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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

everything and everyone became consumed.

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

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.

everything cocooned
everyone consumed
all in pupa

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

everything becomes consumed.
4.1k · Mar 2017
Can’t a nice girl be human
I do not want the sainthood you assign to those
who have never let you down
I want the ***** gritty scabs that come from falling
off of pedestals and landing in the mud

I am in no need of your righteous tongue
I am in need of your caring shoulder  

of your love
of your grace moving through me as you kiss my thigh
3.4k · Aug 2018
Abandoned (dream poem. 1 )
I thought                                         you'd left us, long ago
desolate on a swing
                       rocking stale, dry grass and still air
never quite                  the hurdle

                                                               ­                                                    lost

sweating youth in this humidity

I thought we'd never make it past the
rusty red and brown of weathered fences

              felt                        moun

                                                               ­   Made of dirt
                                                                ­                       (guilt)
and an endless turmoiling scent, still fresh

I thought you'd forlorned us                  
h     e     a     v    y       r  a  i  n   and warm bodies
standing next to oxidized hoops
                                                          one adjacent to the other
The haze of the heat hard, but not impossible
to withstand                swaying like the gust of wind, swaying  
                                            the blazing sun and my open palms swaying

Why was it here                                         that it felt like you left us
                                                              ­                                              stumped,  
consuming  with no  
                                              idea of the Greater


                                                W­ H A T was it about inner cities
And skin that would tan
Or resist the sun
   that made you  mutter murky words  

                   that made me hike a

that for so long made feel like a (lost) traveler
unable to come find my way   D O W N.

Still on a mountain top
Never quite crossing the hurdle.
That’s how you wanted me
                     D  O N E D.


But my tongue made sounds
copper pots and plastic measuring cups
became the pious  accompaniment
of a song sung inwardly
until it manifested
Words on lips
                            Lips willing to kiss the purple clouds made out of strange fruit and a high border walls over my hand and back

4. A Swimsuit and a pool that could cool
small children see the cicatrixes
      But I walk towards the water; I have long abandoned shame.
for it needs not of labeling
for it is already ceremonial,
my feet touching the earth,
my lungs taking in air

our breathes
are sacred enough

nameless are the trees
and so wondrous they seem
before words could mask their glory
they were whole without their need

for what truly do we know about a tree
about a flower
or the ocean
and the creatures it still harbors
in it's depth






Words are wonderful but they have limitations. This poem centers around that topic.
Words mask the majesty of the world around us.  
I slowly reduce these words into random letter and then into symbols because that's all letters are, symbols. Words are a comfort blanket we throw on the world to make us feel like we know, like we understand.
3.2k · Mar 2018
Question Poems
Question 1.
can you escape the words that so easily want to roll off your tongue
can you put them away
see them off on a ship

have them cross into the horizon and dissipate
under the burning red sun
of the east
Question 2.
Can you replace all letters of an alphabet
that easily taught, rolled off your tongue
can you put them in a shoe box,
seclude them in a corner of your new life,
where 80% of the time you are fine
Do you think they will cross too
cross the horizon, like the things you wish would
and then dissipate
Question 3.

