I have these dreams
that keep me up.


There are golden pigeons that sing “come, come home” and you stand next to them.

I am scared every time I wake up that if I ever tell you, where home is you’ll laugh at me–think I am a silly girl.

The pigeons tell me to come home to you
to the land of the morning calm, across a sea from what used to be my childhood  house.

the pigeons sing loud and I wake up with their songs in my ears, and although I fear
I also dream awake, dream of a home and you standing next to golden pigeons.

I dram your hair was buzzed and over the back of your head a shaved crown with a yellow outline. You are well; my hope is that you are well.

we are in our home
where the pomegranates have begun
to fall

where the sugarcane is planted
next to the persimmons, and the limes
drop round as heavy as chucked pebbles

into a sea of black dirt below
illuminated by one round moon
your face stern and mine young

         begin to sing to our elder
                                                      in the sky
that was it, I remember—

my paternal grandmother would sing for us

tucked in her ******* is the paragon
of devotion, dripping
from her ****** into unfruitful
barrels of nothingness, she mothers
the absence of empty fridges
and messy closets.
"Soon" she whispers
soon there will be someone else here to
drink of her milk

How do you bridge the divide ?
how many times do you try?
endlessly

what if the other person stops trying ?
how many more times do you hold out your hand ?
do you hold out a hand ?

Do you hold your own hand? Do you go so deep that duality both heaven and hell are traps. One an illusion just a tad better than the other but still an illusion

How many circles do you run in your mind before you realize life does not obey minds
that you are not of your mind
you are not the shovel you use to toil
not the earth on which you labor
that you are beyond the mind and beyond the physicality while at the same time one singular spot of material on earth

Duality is the kind old lady who gave you directions turn left and then right and then transcend me and you will get there

I'm a cloud
and I am also the sun

I am the beauty of life
in form of a woman

I am a little piece of the planet
– another daughter of the earth

I am a snail
I am a bacterium
infinitely inseparable from our existential biography
– minuscule dust floating through the atmosphere of time

I come from what has been and will be

Dusty loving lady you are unending
and as they cringe at your smell on the subways cart I focus on your lively eyes
that are unoffended –sauntering the expansive territory of aluminum poles, glass windows and plastic seating where people sit in self-imposed hermitages or absorbed in a phones but your gaze
like that of a hawk
glides over all

Who are they ? What does their front door look like ?


My friend could not sleep all night
she spent it crying
“It hit home for me” she told me as we rode back home on a bus
eight people shot dead in Atlanta at a spa
her words, her sadness and her fear for her parents
I could only listen and cry with her
somethings are too horrible
too sorrowful

What are their stories? What lives did they live?

me gustaría sentarme y decirte
que yo siempre te quise
y que si no te conocí bien me disculpes
no es fácil saber como moverse
en sincronía a alguien mas aunque haiga amor
hay que saber cuando tomar un paso hacia adelante y un paso hacia atrás –hay que saber bailar

Aqui el corazon no cuenta

pero para mi el corazón manda

Yo vengo de culturas donde todo

trataron de borrar y dejar en el olvido

donde una forma de vida fue destruida

y cuando te queda nada

y no tienes pertenecías

y tú juventud se a ido

te queda solo el corazón


Por eso es que el mío manda

Nuestros cuerpos parados de lado a lado
nuestros dedos entrelazados mientras el sol convierte el atardecer en mañana

Aquí la boca de la tierra exhala formando gotas de roció sobre el pasto de migraciones passadas

nuestras manos son flores cúspides
que se extiende más allá de las tierras altas occidentales a tocar gramática de las cuencas costeras donde la avenida Central recorre la parte media de la espalda de Los Ángeles.

