Agosto at Setyembre 2015 –
Ika-19 ng Agosto, Crim. Mini Intrams na pinaka-una
Naging hurado si Mi sa pagguhit at pagpinta
Ika-10 ng Setyembre, ika-28 kaarawan ni Jo
Ipinagdiwang sa Crim., si Mi ay dumalo
Ika-15, nagbukas si Jo ng unang account sa BDO
Nananghalian sa Mang Inasal ang MiJo!

-11/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*4th MiJo poem

Nobiembre 2015 –
Ika-14, ihahandog kay Mi ang 7-7-7 regalo
Para sa nalalapit na kaarawan nito
Ika-15, magpapa-picture ang MiJo
Para sa huling CGI Artworks nito
Ika-16, paghahandog ng pangalawang 7-7-7 obra maestra
Ika-18, huling pagtatagpo habang APEC Summit sa bansa!

-11/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*7th MiJo poem

Tus patas tamalonas, your fat feet
Fat feet
That makes the ground tremble as I take a step
My feet are flat
To be closer to the earth
God wanted me to remain grounded
To grow roots before I yearned for the sky
My grandma's feet:
Callous, hard, dry
Her feet were old books filled with handwritten poems
Romantic love journals
Her callous feet had to get like that
So that thorns and nails could no longer hurt
My grandmothers' travesia was grand
Her feet were so eager to move on
That they walked on their own
Patas! Patas tamalonas!
Grandmother would tickle my feet
And I'd laugh
Grandma, why do we get feet?
Because God wants us to walk mijo
Even when your feet are flat
Fat, uneven, or they hurt you must always walk
Stand up when they try to force you to sit down
Because those feet are yours
Today I walk, following your footprints
My fat feet being embraced by the hot sand
As I follow the sound of the waves
There you are
Waiting for me at the edge...

I am the first born millennial grown in the digital garden from transplantation.

The data stream flows along with my bloodlines,

Divided, interspersed, like a lava lamp of my own identification.

A bloodline that once worked the fields, and now works the fields of existence,

A bloodline that made its pilgrimage to new land in order to satiate the body,

has now grown to satiate inquiries within the self.

I reflect upon those occasions where I have been told:

“why do you care about the state of affairs for them, you are not of them, you do not act like them

so

you can’t be one of them”

and I clench my tongue, forgive them father, they know not of what they speak”

“Perdonalos padre, no saben nada de que dicen”

The climate of academia is both inviting and yet marking, I feel connected to both intertwined

bloodlines, and markedly separate in a way neither will ever know

“mijo, él esta ******, no dice nada que él no entiende”

But I understand, my name, my appearance, my lineage, they all mark a separation of that cultural

heritage, a combination, a divider,

that lava lamp burns hot from the up down theatrics of where identity will lie

I am the new millennial

Expect us.

Mayo 2015 –
Ika-1 ng buwang ito, Smokers’ Night sa Crim. na departamento
Unang pagtatagpo na may pagsuyo
Pagkain, damit at pabango
Ika-25 na petsa, may kambal na okasyon ang TED sa tuwina
ASEAN Symposium at Lit. Day na pambata
Sa tula ipinahayag ang nadarama sa tagalitrato ng programa!

-11/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*1st MiJo poem

Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Oye como va...

the neighbors voices climbing out of windows left and right.

Is that you Tito?
Put down those pots and pans.
Make better use of those hands.
Don't you know those hands were made for working?
Follow your father to his factory grave shift,
Make razorblades to sell.
We'll always have hair on our faces.

Is that you Tito?
Knock off that racket.
Here I am trying to sleep
And you've got my feet to moving.
The night was made for dancing Tito,
And dancing was made for Harlem,
But that's bastante on a Wednesday mijo.

The young king packs up his studio,
Whistling dixie like she's never been whistled before.
Twirling the melody from royal lips,
Showing her how to use those God given hips.
Where did you find that groove you in your neck?
And do the words Puerto Rico still give you the chills?

