Keep slugging, slugging...all the things I plan seem distant

whenever I turn around a bush thinking I am close, the road seems to stretch further

but I keep slugging, slugging...
at this point I’m calling on all my strength
to get me there

slugging, slugging my way in your direction

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

Abrupt is the formicidae’s descend
into plummeting disapproval

this brisk ant mountaineering
over the hot terrain of my left foot

Is  not brushed off by my partner hand but my his fear of  a “crawly thing”

…
I tell him of my childhood-
alone in the garden with the animals - my mother in our home depressed- the plants and the insects were my friends.

I used to play with ants.
…

“ a life is a life no matter how small” i read in one of Dr. Seuss’ books. I would look at myself in the mirror– a worn out pink stool below my small eight year old feet. I was  in the third grade, but I couldn’t sit with my bottom on the chairs. If I did only my eyes and forehead would rest above the table. I so I began to sit over my knees and propel myself forward when I needed to grab my rolling pencil. Small hands reaching forward.

…
What is it about small things that makes someone try to dominate them to try and tell them where their place should be. When I saw the ants so steadfast move through their course I started to tear.
…
I realize now why, why I couldn’t let him step on the ant after brushing it off. Why I take take insect out of my office or my home in Tupperware.  

My life, their life  and our lives are  miraculous even if they are brief, even if from above we seem like those ants  scattered over green and brown splotches of earth; our cars lined on an overpass mimicking their lines.

(there is not such things as a small life)

I am dipped in spirit
and bathed by it
soaked I return

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

I know what has been
just as you know what has occurred
but I still want to dive
into a cold lake or wiggle
my toes under a long cotton towel, laugh
because it is still here, this immense
light warming me, daring
my heart with fullness so plump
I just softened with affection

If you tender world can soften
I can soften
into this fragile living and dying existence

I can soften when I reach the edges of myself and meet my limit and my doubts
I can soften when my hands want to grasp tomorrow or reach back towards the past

I can soften and sit with everything within me

We can soften to our humanity
we can soften into our beauty
we can soften into our imperfection
and become more loving
simply by meeting the edges and softening
softening
softening and taking one step over the water

If you can soften
I can soften
into this

I can soften when I reach the curb
and meet my floating sorrow at the surface of the lake
I can soften when my hands want clench and have them remain open
I can soften and sit with everything inside  me

We can soften to our warm trust
we can soften into the best version of ourselves
we can soften into our the knowing nothing is certain  
and become more loving
simply by meeting the edges and softening
softening
softening and taking another step over the water and softening

I have taken all parts you have given:
your small brown feet and your mastery of words, the way you danced and the way you fed those you loved, adding salt to the molcajete, adding prayer to the skies: I practice every day, come good, come bad. come a revolt of words: i show my face

Every year more and more is scraped off of me,
and for the past years when I feared the scrapping would finally reach the inside,
I would begin to shake because I wondered if that time when the scrapping reached the core I would find out I was hollow and collapse into myself.

But these very years have scraped at the needless thoughts, the needless chases and the needless feelings of inadequacy and the more they brush my surface the  shinier and more solid my core seems

Voy a soltar frutos
raíces amasadas en mi cráneo
como azúcar querrás frotar tu dedo
y lamer su polvo dulce,
blanco granulado

en mi maceta crecen triángulos de sombras
llenas de cuadrada soledad
en su tierra querrás meter
y embarrar tu dedo
después sin pensarlo te lo acercarás
y te lo meterás a la boca
y ahí en tu lengua
también mis raíces crecerán
Dibujando mé
hasta que en ti quede yo
y en mi termines tu
Soltando raíces

Some days I hold space for the tears

some people go out and buy new dresses
cut their hair
say mean things or ask “ why me?”
some find a pretty face
or a temporary generous hand

I just sit and cry
because I am just sad that is all

some go out and shop,
some drink their way to swim out their sorrow
but I don’t buy many things
and I am not a heavy drinker

I just lock myself in the bathroom stall and cry when the feeling comes on strong

some move
and some delete everything
I think everything in life is a gift
and with time I want to see this as one


some, many, people,others
do “X” who knows what the way to go
is...