Desde allí crecemos flores de cosmos para alimentar a los colibríes
con nuestros dulces néctares
y los colibríes viene y nosotras sonreímos

Mi corazón tiene aliento a vida y sol
en los días cuando se repira calor
El céfiro por dentro refresca mi existir

Por fuera la luna, luna
está en resplandor

Hoy vuelve a morir Lorca
y el manto cubre a mas que una cara
en más de un país bajo esta misma luna
Vivimos

Hoy frente al monitor el deseo de dejar los barcos de Kaufman zarpar
existe profundamente en el mar de nuestra colectiva conciencia

En tu corazón existe aliento y una vida con una sol.  
El céfiro mueve barcos.
No importa si salle la luna, luna

que tierna
la alas de
un pajarito

que de su  ser
trajo a otro ser

liviana es
su despejar

el viento
a las alas
carga

el viento
mi amor
levanta hacia
mi viejo padre

Mi alma es brisa
que carga el fuego
su viento invisible
sostiene mi mundo

You have run an emotional marathon; it is normal to be tired–your mind and your body need rest. Let this moment be– no predicaments of ecstasy or doom. You are tired and it has been hard; sleep, time will bring clarity. Repose will renew.

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.

the small glints engird me
these lightsome keepers
keep no tongue

below their soft palette
there is only space unchallenged
no edict, no menschy thought  

their presence is scintillation
unwavering comfort
attestation
to that in the dark,
there is light

country womxn to sorrow  
and servicewomxn to joy

they make no claims of augury
they are quiet onlookers

silent glisters that surround me
amidst the umbra that stands cavalierly
at the door of the locus

Al poner el oído al viento
puedo escuchar su ritmo
descalza sobre el asfalto
sonreío
porque no necesitó ojos
para bailar en sincronía a todo

I love you and I want you to flourish
carry that shine in your eyes
I don’t matter how old you are  
smile and feel as light as the day you first entered this world

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

I think of ways I can brighten my own day
today I stood on a an escalator as Crowded House played on my phone and for the remainder of that descent
down the moving stairs
to the underground subway line 9
I fell so deeply into life that I couldn’t help but smiling at everyone and tapping my feet
and I was reminded of how much I truly love life
of how good it is to fall into the moment

I thought of ways I could live in this moment and create the joy I always wanted in my life and suddenly
without much thought my inner climate became just that as I rode on a mundane staircase the destination found me
And I might not know how all the pieces fit together but I do not need to know

Me has llevado a la celda de Cervantes
con Rocinante a tú lado
Ahí con todo el tiempo del mundo
contra el muro yo también escribiré



I will write

You have taken me to the cell of Cervantes
with Rocinante at your side
There with all the time in the world
against the wall, I too will write

Me gusta poesía en español
me recuerda a los momentos en mi adolecía  cuando my madre y yo íbamos solas a la playa
cuando mojadas nos acostábamos sobre la arena leyendo Sor Juana o Neruda

Me gustan las guitarras
me calman
siempre ha ávido músicos en la familia
para mi no es casa sin música
sin que alguien cante o toque algo
Segovia, Metallica, Violeta Parra, Led Zeppelin, Caetano, Ry Cooder, Pedro Infante
baladas, corridos, salsa, bachata, samba, cumbia
no hay alegria hasta que se libera el cuerpo sobre la pista de baile o en la cocina con una cuchara de palo batiendo el mole poblano
mi sangre mixta a heredado tantos sabores
y tanta riqueza de ideas y colores
que no cambiaria nada
me gusta a mi quien soy
y quiero seguir creciendo
y amando ser una ser humano

To all the beauty in our hearts that will never end
to that infinite microcosm pumping
in each lub-dub love is dubbed in physicality
(as is to be expected in this world of form)

Every ounce of me waited
and held in there for you

every & all leaps taken

i look at myself in the mirror
and wonder how many lifetimes i have lived
not because I feel old, but because i feel
timeless
every living things feels
  timeless to me
    and everything is living
living timelessly within a very timed material form

Some are scared of words
as one rightly should.

Some are uncomfortable with facts
as if one of these facts will finally tear through the rope of privilege that fabricates a false outer sense of self-esteem.

Because the thing about privilege is that if you lose it
you might see that there isn’t anything special about you. However, you will see there is nothing special about anyone and if you claim anyone is special then everyone is special.