You have walked on too many streets in New York City
And the Afro-beat is shacking up with the Cuban.
You can hear their children playing in the barrio allá,
And aquí they're blowing horns of imagination.
Make those wooden sticks tap your telegram, Tito.
Let the world know about this message brewing inside you.
They hate.
They yell.
They love to see you dancing,
But your ankles told you that wasn't right for you.
Your hands never have been able to keep still.
Maybe it's because they feel the future.
Do you realize where your bridge will lead?

You are the future Tito.
Do what you got to do to be where you got to be.
Play in Uncle Sam's band but don't you go to Normandy.
Follow your hands back to the big apple,
Take a bite out of this place they call Juliard.
When you sleep at night are they still screaming…
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go somewhere where the floor is on fire
With the fusion of jazz and samba.
Make it bigger Tito until it looks like it did in your dreams.
Pick up those sticks and mata los timbales.
Have the decency to wink when they name you king.

What is it that you mixed in that ***?
Your alchemy giving birth to new species.
Have mercy Tito.
Your music is feasting on the ears of the public,
Your hands are drumming on the ecosystem.
They call it salsa, and you laugh
Because they can't taste the carne.
Shine those pots and pans.
Tip your hat to Spanish Harlem,
Where windows stay open to let the dreamers dream big
And the red brick walls are soaked with memories.
Babarabatiri Tito,
Teach the world how to dance.

Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Oye como va...

a legend.

Oh sweet boy, Angel of God
on earth you have completed your task.
To other world’s you now must fly to,
we are keeping your feathers
as you begin your ascension .

Oh sweet child of God
Such clear vision at your tender age,
to serve and protect was your end game,
but now we are left…with a confused and hazed
apology to a shroud of teddy bears and lit candles.
The spilled wax is a reminder, that
deep inside we are all cowards
and we forgot that you were the prey
and needed protection.
The burning wick is not for you –
it’s to remind us of your light
and that humans by nature are dangerously dark…

I am sorry Junior, for we have failed you.
I am sorry that it was fear that came to your rescue,
I’m sorry your eyes witnessed the malice of creation,
I’m sorry people recorded instead of calling the operator,
I am sorry your cry for help did not connect…
You know mijo…the line was ringing-but the world is deaf.

!Oh, sweet child of God!,
Some called you Junior in life,
You were an angel with wings so wide
that in these concrete streets, you could not fly.
The Bathgate would be your access to heaven
you’ve left us your wings in a city corner,
so that we can remember to look up above
and find surrender and forgiveness in clashing clouds.

I don’t know what to say,
your departure causes so much grief and pain,
yet, you did not die in vain…I think you are still
working with humanity from far away;
You woke up a community that had been sleeping,
you woke us up from the anesthesia, the numbness
Is no longer acceptable, our youth need a BEACON.

A new door we must create so
that our youth’s future is not slain
in the mumble jumble of irresponsible adults.
Makes space for youth in the world,
So that every Junior in our lives,
can live without fear in their backyard.

Oh sweet child of God,
We are not there yet but with you..,we’ll RISE again.
Thank you for every day you arose,
for loving your mother so much,
for inspiring a movement of love,
for showing us courage and hope,
your sweet little face will live in our hearts.

Oh sweet child of God,
your name we will not forget
I think you set the stage,
we must act and rise again.

© LeydisProse
6/25/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse//

As a child
I had a fear that one could
become homeless
fairly easily.
I'd see a homeless man on the corner
and wonder how he got that way.
"Mom?"
"What Daniel?"
"What if I grow up to be homeless? Like that man on the corner?"
"Mijo...I'd never let that happen..."
She did put my mind at ease,
but at the same time
I wondered
is that what the homeless man's Mom
told him
when he was a little boy?