Does the pollution amplify the heat, if so can the heat burn or melt old Polaroids
this is a writing experiment how close can you get to the space between the source and conception of a question my answer was to play with grammar usage asking questions that need no grammatical indication of their querying because i want the structure to more adequately reflect the state of mind i’m in while i ask these questions. obscurity. I do not know what I seek by inquiring, and so these questions do not know their own purpose, thus by not including a question mark the statements above never fulfill all the grammatical prerequisites of a question, the statement has yet to realize it is a question and just lingers somewhere in between.limbo. If you’ve made it this far, give feedback please. What else can I do to deconstruct the structure of a question? Do these above statements feel like they are real questions?
and they escaped the weight of darkness peering over their shoulders
where do these people go,
what belongings do they pack
is there a limit on the heaviness of ones’ soul
Can they bring love
as parting gift?
Hide it in their handkerchiefs, and then go
1.7k · Jan 2019
Womxn to Womxn (why?)
you judged me
out of my own beauty
the same way you judged yourself
out of that dress
The need for more love and less judgement of sisters who aren’t like us. The more of a need to uplift one another. The importance of seeing  the brilliance in someone as it coexists with their imperfection. Therefore, I choose the concept of weight as an entry point. We judge one another just as viciously is we judge ourselves, not just because of weight, but because of gender identification, creed, ****** orientation, economic class, and more.
1.7k · Oct 2018
Kiln (must keep busy)
my hands are on automatic, pressing down on clay for three hours
then pinching plastic through wire for another three …creating and creating.
Coiling around the hurt & hiding it in a mount of clay  "the kiln will burn it” I say to myself
My misguided attempts at the time to bury my hurt; run from it. All that remains of that time in my life are short poems like this one.  c. 2015
1.6k · Mar 2018
have i traveled too far this time,
traveled like your feet through the north american desert,
one step heavier than the last
guadalupe is a river in spain
that i didn’t care to visit
I decided Madrid and Barcelona were good enough for me
The only Guadalupe I cared to see was the one at El Tepeyac
my Tonantzin dressed in garbs

Salgado- a man on the subway told my mother it meant salt. It means incredibly salty in Portuguese. I guess that's the one good thing about living in the U.S. few people speak more than one language. Kids can only tease to you within their realm and scope of knowledge and my last name wasn’t in theirs.
Partida verb. to leave or depart
               adj. divided or ripped.
1.6k · Feb 2017
There is a home
There has to be more, the more that takes you around the corner to the park
to the grocery store and to the bohemian hangout
the more that takes you around the world, to the highest cliffs

to the foreign currency exchange booth, to the flowers growing on the side of the road
the more that brings you to your hometown
to the tea cooling on your mother’s table
to wearing old house slippers
The more is for “the you”
who knows the "it" is built on that, which came before it
because the "more"
lives in the comfort of knowing
somewhere it has a home
(where it takes root)
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.
A ten-year-old boy and his two brothers up in the cerro for three months during the rainy season, with their herd of goats. You camped inside a little house made of rocks with a roof of large leaves and every so often you or one of your brothers ventured down the mountain to your mother’s house to bring back food.
You who as a teenager helped your family keep bees. I wonder how you have managed to live in a city for 30 some years. How you have become accustomed to the L.A morning commute. HOW.

I have outgrown the linen tops you bought me as a child
but not running barefoot & spreading my toes in the mud.
I still like to climb the trees, and lay on the grass and if
I ever find a bee indoors I cup one palm over the other, and take it outside.
Me who as a teenager helped you plant the tomatoes, cut the pumpkins and who’d run outside to snip some leaves from the cedron for tea. How do I live in a city again? How do I breathe deeply enough to find the traffic on the highway “ another” part of life? HOW.
the woods are moist with the fever of fear
suckling the after thoughts of speech
spit out without regard
for the crickets venturing to sing
or the widening of the streams
strong with neglect of the rusting branches touching tip to tip

(but) this is what we are, a forest
1.1k · Feb 2017
Kamikaze Years
she cried on a day that should have been celebratory
and I did not have words

she danced an ode written to cumbia
she danced it out with grace
with verbs so fine  
you knew she held the present
at every sway
she did not have words

we walked to food joint next to the bar
rolled out the English language
in exchange for sustenance
“what are words?”

I picked up our food
drunkenly shook out some lingo
and the grey-haired man on the other side of the counter
took a deep breath and stayed silent
“Are words needed ?”

the Kamikaze shots and the tequila made our tongues soft
and our upper palates dry
pouring only thirst, into our youth  

and there,
eyes soaked in meaning
in a circus of incertitude,
the cold wind turned divine flurried our hair

*“we do not have words.”
Maybe, this thing does not matter.
It feels like a current,
But maybe it’s just another stream
with the promise of leading to the sea
when it’s truly
just heading for a lake.