I have spun up a mountain of silk ideas to cushion "my shelter in place" habitat from making papaya bread to challenging my malinois to sit still –I am well aware one of these will prove to be impossible– she has got more energy than me.  

I turn on the oven and decide to leave out the eggs and oil from the recipe–respice finem baby. I crank up my headset and delve into post-90's Columbian pop.

Risky domicile nonsense and dreams of well-behaved dogs make up the soft web I inwardly sit on while Juanes plays and I wait for the oven to preheat to 350 degrees.

I.
And my hair became too much

It overtook the walls
made its way into the office on the sixth floor
and then hung
like a dripping willow’s branches
over the desks

By the time they thought to find me
I’d already been wrapped up in a cocoon of brown hair  
indistinguishable from the walls
that was now
also covered in the thick strands of undulated hair

II.
everything and everyone became consumed.


III.
In hairy chrysalis, the scissors uselessly
hung on some poor frantic pair of hands
forced into pupa

IV.
It was on the third day that the streets surrounding the corporate buildings were once again
populated with people, that a young woman in heels swore she heard a
faint choral singing coming from the 5th or 6th floor of a dreary grey building.


V.
everything cocooned
everyone consumed
all in pupa

VI.
During metamorphosis, a caterpillar digests itself leaving only behind imaginal discs
that shape it’s adult body.  

everything becomes consumed.

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

Every time someone I love dies I become more certain that they are the same thing: this birth and this death thing=illusions
and that time can also be added to this category because it folds
and it feels like past, present and future dissolve
they drop into a singularity
perhaps all occurring at the same time

Deadly Dior
Grave digging Givenchy
Dead bodies still in cells Celine
Children Crying Chanel
Some are still in the rumble Starbucks
Never Again, Nestle the why you funding genocides
I’m lovin’ it, McDonald’s- actually, no I don’t love you funding war
Where dreams come true Disney+, I beg to differ and offer. Where nightmares are funded for children caught in a conflict.
And so many more who to boycott, I do believe I have stumbled upon a long, long poem that wishes to be longer. Don’t forget you money speaks too like words and songs and paintings hung up.

love is expansive and gives a wide open field of flowers
not a narrow alley

it is patient, and teaches patience
it allows time for thought and time to collect oneself without the pressure of hurrying

so as my thoughts linger upon yours
I respect that you cannot be rushed
your far stretching freedom is always yours
wide as the eye can see

so I give you time my little self
and this time this self-love will grow deeper

When it comes ravaging
cutting your skin with glass
let the shards that fly in the same manner as a sandstorm expose the bones
for once and for stop hiding
all the brilliant shimmer that comes being being cut so deeply, the beauty white bone reflecting the light

All the Eyes of Eye are walking through the markets
performing a dismounting dance from buses
onto sidewalks
crossing street lights erratically
diagonally tracing their feet over a surface not as impressionable as sand
their gravity given weight: leaving little trace behind

...
The eyes of eye
are born one day, burgeon and transmute
and more eyes open
like lilies replenishing: the eternal spring of consciousness
Each pair of eyes is the Eye
...
It is late now but I have gathered my keys, put on a coat and walked to the corner store to buy Chamomile tea. I close my eyes and feel the cold breeze. One. One other person is walking far off in the distance down the same street as me. I see recognize them and whisper to myself “eyes are I”
...
Her eyes are the same color as mine. You could say she gave them to me–my eyes. I move through the world with them.

The trees are about to defy winter
like high driver
1-2-3

Here they go

She crosses bridges  (they are not to be venerated)

"She forgot God," the old man murmured, when she did not want to enter the parish.

It had been many years now, that the “what will they say" had become a spider web–ancient and swaying in the wind.

She knew that bridges are necessary.