Setyembre 2015 –
Ika-18, sa 3 Kids muling nagsalo
Si Mi ay tumanggap ng relong tulad ng kay Jo
Ika-26, sa 3 Kids parin nagkita
7 poems -7 drawings -7 fairy tales para sa binata
Ika-27, nagpa-picture sa Passi
Nag-“Teacher’s Sweet Treat” promo sa Jollibee!

-11/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*5th MiJo poem

When I was younger I never understood why my grandmother would lecture me so much
I’d wake up and she would be there
What’s step #1?
Make the bed, and thank God you’re not dead
What’s step #2?
Make sure you have enough to eat, so you can move your feet
What’s step #3
Respect is earned, that’s something you’ll learn.
What’s step #4
There no need to be mean, but you always have to be clean.  
What’s Step #5
Act out of love because it’s a test, the lord will take care of the rest.

I never quite got the hang of making the bed but I always did my best.
Sometimes I was frustrated with the steps and asked why they mattered
She said Mijo, they are directions so you can find your way home.
I don’t think she realized we were standing in our own home
As she grew wiser, I got older
And that’s when she added the rest.

What’s Step#6  
Work hard, so you can prove you’re not a worthless lard
What’s Step #7
Remember where you came from, even if it isn’t a kingdom
What’s Step #8
If you want a girl to say I do, every day you must show her I love you
What’s Step#9
Family is the start, never let it drift apart
What’s Step#10
Memories are your best friend, because they will be there till the end.
I thought she would live forever
She never lost a step
But I was wrong
She had some aches and pains
And she ended up in a hospital room
Her face grew pale, and her body frail
I asked why the doctors weren’t helping her anymore, its cuz she was stage four.
They sent her home on a bed where she stayed
My angel who could once fly, had her wings sheared off
Her eyes became grey, and she could barely breathe where she lay.
The hospice nurse said this was it
Her breathes became shaky
Her eyes began to close
Her heart began to stutter
I took her hand one last time, and I begged her to stay
Grandma please don’t go, I need you always
She pulled me closer and whispered
No mijo, I found my way home.

Her casket was white
Her final dress was black
The entire day was grey
We buried her by her mother and grandmother
Everyone said their final goodbye
But I stayed behind
I placed one hand over her tomb
And I asked “grandma what am I to do”
And I swear I heard the wind whisper
What’s step #1
And she’s been guiding me home ever since.

I really wanna write pretty ****
Like about birds singing at night
or the tired steps of the one Mexican maid
as she passes by my house before and after work

I want to write pretty ****
About my mother’s resilience
Her words of encouragement
And the sound of defeat in her “mijo no tengo ni pa’ la leche”

I want to write pretty ****, academic ****, deep ****,
About beautiful man of color
Trying to be anything but black or brown
Girlfriends claiming their white side
The silencing of accented voices
I am dying to write pretty ****

I want to write about her big *** eyelashes
And her fierce makeup
And how her face was flawless when they found her laying there
In a poodle of blood
Why would anyone **** someone so pretty?
It’s as if they hated pretty ****
Like the color of brown and black skin
And green trees and ****
Why do they like to **** pretty ****?
Like spirituality and native languages?
And they give nobel peace prizes to ****** up institutions with ****** up policies that push people to desperation, bomb them, starve them, and at the end blame them,
They like to blame pretty **** too

I want to write pretty ****
Like waking up to the bright sun
And driving by the day laborers at home depot
Some of them look so hopeful, and some of them so defeated
Some of them sleep beneath the little tree on the parking lot
Why do you illegalize pretty people?

Ain’t freedom pretty and injustice ugly?
Then why don’t we write about justice and ****
About the caribou not having to be fenced
And native land returned to indigenous peoples

Why don’t we claim our inner beauty
And recycle all them ****** up magazines filled with cropped bodies treated as money, souless bodies,
The fashion industry is ugly

And why don’t obama talk about pretty ****
Like reparations and wealth redistribution
And getting rid of Deportations, Deportations that’s some ugly ****

Hulyo 2015 –
Ika-13, sa 3 Kids muli nananghalian
Libro ng pabula hinandugan
Ika-18 sa Roxas City nagtungo
Inalam kung pwede maging magnobyo
Ika-25, sa 3 Kids muling kumain
Handog unang kathang fairy tale na babasahin!