Maybe, I can watch the ducks paddle over the water
and the twigs float on by.
It could be that this is how you learn,
that your gut doesn’t have eyes.

But it could also be how you learn
that there are some things
no eyes can see.

Whether it be
for the worsening or for the bettering
you are floating down this river
an island in the water
it’s viscosity carrying
you, with your hands
at the side of your hips

where you’ll end up
grace cannot be too far
when you follow the flow
who knows where you’ll end up
maybe next to those ducks
or in the vast open sea
1.1k · May 2019
Acceptance is a celebration
People keep saying
“You should fight for your love “
But it still feels so unnatural to me
Such a disconnected thing to utter
so archaic this notion of fighting
as if I held the key
to universal order

Why would I aspire to such arrogant a feat

You must understand that when I think of love
I am engulfed with joy and warmth
that I cannot fathom war
so stop trying to send me into battle
I do not want to join the Calvary

Instead, I am placing my heavy shield,
and armament down
among the flora springing into life

‘Tis is a celebration in disguise watching him
walk away faithfully into the thicket,
eyes closed but in the direction of his true inward self

Now, why would I fight that
942 · Oct 2018
You are an Empty Room
when places rid themselves of people they become empty
and when a person rids themselves of the people who fill them up      
they become the empty rooms,
rooms that at some point someone wanders into
and lets out a scream without ever hearing one back.
And if they do stand there long enough, all they really do is hear the fading echo of their own scream slowly dissipating into the void.
looking back at snippets of writing from some years ago. c. 2015
869 · Mar 2018
Me sente sobre la mesa
todo el lugar es lindo
la mente esta en calma
y todo el lugar es lindo
las vias silencias
los ninos llorrando callados
el ruido de la registradora
y el cambio cambiando de manos
es tranquilamente mudo
al igual que la quietud
que ejerce paz sobre mi mente
Blossom with love and courage into the spring,
that is unalike the one before it, but none the less
full of growth and the sweet scent
of possibilities

Blossom in the light of positivity
for you have carried too much sadness
and cradled too much fear. Aren’t you tired?

like all things on earth bloom
Flower into your next life, naturally

Fluorescence is your call
tenderly guiding you wild flora
into the fauna where you belong
You too are that, which came from earth
and grows from light

Winter beckons a spring,
and it’s your turn wild flora.
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 .
763 · May 2019
Codex Painter
codex painter
have your hands rusted
is this world not  as vivid
as the one centuries ago
the one
that bore the same tint,
rich in intent to serve,
to devotedly work
head inclined
over the flaming light
and under the celestial stars

are what I now reach for
from the vessels tucked behind my ears
from the smell of copper
and the tastes of adobe pots,
simmering with memories,
to the corneas anchoring my vision

because I must have a vision
the "it" becomes what we intend
and I intend "it"

give me your codices
unfold the fibers of the agave plant
and let me paint again
this world
this lifetime kinder
for I have always been a scribe and
a painter
and my heart rejoices in service
to an existence expanding
to meet itself in the eyes of all
who I dare draw
Work as in the work you are put on this earth to do. Working towards your unfolding not the capitalistic definition associated with work.
I ran like a wolf. Always trying to keep up. “Wait!” my aunts would scream, but I was off before they could stop me. The tiny dark haired girl, among a pack of five young boys. They would always utter “can you? ”. I’d ball up my tiny fists and say “yes”. Scraped knees, ****** fingernails, sprained ankles, and those bruised greens and yellows suspended on my back like floating clouds, although painful to the touch, none were enough to stop me. I was always competing. Always trying to make them eat their words  “You can’t do it; you are a girl”.