“You have to cross bridges
but you shouldn’t venerate them ”

Her mother taught her that only God is to be venerated, but perhaps venerating  was not the point, “you have to cross;  you have to be in communion” she thought

Inside her chest she had found a corner where her soul would dissolve, and mix with the infinite energy of "everything"
and no religion would deny her that

And although the old  man knew about bridges he didn't know how to cross them.

The afternoon was slowly becoming evening, and Fatima decided she’d best stroll back home and enjoy to the fullest whatever daylight was left.

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.

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

Ten times you can circle over the same high peak
cycle through the seasons as you dare not to mountaineer
but every mountain of feeling must be felt
there is no way around such peaks
only lowly grounds where the merit of sorrow is the only badge you hold
and a hefty heart gets heavier with each
time around

my head is pressed against the white cover spread over the front lawn

I laid my body right under the sun wanting to feel it set.
...
Drifting

        Nnnn.  Drifting
                              ...
It feels a little cooler each time the sun sinks  lower
and the wind howls just a little louder each time I open my eyes to see dimmer patches of sunlight

On the tips of dried grass, I walk
bare footed aching to discover
where else a sea can be found when I am nowhere
close to the pacific roaring waves of my flat coastal city where angeles hum by the sea
and concrete kisses are copious to the flat soles of the huaraches,  plastic sandles and warm enough to be called friendly to the rubber soles of long haired girls on skateboards riding down the boardwalk

Where is the sea in this winter
when the chest holds tight to the air and wishes to expand for terror of the cold

long hours pass, dried stems come into focus
when the parched
glory of brown reveals itself as an abundance of  blades of grass marchitas to the two traveling
arches of my feet

what is grass in winter if not my answer

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

When you squint your eyes
you help the light properly reach the fovea
as those who are to come to
appear amongst the foggy mist in the vicinity of your mind
descendants, bleary figures
almost close enough to touch
   their outlines refracting
from the surface of this wet and wild time
–a mirage in this heat–
you wonder
whether the way you live in this world
is an illusion 
or if their silhouettes are the phantasmagorias

the weight of their lives, our overconsumption
(is this why we are dying?)

...they do not have a countenance
or a name by which to call them into this teeming orb  
your womb, our earth –can it not hold them?

finally, i understand peace is a price too high to pay. continual compliancy is not a sign of consistency or of love. indifference is more painful than goodbye, and forgiveness is not something many are willing to do just as compassion is a muscle so is letting go so is admitting to seeing the steps you took of your own free will to destroy your own self worth. simple and benevolent the truth will find you scrape at your insides, stick its finger in your wounds
and reveal what still aches

We awoke to specks of white ash over our cars
the cloudy grey sky bore no sun just its heat
and the ocean breeze that cooled in my younger years had become futile
California burned
and although L.A  city did not
it was indeed a table that received a mantle of pollution

Without the piercing
arrow of the night
who is to say
what daybreak is

1.
Fizz and sparkles...
...undulated hair and a long salmon scarf
I stand over a running sink searching for you.

If there were fish swimming around my neck, defying gravity could I then reach for you?

Like i have reached countless times before,
sometimes i have gotten close enough
to have seen the clearness of your eyes meet me in defiance...
...what do I say to a child born into this world that smells of ocean?

2.
I met you years ago, when your  hands were small. And there was a sea rotating over your head. The whales seemed to soar above us –and you’d extend your left hand and guide me in.

3.
Your world... so gentle. You could not bare to leave it. When people see water circle around your fingers, you do not care to explain to them such a phenomenon

that is why love you
that is why I do not drink the soup of this     world

  that is why I keep sieving their words
  and this faucet water through my hands

  4. I lose you sometimes, but I always come back. It’s odd to live in a place such as this without your company.

the salt chuck above your head and the inlets that hang close to your ears guide me back in to the reefs and among the floating fishes.

5.
Fizz and sparkles...
...undulated hair and a long salmon scarf
I stand over a running sink and I see the reflection of  you
smiling back at me.

en el molcajete están los claveles de mi abuela y los pétalos de las rosas del jardín de mi madre
a ellos les agregó aceite de amapola de California y me la unto como remedio