-11/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*3rd MiJo poem

You will love
And it will hurt sometimes
Your frijoles will burn sometimes
And sometimes you’ll put too much salt or not enough
An insult or two
But mijo don’t ever let him hit you
And leave before you hit him back

You will love
And it will **** sometimes
Cocine en olla de barro
Persígnese en la mañana
Use condones y lubricante
Y guarde un cuchillo debajo de la cama

You will love
And it will feel good sometimes
No le eche tanta sal a la carne
Póngale un vaso de agua a sus muertos
Take lots of pictures
And in times of trial, don’t forget about the good memories
Invoke them, que esas lo van a sacar de dudas

You will love
And it will get intense sometimes
Límpiese con un ramo de flores blancas
Hágase un baño de agua florida con cascarilla
Get tested at least twice a year,
Y coma bien, no se malpase

You will love
And it will be sad sometimes
Use grape seed oil instead of mazola
Chia seeds on your water, pa’ la diabetis
Honey instead of refined sugars
******* once a day o las veces que quiera
And never let your ****** desire depend on a man
For all men despite their beauty can be damaged

You will love
And you will be on top of the world sometimes
Don’t eat so many tortillas,
Soda is not good for your kidneys, drink water or brew your own ice tea o hagase su juguito natural
Sea humilde y buena gente
No need to be mean and creido
Crease de su identidad y su lenguage
Ya lo material va y viene
Pero eso sí, que no se lo hagan pendejo que por ahí hay mucho cabron abusivo

You will love
And you will break up sometimes
Don’t overdo it with the drinking
Write a lot of poetry
Listen to a lot of Jenni Rivera
Go out and enjoy your singlehood
Que es bien bonito no rendirle cuentas a nadie

You will love
Pero no se olvide de uste’ mismo
Love yourself
Quiérase musho
Pa’ que ningún cabrón le vea la cara de pendejo
Pero antes de que llore por cualquier wey
Acuérdese de su ama
De su guelita
Y de su familia
Y piense que un hombre por más rico que coja no es todo en la vida

Acuérdese que venimos de una raza de gente fuerte y hermosa
Pero que eso no nos quita lo hijos de la chingada
Y de eso también hay que estar orgullosos
Porque lo hijos de la chingada es lo que nos ayuda a sobrevivir
Nomas no hay que ser hijos de la chingada con la gente que como nosotros sufre y lucha
Sea hijo de la chingada con la gente que nos quiere chingar

You will love,
And love is the only thing that will bring you happiness
Beauty and health
Love pues y cuando le digan que no puede amar a otro hombre
Mándelos a la chingada y dígales con palabras de profeta: YOU WILL LOVE.

Hunyo 2015 –
Ika-16 sa 3 Kids na carinderia
Unang pagkakataon na kami lang dalawa
Ika-20, nagtagpo sa bayan niyang Dao
Nagmeryenda habang nagkwento
Ika-26, sa aking silid-aralan naparoon
Orientation at Acquaintance, dobleng okasyon!

-11/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*2nd MiJo poem

A Familiar Wound

The doctors slit your belly
To get to your spine
And cushion the disks
That slipped from you
Like soapy plates
From frail worn hands.

I was ten when you asked me
To wipe the stitched opening
With swabs and gauze
and to make sure that
The staples would not pop
From their place, exposing you.

I bent down next to you,
My knees denting craters
Into the carpet, and cleaned off
The stapled wound running
Perpendicular to the scar
That opened up years before
To place me in your arms and hear you
Whisper my name into being.

The pills slurred your words,
Your tongue undulating lazily
Heavily weighted in your mouth,
Rolling out gracias mijo
And I blushed, realizing
What a small gesture this was
Nursing the same belly
That held me inside years ago.

