Find my hands in the water of the graces that do align

My mother would always argue with me. “Why can’t you look nice” “here wear this”

I would smile and wear her dresses with black combat boots. My dad would always laugh.

Bickering. We bickered always over that. She would utter “you are a locked combination box
whose combination I cannot find”
then she’d proceed to laugh and let me out the door with my black lace up shoes.

I could feel the difference
between a thin strand of hair
and a thin thread of spider web

I could not write about the people I lost during a short writing class exerciae. My sentences circled
swirled inward on the page
the way my departed and my beloved
swirl within me the sacred spiral
my endless nature trying to map itself out on a thin piece of paper

The world does not revolve around me
this earth
this multitude of people
must be nourished too
Other stories
other ways of living
so why do I deserve to have it my way


The simple answer is because everyone deserves a chance at true happiness

What does love do now
it opens its palms

The rain refreshes
with each drop skin,
stem and silt loading
on paved roads

brings water to my lips
I, a human flowers, feel

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

he did not just push off her center of gravity provoking
her to fall and then exclaim "watch out where you are walking"

he did not just slap her across her face and call her a "puta"
insulting her and forcefully ****** her until he fell asleep and she slipped from under him

he did not whisper in her ears "I'll **** you"
like once he so boldly declared to my brother with the more metaphorical phrase "I will put a bullet in your head"

this time he beat her until his sisters showed up  
one of them was silent the other  preached "she deserved it"

this time he beat her: combo-ed  his attack and added whatever strength was left in 60-year-old body

that in our video chat my mother was bruised
all over her petite frame

this time after a lifetime of abuse, she did not defend her honor
she did not stay for fear of losing her golden cage or for her children this time she left safely picking the right time with her son

filed the report, got a lawyer walked up the steps of the court
battered-
                                                      ­       and lighter
                                                  lighter­
                                         becoming    
                                 up
                      step
     in  each


to her freedom, I sing a praise, and I reach my palms up to the heavens; they are open,  and I weep for the years she stood there always the "one to blame"

lo qué  brota me acompaña
cómo la lengua pérdida de mi madre

mi piel morena es extranjera
en continente de piel morena

pérdida esta la lengua
cortada y dejada
sobre un camino de tierra

mi piel morena de dónde es
si no de aquí
aún que te duela reconocer
que sobre ese caminito
desmembraste muchos cuerpos

tanta fue la muerte que
que casi nadie quedo

tan exitosa fue la borradura
que cuando la gente de otro continete me ve
y me preguntan que de donde soy
nunca les parece cierto que pertenezco
a las americas  

que raro estar sobre este caminito
que aunque ahora esta pavimentado
sigue siendo el mismo que vio la sangre brotar

In Bethlehem, south of Jerusalem, a bomb falls over Saint Porphyrius Church
and the promise of never again
is obscured under the rubble  

civilians told to move south towards
the border, take to the roads
mid escape a bomb falls
their bodies scatter over Salah-al-Din street

the son of man mangled over the floor

Still maturing…
never too ripe
always eternal
and with one foot
in time

I trust the swirls of color and light that bounces from the window into my eyes to help me see.
I trust that I will arrive at my hearts desire and that this living is preparing for what lays ahead.

I am cataloging the thoughts that pull me into a whirlwind of incompassionate self-talk
observing them
carefully watching them in hopes of not repeating old patterns
in hopes of breaking away
in hopes of being more conscious of the way I live
and the way I want to spend this life
my little notebook and I held together by my hope writing down each painful thought we wish we did not have to admit to

I waited for you to write, to call,
to share a song, to share a moment
it was odd
months, days, hours in reverse

Can I wrap words,
clutter them around your hand
and make them press
warm and soft?

Could they be of value for you
like the gems people mine for
or the things they pick to be family heirlooms?

How deep is their deepness and
how far is their reach?

Can they feel Infinite like my existence  and finite like my life ?

Can they build a bed to lay on ?
Fabric, metal springs, foam, cushion, soft, plush, lifted, comfy, useful,
Can it be a good place to rest when it’s been a long
day?

weep if you must, for death is like birth: we all cry but your birth was a flower hidden
in your mother’s chest, nurtured in your grandmothers dreams
Let go—
you will inherit the world if you can inherit
the the fullness of today

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

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

I have forgiven everyone
every hurtful thing
has no space within my heart

that is why my words towards them bare lightness
it mercy for myself and for them
nothing is worthy of carrying

Keep him well through spring as you did through winter
as you done for years
and you have given him breath
keep it steady and constant in his being
deliver him joy
travel swift like the morning dew
and be there when the new day comes

Hay tantas cosas que el sol trae con ella,
y la luna con el

desafíos, y copas ondas de cuales beber
figuras largas y ángeles de piel morena
himnos cotidianos: la moledora moliendo tomatillos

cucharadas de juzgamiento
y jarabes de verdad purpuros y casi sabios
La sobreviviencia del alma al enfrentar
degradación
Y la cara de un perro al olfatear una rata muerta