Now that we’re older, I’m inclined to ask them how those words tasted.
I do not have any sisters. I grew playing with my cousins and my brother. All of them were boys. I tried to touch upon my experience as the only girl growing up.
528 · Jul 29
Unclaimed (Hart Island)
Off the coast of the Bronx
at the western end of Long Island
before ships landed: the home of the Siwanoy tribe
once the training ground of the 31st U.S Colored Infantry Regiment
according to records, a prisoner of war camp in 1864
later referred to as  "Potter's Field" or "City Cemetery"
then a quarantine station for yellow fever patients
as well as a women's psychiatric hospital & a tubercularium
on the west side of the islands
between an empty 4-acre space lived Solomon Riley's vision of black coney island during Jim Crow  
after the stay and departure of Pheonix house
Hart Island
now is the final resting ground for New York City's covid-19 victims
whose family could not or did not hire a private funeral director and so they were labeled "unclaimed"
Tragically, over 150,000 people have lost their lives and continue losing them.
I saw a picture of a mass grave and traced its location to New York City's Hart Island.  
I wanted to research what victims of Covid-19 were being buried at Hart Island in New York City's mass graves. I also wanted to explore the location's history in tandem.
Overall, it just breaks my heart that federal negligence has contributed to the loss of life. A first world nation with one of its wealthiest cities burying bodies in a mass grave; this is the state of the United States of America. I wish it weren't so.
481 · Dec 2019
nearing the heavens
the doves came swiftly into
the patch of sky above me

the first three had not a single wreath
or branch at the tip of any of their beaks
they simply flew into the openness above me

to thine eyes they neared the celestial sphere
Could he be as swift as the doves  
while jotting down equations over the gridded paper
was he too, thinking of the heavens
or just of the gravitational modeling over time and space  
Could the young man with the TI calculator
see, too the same patch of sky with the same doves  
as he engineered our course through space
running multiple scenarios through his mind
they gave us wings, and now we can all fly on commercial flights
take day-long trips to destinations to that used to be called "far off"
After being picked up from the airport I asked my dad
"Do you still think the sky divine?"
It had been raining for a week and the Santa Ana winds had turned the mild L.A evenings into chilly and sweater worthy nights.    
As we sat on the porch I leaned over and asked him about god; he pointed at the sky, but not at himself 
–and I wondered how much of heaven could be there for us
within that sky and beyond it
There are dreams of leaving earth and of making humans interplanetary. My question is: Would it be "heaven on earth" minus the earth part or would we reproduce the same mental formations and create a world that suffers from the same ailment of our current. How much of "heaven" of this idea of space that we've placed part of our collective hope will we really find?
It felt like crossing      
all things cross, right?

It has been many years since we have walked through that tunnel
and into this land
where the hands of spirits became the wings of ancestors over us
and the quiet inner gust became an orator of truth  

Truthteller could you tell me again my name
They have given me so many on the northern journey,
disguised me to be one of the multiple
flickering pixels on a television screen

eyes darker than their own
but who has darker eyes

She is the barefoot daughter of the Pachamama
womxn of many tongues
womxn whose tongue was not cut off
so you hear her sing when the sun comes up
and sway with the blades of grass
onward in the direction of the voices and the wind
and all the things that cry and laugh out loud  

They made you cross, too
and at the same time
But they made you forget
about the birds,
the wind,
your name- our name
and the alphabet
silence is the alphabet used to speak truth  

They made you forget your name.
Ask them your name as you look up at the sky
cloudy or clear
as  children lay silently next to demarcation lines
housed in steel bars
gloomy and lost
ask and listen
to be humbled by your name  

The spirits call again
can you hear them now?

back through the tunnel of innocence,
they whisper your name.
460 · Apr 2019
It is what it is
all the while I will love you because I’ve never been good at stringing the little locket heart into my chest. It’s always just dangled in my hand clumsily. People always tell me “kid you gotta hide that. Don’t you know where you are.”and i want to laugh. And say “ I’m in the jungle baby”, proceed to sing the rest of that song, and not let them get me down. Cause **** the *******.

