Sweet being your face has changed so many times
do recognize me
in disguise?

Donde esta tu ánimo
algunos días aquí en mi pecho
otros días rondando senderos
¿Donde esta el tuyo?

aproximando montañas
o navegando por aguas ajenas
descendiendo finales hacia comienzos
¿Donde esta tu ánimo ?

Don’t forget your bright eyes as you tilt your head up
and that soft smile that curves over your lips when the warmth of the day penetrates
into the deepest chamber of your beating heart
don’t forget to renew your mind
there is still so much to see
and still so many moments tucked in our experience of time that gifts us this wondrous existence
and this chance to look again upon
life’s kindness
Please  don’t forget to bring them
their brilliance lights up the dark

Don’t die. Listen to new music. funk’s electro baby phonk. Donate your clothes. Get some bright shirts and some daisy socks. Read a book.buy a nice triangular pencil. Get said pencil scribble,write and draw on restaurant napkins. Add  a new city on your new list of must visit before I croak. Turn up the dial to an idiosyncratic volume on commutes. move your arms a little no penalty will be given for dancing. Smile at the stranger next to you.  Be as indifferent as the sun to whether stranger smiles back or not .But don’t die not from old age. At least not that kind of old age.

Come closer. Listen. The heart pumps the same. Don’t die as an antiquity. Buy an old vintage scarf and make yourself new. Hug your friends like you have always been a hugger.

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.

the S W A T team and L A P D cleared
the way for w h i t e sterile vans to advance
slowly through the crowd of filming spectators  towards the factory and take the workers inside

the family members with mothers,
brothers and fathers  inside rushed
to block the entrance

the S W A T threw canisters at the folks
standing on the sidewalks nearby but its foul
smell that made the bystanders cough could not mask

that unless these officers, these servicemen these agents are Tongva/ Gabrieleño in downtown L . A 
 they are just  I M M I G R AN T S  arresting I M M I G R AN T S

Do you believe there is no renewal?
not of the mind or of life
do you believe we don’t deserve to change
are we always to be bound to the past
instead of aided by it’s wisdom

think deep
what do you really believe ?

I can
always feel you
in the center of my chest

    I can feel your longing
and I can feel your sorrow
as-well as your love and joy

Don’t you know— I ask you to be well
because I can sense you
             less than hour ago you were here
at center of my costal

la forma en la cual te decapitan
es normalizada igual que el esplendor
del sol, a cual le llaman cosa cotidiana

la forman en la cual callas sin saberlo
es naranja siendo pelada
mas no la muerdes la regalas

la forma en la cual una pandemia te desboca
es dentista jalando muela
y despues hasta le tenes que pagar

la formal la cual la estacion apgujeong no te facina
es la misma forma por la cual hollywood y vine tampoco

trabajadores en rumbo hacia todas direcciones para
no morrir de hambre

she brings them out coffee when they come to buy meals at her mom and pop’s restaurant
without charge
that’s just the way she is my loving M

she tells me it’s so cold
and that those folks need to stay warm
And I think of the times that I walked to her home as an adolescent because it was too cold for me to stay in front of the school and wait for my dad

every bridge that collapses is an abutment
of hands and elbows tumbling  over

every hurried step urgently taken out of the office pasture,
is from a cow readied, conditioned and willing to get its **** pulled for the milking

every time I see them depart it saturates the pastoral painting
begun during my youth, the base for the subsequent layers never dries

the picturesque manifest destiny  propaganda of the early 1800's
with "California " spelled on it.  
sit next to the paper with a bounty for put on native heads
over a poster of the runaway slave


"the pursuit of happiness",  that is the name of my painting
but the underpaiting never dries

so much turpentine but it seems most people never arrive there, laboring at drugstore or at a big warehouse si

never getting to use the linseed oil  

how savory some of us must taste
I weep at this thought
what is there not to weep for
if life is still sold
you and I headed like cattle



how it is too easy

My friends say that I am like a solitary monk
that I am a hermit
a recluse and sometimes
I believe them like I believe the calendar that tells me it is April

Who really knows what “April” even is
the name of months are birthed from languages’
named just as babies are named
and in their vowels and consonants can be found  
nestled
a promise of life’s yearly renewal
cyclical forgiveness,  do-overs

but I do not know what April is I just agreed to it like the rest of us and do not know what a monk is so perhaps

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

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

They have started dressing as civilians waiting
for professors outside their classes taken, even if
they are residents they are arrested to be deported.

What dream of democracy have your tucked
in your shirt's pocket like a card you can pull
out and say "here, free speech" just for show  

Where is it? where is the discourse that democracy connotes?
suing law firms that bring cases against your point of view
because if only your opinion matters then what is freedom of speech ?

And what is freedom of speech used to harm another
but something as untamed and vicious like this country's founding
Who says they will not come after you?

first them, then you ? first the folks on the margins, then you?
you samson , you lie with delilah. your freedoms one by one
extinguishing like candles over constitutional cake

They have dressed like civilians and started taking people. They have dressed like civilians and they are taking people. They are
not upholding a democracy: they are taking it away

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

Earth is a beautiful place to love and to be loved. To take in a breath and calm the racing of an otherwise anxious heart. To burrow into its crust of time your home, unrepeatable it is this particular morning, this passing into night. Dance to rejoice that earth is your mother. No one can undo this: no man, government, or line drawn with a wooden stick of childish silliness. however much they try you dance for earth is your home. Earth takes a breath, and you, like the magnolias, the jacarandas, and the mesquites, breathe with it. All must know that this here is your home.

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