Todo bajo el cielo, es puro y a la misma vez  teñido  

La flor es la extensión de la piedra, el viento uno más de nuestros suspiros
sea en angustia o en alivio

I have learned that to clear the vine of grapes completely with two hands
is an act of love

no misunderstanding, even if the fruit fell
you turn around and pick it up
and with your words you wash them
                                         and make wine

There is no need to churn the wind or try and turn morning light into thick butter

No need for truculent mirages of the internal dialogue to command the noon

breaking into the present with all your heavy layers of guardedness
will not suffice for tranquillity and true amity

you must look at things for what they truly are
just as naturally as sunset comes to the day
you will face night; call it “night” no need to wrap it up and make it tidy

Thank you to the temporary thing that I cannot keep
that have passed me
thank you for letting me hold you in this one splendorous life

I am on that boat
don’t you know

I already sailed off
can’t you see

Come on’ bruh
you gotta know

ain’t **** you can do
to scare me off

if my boat sink
in the sea of love

at least I dared
and peace be mine

for all babies
are my babies

And on that boat of love
I will cradle them

you want tell me they can’t be mine
well then with your logic
this earth ain’t yours
so why you hacking it up

I on my boat of love
cradle all them babies

I am swaying them in my arms
peace on earth I sing to them
“ peace on earth”

Todavía llevo la esperanza del amanecer en mi costado
llevo la amplia gana de desacéreme completamente hasta revelar las delicadezas que aún que
me hacen parecer frágil
me dan vida y mi dan valor
para vivir con atrevimiento

I see the longing in their eyes and heaviness
and I want to tell them you have still got life to live
and the body it goes
and I do not know that plot of land you inhabit but I know life is always here
that with tenderness we can hold all our lives’ sorrows and see the gleaming bread of beauty that remains
for that which we have been
is the wool in that yarn string

the stitchery of the past lifts off
and circles like Angeles the crown of my head
I follow the morning and
I peek into a 9:00 am mass to listen to prayers. I try to find my grandmother so I look at the same row she would sit in. In a different city, in a different church, in another bench but instinctively look at the third row on the right. There is an other women bowing like the others as the priest cues with his words. She is not my grandmother. They are not my grandmothers but they are someone else’s   If I had opened my eyes here
on a hilll in Haebangchon as did
my dear friend 15 years my senior
Then one of them might know my name
but they smile as if they do

Hiding in your smile are the fresh flowers
in the vase and the hours you spent decorating your mind with book lines
Hidden in your smile is the mediation cushion
and the feeling of your healed sprained wrist touching the mat

Hidden object in your beautiful eyes
is the dark soil with dying insects, and crumpled brown leaves you turned
into a radiant garden

they see, but who knows
if they really see
water in a cloud
or the challenge in your expansion

Venga gran claridad
tumba lo que no sirve qué necesito
construir una sonrisa
sobre mi cara
si no vivo ahorra entonces cuando

The closing of your eyes is the clashing of clouds and their thunder for-tells the lightning of dreams

I have come to sympathize with the at home workout enthusiast and the tv show aficionado

my sweater of preference is a black zip up hoody whose two front pockets carry my hands when I get too tired of hanging them at my sides
                              ...
I lounge like a lizard. When sun is at its peak, I walk into the yard and lay on the warm cement walkway that leads to the backyard. Toasty. An Argentinian tegu in another lifetime.
                             ...
I’m the only lizard who regulates it body temperature. Toasty when I want to be.
                             ...
I rappelled back down to the group. I was unfastening my harness when my instructor turned to me and said “ you must have  been a lizard in your past life.”

When they look at old photographs of you
,you will tell of them of all the crazy stories and all the mistakes you made as you grew.
how your chest expanded and your heart pressed against your ribs inflating like a ballon on certain years, wishing to become airborne and to lift you along with it towards the sky

you will tell them of all the unfortunate situations that lead to all the food in your fridge rotting and all your sadness eating up your appreciate
and how you turned inwardly and perched like a bird over the ledge that you decided was not to jump off but a clear vantage point from which to see peace all around and from which to oversee the land
and make out what direction you were now going to head down

If you look away from the horrors of war, if you ignore reports, personal accounts told, videos of children with amputated limbs, the dead, the dead and many more dead children, and a whole family lifeless on the street next to their car as they tried to flee with now only mosquitos alive circling the camera man who found them–know that what is rotting is not them. It’s our society’s humanity. It’s the lighting of the Christmas tree at square with the reporter standing on a roof instead of on the ground because the area was filled with protesters. That calling for end of  g e n o c i d e when you continue to watch the dying and hear the mourning calls is not anti- anything is simply who continue to watching thousands of children die. Inside the rumble rotting are our values of justice and freedom for all, our great dream of democracy, they push towards the West Bank as they pushed towards the westside of the what became the U.S. manifesting cruelty this story too old and too fraught with river that runs red. Inside the rubble of the past and now the present– along side that dead will lie our humanity and our soul if we look away, silent.