It is what it is, the sadness, but with it
also the love
why suffer.

little locket in hand and the nearness of the you, jazz standards floating through my head,
are enough.

It is what it is.
I’m in Love with you. Thousands of Motown songs and R&B 2019 top charting singles running, forming hills in my mind
so ever slowly, but continuously that everytime I walk past one of those hills, I fail to recognize it.
They’re becoming mountains

They are what they are,
as this is what it is.
Brown is the color you get when you mix all the others together
So they never know where I am from

I am the resident brown person.
The closest skin that tans
that’s who they think I must be

Your children play with modeling clay, play doh, and with different colored squishy slime.

When you put them to bed, take as many colors as you can from their play box and knead them together and you’ll understand why my skin is brown.

And maybe you won’t have to ask where I am from two, three or four times only to still refuse what is obvious
So obvious they forgot to put it in history books

When you enslave, colonize, migrate
You mix
The coalescence and coagulation of blood into human skin
This  should be of no surprise
you mix
Brown children on the back of white mothers, brown children on the backs of black fathers
Brown children tied to the curve of brown womyn’s backs

So do you understand why America is a brown womxn, too?
437 · Sep 14
bare (sat there)
to be this is a privilege some write, and I agree

to be this that lives
and breathes
is a gift

I sat there
looking out the window
as vulnerable
and as frail as any other living creature
with my wounded feet covered in bandaids
with black chipped nails
with spongy untamed hair

it is a privilege Campbell
to sit here bare as I am
truly it is
394 · Sep 24
All I have left behind is dissolving into the past
crumbling most of it
but it was necessary
for it prepared me for the now

to embrace you
to embrace whatever form you take
whatever song your life sings
whatever mood swings into gear within you

No matter the norms, the age gap, the multiple reasons someone might wave their finger at me or frown at my direction while thinking I’m out of mind

If you are a go, then baby I am a go
...ready as could be
377 · May 2019
The Heart of A Dog
mom, you raised a girl who is not afraid to die, a girl that still thinks she can climb every mountain, just because you let her climb the fridge, the cabinets and the roof of her house.

you raised a ******* the road

in van traveling up the west coast with a man who longed to be free

to not wear shoes and not be bothered by the wind
brushing the rest of populace's feet

Mom you let your child run free with the dogs. Let her think she, too had four legs and could love someone as unconditionally as they do.
My dad did not want to settle down in one place. He bought a van and set off around the west coast with my mother and I. I spent the first years of my life on the road. My earliest friends were dogs. I always felt like dogs and their unconditional love was something to really stop and appreciate. This poem comes from the faded remembering of my childhood and the feelings of wonder and the questions “how big is our capacity to love?” “ what is the essence of our capacity to love“
I still think it’s unconditional.
Her name is  like a fine diamond,
every which way the sun hits her
she shines
letting everyone know why with so much love
her mother laid her against her chest,
since small
and called her Crystal
"******" screamed the nasty Idaho boys
during the town celebration.

Aberdeen Days,
a fixture that seemed needed
to adorn a town's narrative
of property claim,
scattered people in a small town park
bunched them up in cliches
and incubated 'people among their own people'

"..." silence were the words she used.  Cage's 4'33

The Architectural Barriers Act of 1968
Mills v. Board of Education 1972
The Higher Education Act of 1972
The Americans with Disabilities Act 1990
flutter in U. S history.

Four butterflies over my aunt Berta
and my cousin Crystal's head  
ever radiant under the beams of the sun
words unable to dimish beauty  
as they walked across the lawn to join
Byron, nothing impeding her too
from walking in that beauty
like the other girls in the park square
317 · Mar 2
I just want to be in the vicinity of you.

