge those who look at my life
and wag their finger
where I see the beauty they can recoil in disgust
I do not care
if what I consider lovely
and the everlasting source of my light
they consider deformed or wrong
this world is too vast and there are many ways to live and express ourselves through it

we must make something splendid something extraordinary even if it is only significant to us

I am the maker of my destiny.
Writer, pilot, sailor of the raft;
I am responsible for my own life
for my own joy –no one else.

When I smile there are beautiful lines under my eyes
and I do not want to hide them

I bear with great joy this life of mine

Ella cruzas puentes (ellos no son de venerar)

“Se olvidó de Dios ” murmuró el señor, cuando ella no quiso entrar a la parroquia.

Más ya hacia años que “el que dirán” se le había convertido en una telaraña, antigua y meciéndose entre el viento.

Ella sabía que los puentes son necesarios.

“Hay que cruzar por los puentes
pero no hay que venerarlos”

Su madre le enseñó que solo a dios se le venera, pero tal vez venerar tan poco fuese el punto, “hay que cruzar; hay que estar en comunión” pensaba

Dentro de su pecho ella había encontrado un rincón donde su alma se desasía, y se mezclaba con la infinita energía de lo “todo”
y ninguna religión le negaría eso

Y aunque el hombre supiera de puentes no sabía de cruzar

La tarde se estaba convirtiendo lentamente en noche, y Fátima decidió que sería mejor caminar de regreso a casa y disfrutar al máximo lo poco que quedaba del la luz día.

The grounded planes begin to take off
and friends begin to spread far beyond the sprawls of L.A county
some to school, others on tour, quite a few to start off somewhere new
my brother among them
on his way to Denver
and me sorting through thousands of poems most of them never quite right
and drawing scene from my everyday life
flying inwardly and heading toward my own destination
gathering the annotated white papers containing poesy off the floor
picking out the ones that will make it into my first book baby

everything is reconciled
memories, body, weight of stone on back, superfluous adjunct thoughts, miscellaneous socks still unpaired
all is looked at and then accepted

A magnet
all things meant for me
are coming

A tower
all that is searching for me
is docking on my shores

A divine mystery
all which my being longs for
arriving

Nothing is a competition–I stand in my own being.

My wish is to be regarded as human. My gift is to be human.

A frog does not sit starring at the water deciding the right time to jump in

it is led by the powerful wisdom woven into its nature

there is never a “right time” to jump
that is part of frog and “once upon a time” stories
it is the “right time”
it is time when you decide

And I knew today that I would not leave you
that so was my love I dissolved into a sea and could longer pick out the grains of salt that were me

I do not want to pick me out I want to the part of me that is you to live and wilt as all life does when it’s time comes. How many years, how many embraces–I want them all next to you.

It is about to erupt, my chest over my life
blanketing everything anew

Flash bang grenades
rubber bullets
Riot guns with metal pellets

the tear gas isn't necessary to make anyone cry

**** cool

May you wake up and may the sun smile upon you
The are many triumphs that might not seem mighty
but they are
like looking in the mirror and smiling gently at your reflection
putting your palms together and saying “thank you for this new day”

I had a dream that I found you on the Subway, leaning on a rail guard by the door slouched you said our loved had ended with such sweetness in your eyes that I cupped your left cheek with my hands and smiled

When the doors slide open, I proceeded to put my arm around you and guide you off as you drunkenly made your way out. I knew I would still love you
just not in the same way. If before you had pierced me like a needle, now you were one of the threads that had stitched me. And so I kept smiling

I do not know
how long it takes
I just know
I am healing

Everything springs springing
joy, over thin skin, over the fragile scent of spring that ends and soars like the birds before winter,
ever looming, before it looks us in the eyes

Everything even I open to the cold as I did to the warmth

There is warm serene tug at the center of my chest, and I wondered
what is calling out to me at this moment.

When the bees buzz over the ripened fruit, you will know it was love that brought them to the stamen not pollination.

I do not care if anything is slippery
it is coming out onto the floor of the page
swiveling, punching, crying or half dead
but it’s coming on the page

i cut my hair so that another
girl who had only been an earth for a few years could carry
its softness and know someone would
give whatever she was not born with
this world would offer itself to her
cradled in her bed wherever she was
....
i forget the many times
i slept in other people’s homes
or had to leave mine as a child
those many times were coiled and repressed
pushed back into a box like a jack
...
my youth is here present
i mingle with it
and forget it is not always going to be here
and i hear the world is not kind to older womxn
but hear from older womxn those years are the most fruitful; there, they are their most powerful
and like the promised land i want to rush there
the way i used to want to rush towards death
and none of them will do when the early morning hours come
because i just want to be here
cradled in my bed wherever i may be

keep your feet moving
and look above at the full moon
it shines like your eyes
but it cannot see itself
how beautifully suspended
it is in time, full always
just sometimes it’s real face hidden
in the shadows