It was simply Smokey as if the pieces still slipping down her ****** had in those extra days marinated and were now ready to come out to the light of day to become jerky

the sun becomes a river in my eyes, engulfing all,  maybe then the majesty
and luminosity of everything will shine
as does the golden beauty of a sunset or of a compassionate word perched on the lips of another
all is possible
why change the lenses, see more pf what is already, sincerely there

I look at the tree and see my lovely leaves
We share life together their bark makes that part of the world and my body makes this part of the physical world. “Oh my leaves :))”  what do you think when I stare at you with such joy in my heart ?

<<tweet tweet tweet>> their fingers chirp like birds
graceless in their singing
and unconscious of the harm they have awakened with their narrow syrinx of thought

Reckless with their egos
and responsible for birthing a nature full of disregard towards all that lives and lies below the trees of green; an ecosystem born into an inseparable union
–a synthesis of flags, of mashes and of micro biomes teeming with life

The color of red will stand out among all the germinating leaves, as we wake up to escalations of war and the trampling of safety
those birds will continue to <<tweet tweet tweet>>

For they forget that to sit at the crown of a tree does not mean they wear a crown

Those who wear the boots down low
are those who will hike through the forest and traverse through the night below the boughs where these birds perch

I have sung 365 songs with your name in them butnever have they touched your shoulder. In the dark alleys, holding friends up as they tell me how angry they are. How disillusioned they feel. In the morning hours I lay our all the  evidence on the dirt street like chess pieces over a board not to try to convince but to show them that their  “ ****** up__”  as **** as it has been is also what life has been. No redrawing,undo, no control z but that the  flash of light is also as brilliant and potent as the jet black in their hair, in the alley, and in the hands of who ever hurt them their neglect.

On the chess piece I lay a shoe for times I was dragged from under the sofa and beat for leaving a can of coke unfinished, on the board I leave a piece of hair for the chunk that girls in elementary school ripped off my head after school, on the board I leave picture of a naked Barbie for the times I was molested, and to the corner I leave a small receipt that was left in my bag the night after I was too drunk to say no and did not know to call it **** until a few years later. On the board I leave a flight ticket for the love for a man for which I crossed an ocean, and in the middle I leave a white flower for all the times I willed myself up alone from the floor.

I can only show them. Some days I leave some parts out; some friends only know some parts and some of them have no laid their pieces on the chest board and we all all wept for the things that have been lost


Cried in a living room to Marley “no woman, no cry”


At the end I throw over the chess board and watch the chess pieces fly off in different direction. So what
So what
So what
I still have this life to live

Dear Dark Brown Eyes,

I  am glad something brought a wave of joy over your  countenance bubbling up as laughter. You deserve the clearest balm to ease your sighs and sorrows. And the warmest of hands to hold yours when evening envelopes the mountains
And the river that divides the north and south of Seoul is frozen over

My dear brown eyes, whatever you decide is yours to decide. Who you pray to, who you love and who you’ll be as the years go by
are all YOURS,
like the chirp of a bird,
or the song of a swallow
it must feel natural to you
and only you can hear it as it perches



MINE. My song calls me to you.
To sit by your side and to meet you once the the sprouts root and grow green,
past the frozen ground onto pathways which the light of spring is to reveal

Who you’ll be then and how you’ll feel
I will respect. The vines grow in many directions in and around all posts, fences, names and memories. They can become nuisances or the fruit for fine wine.

what song can a bell make
that does not pierce the heart

(what melody can I sing when love entangles me to form
music does not need to be seen, so why do I gulp at the thought of their deaths)

I always waited for them to be sure of me
the way a weatherman is sure about the forecast, before I decided to settle in a certain country or city
and perhaps they waited for me to decide to stay before they were sure of me
but what is never asked or addressed never can be transformed

You walk and breathe and claim your stake on earth
with every blink
the sun arises and sets
For you I grieve that I cannot
come

We chew over a small wooden table
Chew bell peppers and drink old fermented tea
wonder how many more breathe until the stomach stiffens in regret and says
no more to all the veggies we must eat before they spoil in our fridge

We chew the small thoughts and the big bad memories tucked in the thinnest most transparent of thoughts
so translucent it took us most of our  lives to recognize them as just thoughts painting boxes, stacked to create an obstacle

We chew playing dalgona with our minds
trying to keep the only the portion of through a we want.

We chew and concentrate and then there are no thoughts, just the veggies I stir fried to sweet from the wild flower honey

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

The thin layer of burned bark sits black
over your hand no more hostile

than a passing thought preparing to exit
for a new one to emerge

from the mind’s entrance

When you ask me if I have ever tried a burrito,  I should sprint to the bedroom grab a cover and completely wrap myself in it and then proceed to run towards you screaming “yes!”
immediately followed  by
“But she did not cook it. I got it at Chipotle “ sung in legato just to make sure none of us make it out of this situation without feeling uncomfortable