Lounge like a lizard around you taking in the sun.
I stand in the shower with lavender fields in my chest

how do I scrape off the muck, scoop out the loathing
and take off the gloves to pick up the patches of fear
that periodically gather at the base of my shower drain  

how do I heal each limb so that with majesty
I awaken knowing
full and bright that I am a child with wings
and elevation is the right song that pours out when I dream
an inheritance marbled into my being’s skin
how does a child beget forgetting
how does an adult continue such forgetting

what is the suchness of wholeness
whose scent of remembrance seems mythically far
but its verity present within our plot

our hands reaching for the bunches of lavender
that can be gathered from a bountiful field
a calm whiff of what we truly are
that can send us back into an infinite space of fruitful life
cusping possibility
portable pastures inside our homestead
running water
and a chance to be cleansed
what suchness of being over my body  
how ecstatic
how simple to stand under the showerhead 
on the toes of today
with a meadow in my chest
286 · Jul 25
Don’t let there be gloom, it is so easy for it to grow when watered
it will cover even the most beautiful of flowers,
you’ve always been gifted with a green thumb, and a large heart
you deserve to harvest
lovely things are coming
water those blossoms because they do give fruit
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,
sometimes i have gotten close enough
to have seen the clearness of your eyes meet me in defiance...
...what do I say to a girl born into this world that smells of ocean?

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.

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

that is why I 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.

   that is why I wonder if in death I could come back to you but I think I get close enough in life girl, that smells of ocean cannot be tamed do not let them drain the salt chuck above your head. As I became you, in me you become the living breathing world...
...inlets flow undeterred
276 · Jan 2019
Soltar raíces (Dar fruto)
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
267 · Jun 2019
He aquí que te encuentro
Hoy se habré el portal
y te siento cerca
Las hojas se cristalizan
Bajó la luz

La rara concepcion del tiempo se

deshace y se desliza como pequeños listones naranja
sobre los párpados
De esta materialidad

Tomando en mano cada átomo
Y uniendose a el

Te encuentro en tu casa
Dentro de tu jardin
Regando tus plantas con tu manguera larga
flor de piedra
265 · Mar 28
Her hand moves in a back and forth manner
as if she were playing the trombone
But she's really just pulling my greñas
spreading more Brillantina
to make her baby's hair sparkle    
even though its color is nowhere near that of brass
263 · Sep 5
Trust.(mutual trust)
can I trust you?

can I trust you ?

Can I trust you will treat me with respect?
Can I trust you?  

But really can I trust myself ?
...if I cannot trust you to treat me with respect ?

Trust, great leaps of courage on the road to trust
I see no other way to live deeply then to take great leaps of trust

Can you trust me ?
Can we trust each other ?

on this path that bends in so many directions great leaps of trust await

open hands with the intent to trust remain
gentle and willing to try
Trying to map out my thoughts as I try to renew trust

I find it is requiring I decide to let go of past hurt.
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

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
Elijo a Lorca pues su muerte es sinónimo para mi del miedo,  de la división, del sentimiento de nacionalismo que brindó terror y muerte acceptable, de eso que nos hace pensar que la diferencia es cosa que naturalmente separa

Elijo eludir el poema de Kaufman “All those ships that never sailed” por ser una poeta de mi país natal que en este poema expresa el sentimiento de nostalgia de un tiempo/ de algo que ya se encuentra en el pasado. Mi objetivo fue escribir un poema que aborda y acepta lo que ocurre en el mundo mais ofrece un recordatorio de que cada uno de nos tenemos un clima interno cual podemos controlar dentro de esta “ noche” metafórica donde ha salido la luna y parece que la oscuridad nos  rodea. No hay que tener nostalgia  del pasado pues el futuro es nuestro para crear.
250 · Dec 2019
I am stubborn (no wavering)
I hear the rattling
the noise inside
and I wonder what nourishes it...
too many cold days didn't awaken it
and neither did the days when the heat's haze lay itself
pink over my face, so what makes it shake it's tambores  

give its songs volume
rank it up high enough, so that I cannot ignore it ?

when I find something that makes it louder
I turn towards its direction and I do not waver
I do not know why it calls me,
but now you know why I chase it