Oktubre at Nobiembre 2015 –
Ika-14 ng Oktubre, CapSU-Dumarao 33rd Anniversary
Sa Crim. Logo-Making Contest hurado si Mi
Ika-5 ng Nobiembre, sa CapSU-Dumarao muling nagtungo
Pagkapananghalian sa 3 Kids, Transcript ni Mi pinroseso
Ika-12, sa CapSU-Dumarao parin
Career Guidance ng SAF, si Mi ay layong padaluhin!

-11/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*6th MiJo poem

It was 6 Decembers ago
I was just a kid
And she was 2 years younger
Her mother drove us both
To the clinic
There were middle aged women
Waiting at the door
And they were mad
At me
At her
At her mother.
We pushed past
Walked to the counter
I swiped my debit card
$365.
Really?
I used my first
Christmas bonus.
Then her mother decided
We would leave her there
Have breakfast with one of
her friends
Then come back
When she was
Done.
I had sausage, eggs, hash browns
Toast, and my first
Black coffee.
Her mother and the friend
Spoke in Spanish
I didn't know
What the hell they were saying
But knew they were talking
About us.
We finished
And drove back to the clinic.
She asked "Well...you learned your lesson
Mijo?"
I was busy, trying to figure out
What the hell
I was now.
"Yes..."
We arrived and picked her up.
Only it wasn't her.
It was something mutilated
It was something murdered.
We got back to her
Bed
And she pulled the covers
Over her head.
I wanted to ask
"...What happened in there...?"
But I cried instead
And kissed her all over her
Wet face.
She was death. Breathing...
A few months ago
I got wasted and brought it all up
Again.
Some girl at the party said
She had done it too.
"What the hell happens in there?"
I screamed
She explained
I was too drunk to listen.
Ya know,
I read Hemingway's
Hills Like White Elephants
And the "operation"
Totally flew over
My head.
What the hell happened in there?
Something.
Necessary.

Hágale pues mijo.. que si aquí a cualquier hijueputa se le dice doctor pues a cualquiera mierda se le puede llamar arte.

No te preocupes por
lo que dirán los demás..
Síguele duro y parejo,
fuerte y tenaz.

Exhibeselo a todo el mundo con entusiasmo y fervor y.....
Si ese es tu don
tu deseo tu ardor....

Dile a todos los que piensen pararte... pues ud. con su arte
y yo con mí arte

after I woke up from the transplant
I was in ICU the beginning of recovery
The catheter tube would come out
Each day would consist of a task
a cut across my gut I'd pray everyday
My abdominal muscle lacking core strength
A huge cut stapled shut metal stitches
Extremely anxious to get out of bed
Having to page the nurse for assistance
Getting out of bed was difficult
I felt like a turtle on its back
I learned techniques during physical therapy
I had to urinate one of the first tasks
A process that took a few hours
After being assigned was a flow
I'd get up and walk after every meal
trying to keep strong physically
mentally missing work and home
Mostly grandma, her words echoed
"mijo, no one is going to do it for you, you need to do it yourself."
Next, I'd be asked to pass gas ripping a few.
A bowel movement, which was my final task so I could be released to be out patient staying a local to AZ

after I woke up from the transplant
I was in ICU the beginning of recovery
The catheter tube would come out
Each day would consist of a task
a cut across my gut I'd pray everyday
My abdominal muscle lacking core strength
A huge cut stapled shut metal stitches
Extremely anxious to get out of bed
Having to page the nurse for assistance
Getting out of bed was difficult
I felt like a turtle on its back
I learned techniques during physical therapy
I had to urinate one of the first tasks
A process that took a few hours
After being assigned was a flow
I'd get up and walk after every meal
trying to keep strong physically
mentally missing work and home
Mostly grandma, her words echoed
"mijo, no one is going to do it for you, you need to do it yourself."
Next, I'd be asked to pass gas ripping a few.
A bowel movement, which was my final task so I could be released to be out patient staying a local to AZ