...just have to let the tears fall so I feel cleansed

Someday you gotta take a wild chance on you
Stop  looking at only the negative
make neurological pathways to condition in you the positive
everyone deserve a life that can be loving, light and beautiful
despite the loss, the uncertainty and the impermanence

Today, or tomorrow,
or whenever you are ready take a wild chance on you

A laid back lady with flower vases, poetry books, long scarfs draped over cushions and a decent stereo system to crank up when the going gets tough or the going gets real good.

someone who sent those loves songs
could not show affection any other way

“are they okay ?” always whirled over my head
passages from books, illustrations, podcasts, songs, essays, interviews and articles were always  my way of trying to offer something
“was I okay?”  

things will be okay
“life goes on”
and it is what we decide
to make of it
from this moment on
onwards with joy as a compass

1.
the dogs bark louder
the people pace more
the wind gets wilder

on the third day of curfews
the coping gets hard
the drive seems longer
the outside looks more distant than before we were blanketed by illness

but perhaps sickness has always been there
deadlier, reoccurring, cruel if you weren't born with fair skin
on the North American continent won over through war,
pillaging, enslavement, indoctrination, and more ...
where today you can only breathe heavy air
the hefty sorrow reigns as we try to cradle
the wings of its opposite with bruised
calloused hands

2.
–something good must come of this
something good,
there has been too much suffering
we pray for "something good"
something good must emerge of this

Something good please come of this
our whole bodies feel the weight of a breath cut short
as we should –separation does not exist

something good must come of this because we are all in this together
and it is time we push
add our part
to the great vision of an equitable world

3.
The heavy air makes it hard for your sisters and brothers to breathe
toxic sites scattered through the county  
cardiovascular disease, asthma, and low birth weight babies
being placed into the arms of your kin
the environment reflects the same sickness
steals the same breaths

Something is present in this empty room
The light coming through the window adds its brilliance
to the already present luminosity that oozes from everything
in this small apartment I am calm and truly home amongst my being

sometimes if you are really still
–and your limbs are branches–
–and your breath is the wind–
you can feel the earth turn.

My world is not shiny, in fashion
or trendy
it belong to the slowness
of revision in a tiny room
alone with my hand over
a piece of paper
the cup of tea close to me is
a pool of fragrant words ready for alchemy
the blanket a sweet resting
spot where I  “San Francisco- burrito” myself  until I am completely  wrapped in it.

Sweet and luminous sit the flowers
over the crown of your head

song-ridden mornings bring me old lullabies you sang

so close you are, I simply smile now

“You can love the whole world” floats from up to the surface from the ocean in my chest

I can love the whole world within
me–the love affair commences
in the  limitless heart there we are introduced
so eager, so light and meaningful such small fleeting things are like a smile, the sound of steps and the tips of another’s  cold hands warming when you cusp them to try and hold them although they are like water destined to change and move along without you

I tried to tell you
I loved you
in all the ways
I could
now it just lingers
on my lips
soundless

we hold death as if it were our bride loyal
and unwavering in her resolve to reunite
with us right at precipice of our uncertainty
always insistent, always watchful are her soft eternal hands, for as long as birth exists so does death and for as long our children are born and their mother call to them it matters not what language they are lulled with;  they are ours.

They said you get what you deserve
and I got you
something far, far better

so good for me
that it makes me thankful that all the rest left me alone
so you could find me

so that we could dance late at night to a guitar man playing Sultans of Swing on the side walk with a baby blue guitar and a small amp

You swung me out of your arms and back into them and I twirled you

You need to speak
you need to set boundaries or everyone you will ever meet
will cross your yard and stomp in the dark over the tulips

You cannot wait for someone to hit the fence
trample over what you planted and loved
you need to speak up
not run away or at some point in the dark of night
anyone who comes to greet you will step over your boundaries
over and over and over until you finally are so offended
that you can no longer take it

you need to speak, speak your boundaries or the same story will repeat

People say the spirit walks with them
but they are the spirit walking
and we are the flower
and we are life blooming
each capable
–just as we are–
of offering the greatest gift of joy to those who come into our lives
each of us able to take a second to stop and appreciate
each of our lives unfolding with the equal beauty

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

as the disease spreads
transmogrifying terror into memes
the future becomes too blurred
the reality we are endowing; our namesakes –what is our legacy?

our vision too unfocused
partly closed eyes looking out the window
unable to see what is to come

I sit in this quiet room surrounded by more silence waiting for the still voice inside of me to speak to me, but it is silent.