El cuero arde
cómo arde el cartón,
como arde el presente, en los dos hemisferios

Hay lugares donde los pies protestan,
donde la impuntualidad es menos sutil  
y se disfraza con vernáculas y un buen traje  

Lugares donde hablan tu lengua
y donde hablan las mías
mientras se sirven un plato de comida antes
de despedirse y ir por su día

Donde se enfrían los pies,
y coreo un rio rojo
Donde se escurre la vida sagrada
en un palomar de discordia

Ahí nadie vuela
yo quisiera decirles que de ese recinto
ninguna persona toma vuelo

Sin falta de acuerdo,
nadie vuela
y cielo azul,
azul de ahí se ve lejos

De ahí veo las manos de los viejos levantadas hacia cielo
en balanceo
y me quiero ir.

Camino hacia mi madre.
<<de aquí nadie vuela>> le susurro a ella  
 en el oído
pero ella levanta sus manos más alto
y me ignora

Me trago mi nudo de garganta,
y decido ir me,
pues de aquí no e de volar

El creer es necesario-fe
cómo es necesario
el hacer-acción

Dos hemisferios, en un solo mundo
y tú plenitude de vida
acatan la flor de esperanza en mi corazón.

Se que todo vuela, cuando viene el viento del cambió.
Pienso en el cambio de actitud de la cual nuestra generación debe y tiene que tomar para reinventar nuestro mundo colectivo. Es fácil hablar de esto usando abstracciones, más en nuestro día a día es difícil explicarle a alguien quien tuviese la fortuna de haber nacido en un país rico, que deben conservar agua, reusar lo más que se pueda ...que deben en corto cambiar sus vidas. Pero lo más difícil es hacerle a algunos usar  sus manos, resistir lo ser pasivos.

Hay muchos que temen lo que será de nuestro futuro, pero yo veo los bellos niños de todas partes del mundo, inventando nuevas telas, avanzando tecnologías, y dándole a la vida un buen arranqué. Ha ellos les debemos cuidar este mundo, pues son sus herederos.
227 · Jul 2019
I appreciate Biennials
The prosperous will grow from your left
ravaging the earth skin of your hand
and becoming a volcano that bursts into a beautiful biennial

Your nails will know themselves as leaves and the misery will no longer undo you

You will feel the profoundness of your years
and calmly you will water yourself
and with the fecundity of your acquired patience
you will give rosettes

and I in that second year
will be back
to see you in bloom
Translation of the Spanish version written. Never quite really the same after translation.
215 · May 30
Flash bang grenades
rubber bullets
Riot guns with metal pellets

the tear gas isn't necessary to make anyone cry
Black Lives Matter
213 · Jun 2019
Califórnia Redwoods
Believe that there is something bigger than you
And if you cannot fathom that thought
Think of a redwood tree,try to hold it
And realize you cannot

Let its massive
Seed its likeness in you
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?
207 · Sep 2
Today I empty the chest and release all this longing and all this sadness. They do not suit me well; I think I rather go back to joy and my single cup of tea. The turntable is a good enough companion for me when the evening comes and I want to sing along to Nick Drake or attempt to dance rumba by myself.
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
attempt to re-remind myself of shedding that which I have been conditioned to accept especially when it makes me feel as though I must give up my power to create my own life.
204 · Dec 2019
I Am a Window
No veils and no guards at the door –just me standing there, open...
transparent like a window who cannot hide the weather; all eyes can see through me.
201 · Dec 2019
Christmas in L.A
It is raining   and it is Christmas in L.A
the home       of paramount pictures  and the home        of skid row

Each drop multiples         heavy
like the narratives             given
to justify                             why
some deserve to be           out on the streets

on day like this when the water pours and seeps into their tents   bridges cannot hide or cover                         our collective apathy                           (shame) as we cross  
into the next decade    “i am not to blame
if he/ she / they            don’t have a home
what a shame.”
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