I try to talk to it; i say “I gave it all I had. Now I am tired and in need of a shoulder to lean on.”

There is a curfew in my city.
From 8:00 pm to 5:30 am.
All must remain inside

Still, there is daylight
Still, there are protestors
Still, there is prejudice

Still, there is sorrow

There is a history of enslavement in the forming of my country.
From the 1600s to now.
All people who weren’t deemed “human” went from chains to prisons,
to being killed on routine traffic stops.

Still, there is daylight
Still, there are sirens
Still, there is inequity

Still, some ask why?

I dream of wolves resting over the grass. Wolves two times my size, together, gentle, resting/ calm like my childhood dog blackie/muzzle over a kingdom of green fescue/they are creatures of god

I dream I am there next to them, my hand stroking their fur/ for some reason I am not afraid/ when  hiking in the wild I was taught to stay away from animals/ some how I am not afraid/ there is wild wolf in my heart/ I am not afraid

new
        intentional
                             heartwarming
                                                    ­   family before art
                                                             ­   two drinks sibling chat
                                              while singing & trying to match pitch    
                              buying cempasuchil with ma
                my nieces as MOA & Hair Artist (I never escape their birthday parties without proper styling by their 5 years old hands)
all the silliness I can muster, because we won't be making it our of this life alive
everything else for the world
   the door of the heart open for charming
           the mind ready for growing
                  thoughts like arrow on the positive
                        always a new place to see
                             whatever, shall I do ... find a new album
                             find a new book ...find a beginning or some
                            


                                 ­                                                           


                                                   beginnings

Every time the subway lights go off
I close my eyes and listen to my cart speeding over the rails
What was it that you said, about the velocity of life ?
The one that carries the immigrant, the bible belt strapped and the intermittent traveler through the woven passage of a history they can see in the molding of the land.

2. I can’t quite remember
why I live life so fast,
but I feel (it)
the hill and the turning of the tracks

3. The trains are quite quiet here,
and few people talk.
It’s as though the lights were still off .

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.

I looked inside the box, opened it and picked up a rock and a stick from inside of it

I know what is inside that box now.

No matter how many times I try to put my hand back inside that box
I will always wind up pulling out a stick and a rock.

Only the first time I reached inside the cardboard box to pull out the stick and the rock was I truly surprised. The next couple of attempts were just denial. I tried it, so I already knew.

What is in the box is not for me. I have no need of a rock or a stick. Now if I found a notebook and a vinyl with a stray leaf then that would be my box.

If I were a geologist and a hiker then the first box would of been for me, but I am not and that is fine.

I will build you a temple with words of resounding beauty
of all the dreams collected from the spores and the pollen of spring
so that among the trembling uncertainty you rise
surrounded by weightless warmth
fully formed and grasping
floating magnolias and light

cheeks sweetened and eyes pearled
gleaming to joy, while your tongue unfolds its language
and learns to pick up chisel
learns to pick up hammer
and guild its own temple

to the years that have emboldened you
and the soft cotton of shirts that have held
your chest and the loud beating heart of a child
who tenderly became this man

to the embroidered years
with harsh winters and humid summers  
through all four seasons and all four decades of your life
there has been wind to cool and there has been light to warm
More often than not, I see the trickle of silence play guard
but sometimes it shatters with a big smile

"I like it when you smile" is as much as I can write to you
when truly, I would like to tell you "I like it when you smile because I slide into it, like a cozy sweater and I smile,too"

so to the years, to the stomping ground that brought you up, to the many lips you've graced and/or  left un-kissed, to the bad shady stuff that no one in this life escapes, to the very good breaks and very profound moments of rebirth, to all that could fit and has fit into your making I thank them –be who are, live a life unique to you because these years have made you, you in all the right ways.

One more rotations around the sun, is most certainly a "win". Cheers to the years!

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

Szymborska and her cigarettes
Szymborska in the middle of the crowd spitting out her drink
Szymborska leaning her head against her right arm

In the digital world, I need not go out and buy a book to see her face inside its flap
I can simply call upon Siri,
she, too "no non-being can hold"

The world just seemed so beautiful that I drove into it head first, without hesitation and without need of pulling back.
I jumped off the big board and it’s altitude did not matter because  I just ached to see and to know for myself this world. It has always seemed so marvelous to me this little body and this unknown earth under my feet, that even when I have felt one of my perceptions of it collapse over me –I have felt inclined to photograph it’s dilapidated roof, walls, windows and all the false starts that I dram of when I dove.

It’s just I love this plot of being, as if it were a field stretched over centimeters of flesh, which is my skin. And I love how we are all kin. And I do not care what someone thinks of me. I care how my feet feel against the grass, if I can forgive and love them just as myself. If can kiss again this world with the same vibrancy. I care that I never put this love of life down, that I take it, take it all, all of it as it is.

Constantly I must take off the hairpins, the embroidered shirts, and the lint skirts. I must sit on the wooden stool and unbraid my hair, then proceed to cut it short. I must be able to live without them: the conditioning
–their idea of womanhood(genderhood)

                   Every once in while I must banish them: to know
I can live without them; they are not me ( all those  ideas, all that heavy jewelry)
—I am free; I do not weigh

si crees que no te entiendo lo suficiente
para quererte esta bien

no hay ningún pasillo del cual yo quisiera recurrir para hacerte entender

si tengo que ser igual que tú en toda manera entonces eres tú

el que no sabe de querer pues nada en esta vida es igual y yo tampoco

Sifones  que mantiene el gran charco de las emociones, están sobre el estante.

De lejos veo solo mi pared repleta de repisas.

Contemplo si uno de estos frascos quisiese yo hoy bajar

Hace mucho tiempo que en este cuarto de mi casa no me encontraba la sensación de ser un lucido espectro, pero quizás si lo era porque daba la coincidencia que sólo recordaba ver mis manos en las veces que me acercaba  a tocar un tarro.

There was a time when I would run to your door so wholeheartedly with sincerity as my bread offering along side a red wine full of my clearest intention to simply see you smile and be more confident in your own beauty

I would melt  like a small chubby stick of butter and feel like perhaps in those chairs we sat we all melted and became yellow viscosity –inseparable

There was a time when I foolishly saw my mothers eyes in you, her broken unhealthy relationship cloaked the room perphaps more present than the music-even you were clocked with it. In my mind, If you were my mother leaving my father, I would be the lover who showed up with open arms to offer a new safe shoulder

What heavy cloak that was. What an illusion. How I thought perhaps life was calling to stand for my love regardless of what others thought. This heavy cloak came off the day that love did not stand for up for me.

this cloak was so thick so heavy and when it came off and I could see by the non stop crying  and rapid way in which my eyes reddened around the lids and pupils
that I was wrong

that I was a truly alone in a place so far
But still my life in MY hands

Flash bang grenades
rubber bullets
Riot guns with metal pellets

the tear gas isn't necessary to make anyone cry

You took all your negative thoughts and built a box around your head. The sky only as  high as its cardboard ceiling.


It’s time you start to tear through it. There is another world with its  pull of potential
                with its immense
positive intention
                                             waiting for you

Please tell me someone loves you well, so that I can take my small offering and burn it at the foot of a mountain,
instead of hiking it’s trail to deliver it into your palms.

I want to know you are so loved,
that it would be a poor gift
to give you my affection,
in comparison to what you’ve got.  

Let me head away from the shadow of the mount
having burnt it, with an urn in hand,
knowing it's her warmth that walks you
through the foliage
and the wilderness of your heart

a bond so deep that it strengthens you
with a better tenderness than that
which would rest
on the possibility of mine


Tell me you are well loved.

I took my devotion and like a disciplined scribe worked hard to bind you a book of letter, so presentable and worthy of being gifted to you.

Dedication became routine; everyday I closed my eyes and released a prayer in your direction. I prayed a whole temple and in it I sat.

Now, I’m scared to walk into the temple or open the book. I fear the walls will crumble on me and the words I will no longer be able to decipher

So I haven’t walked into it, instead I sit outside its steps and I can’t feel; I can’t feel a thing.

Tend, I must tend more delicately
Tend more faithfully to this garden
to this body that smells of spirit and runs
on the love of living

I must tend carefully
Forget about mastery and become a conduit; let this lifetime unfold, slowly lay down its tracks

calmly I get closer to what has always been
breathing in the timeless
and seeing it in me I tend lovingly
to this one life of mine

my dear tender eyes
the smallest things are the greatest things
disguised by nothing
their beauty standing on its own and like truth
it can only be recognized
so my dear tender eyes take my hand and can you feel we are made of that same tenderness that tilts towards love