Category: Uncategorized

Mom asked
If I like when
people can’t guess my gender. I
don’t know; I
can’t choose.

Welling clouds part
to grey, fallen atmosphere
Pouring longing, waiting
for your eyes to brim
Or brighten, waiting
to see them again

Fierce grips of wind, word
threatening the blue escapes
at the horizons
Moving ambiguous grey masses
to place

You pour over me
this sky I can’t escape
creating this pressure

Gaps of movement
Memories
Of you makin’ eyes at me

Breaking the storm to center
To calmness that don’t belong
Blue where there should be dark

Unbearable serenity
Pauses, breaking apart
ferocious wind, hail

Storming would be better
than this longing, waiting
blue eyed sky ache

An Open Letter to My Nation

I don’t think you understand the greed.
Behind bombs dropping in the Middle East.
A run for oil and infertile land.

The bottom line,
the end of times

World War 2 never really analyzed

Democratic poltergeist

This conversation is larger than you and me
and I think we could all agree
This is far bigger than the eye can see
This is bigger than Kim Jong-un

Empty threats glamorized,
full-on war, patronized

Overstep of control
constitution, who?

Where are we, America?
Are you awake yet?
Do we see the divide yet?

You let a capitalist take over our office and convince you that the first allies betrayed you
when we took the crown, the Roman states were against you
the natives and slaves took up arms with you
we pushed them back, but you wrote us out
And now you try to wall us in and keep our kin for your kiln
A German American and his Russian wife are set to hover up above the house and shield their
oligarchy while staying fungi-free.
Unlike you and me, we have front-row seats to the Mushroom Cloud Symphony.

Where do we stand, America?
A man who has overstepped his allowance
A house divided
A nation volatile
We let one man with a bad tan convince each other that he is more intelligent than you, and I
and now he’s bombed the Middle East

This will be the 7th war my family has served in
We will lose good old men and naive youngins
but this is his second generation, and they never served
He dodged the draft in Vietnam
He’ll dodge the blowback of his actions

While we blame each other for our accents
I sound like fritters and chitlins when I’m drunk
I sound like Botox and Erewhon when I’m sober
and a-Si, yo soy Chicana when I’m bothered

That has never been a problem before, but this is year 25 of my life, and this season is leaving me screaming
I feel hopeless and dry-aged
I find myself stuck in the middle of AmeriKKKa and America.
Two communities who deny me, too white, too brown.
Just not right.

But right is right,
and wrong is wrong.
Letting our country suffer for the rich,
We might as well hand him a crown.

Tread on me,
I have no say
Our congress sold us on eBay.

In Defeat,
Jasmine Rico

I never relished something so sweet

brewed on a winter’s night
an elixir uniquely for you and I
emitting sugary perfume
unable to escape indulgence
as it enters inside
intoxicating our gentle minds
to an insatiable hunger

the moon phase remains stagnant
failing to tame our hearts’ eruption
so long as we drink each other
electricity continues to surge
evoking anticipation upon red eyelids
in feeling pleasure once more

but now the remnants
of an entity once full and whole
disappears into a crescent sliver
as the inevitable cycle
refuses us mercy
no matter how great is love
the heavenly experience
breaks into shards
and implants into distant memories

though the effects worn
the symptom falsely exists
when his warmth manipulates me
again and again

I think
as I write
with a pensive pencil
loaded with lead
with a mind of its own
filled with meanings and words
only a pencil can know

My hand moves
according to its will
feeding me thoughts
while the page takes its fill
from lead and wood
just as I would
if only I could
think for myself

I didn’t get much.
A shoebox of old photographs,
two chipped teacups,
a voice in my head
that won’t shut up.

She left me the house
and something under the floorboards
that still knocks at night.

There’s a Bible in every room.
Each one opens to Psalms.
Each one weeps when it rains.

I try to live quiet.
Dust. Cook. Pretend.

But I see her in the corners—
hands on her hips,
lips twisted like she still thinks
I’m not doing it right.

It’s hard to grieve a woman
who never said sorry.
Harder still when her shadow
paces the hallway at 3:17,
muttering scripture backwards,
dragging something that thuds
every third step.
I sleep with the lights on.
She still turns them off.

In this quiet thrift store’s dusty light,
I get a feeling that I can stay and dream night by night.
Like I see a marble with my world held tight,
and your face smiling against mine, shiny and bright.

In those secondhand things, I find you near,
with a smell of the well-known and a voice sincere.
The yearning for you feels so endless,
like a tentacle that I can no longer resist.

Each worn-out piece of fabric full of stories and memories,
and each faded hue,
sends scents to me, quietly saying “I remember you.”
In these thrift store aisles, your shadow remains,
A secondhand love that never wanes.

The basins of tears are profoundly tired.
Every inch of an eye drop is fire incarcerated.
Warlords of feelings embattled with embittered.
Emancipating Red Cross of a horde of confidence even in wintered canon.

Enigmatic pity crawls in a picture of the decision to emanate the surviving strength of the vocaless.
Yet a dew sprung for morning hopes while the heavy-hearted weighs factually.

Why would tears reign big in a comfort zone?
Why does it make waves in a calm environment?
Is there an interchange of sorrows in a milky land?
Can good deeds uproot softy dawn of a swamp of horror?
Every length of known discusses abstraction and metaphor of knowledge.
This has remained the most undiagnosed sphere in the lifestyle of ignoramus.
What weign in get more connected to albris of terms.

The horrors of joy lie in abundant wisdom of unknown.

As days mark unconnected songs, the hopes of the vulnerable go down a deep sea like a bird in the middle of the sky – where is a resting space?

So is a life without a direction.

And to rise above everlasting lost in the wilderness, sorrows and horrors must be manipulated for productive lens – where things find respective alliance for allegiance.

There, you might have conquered your fears of living in this scheme of unknown.

Mountains bleed with smooth
white dust. I can’t imagine
summer ever existing past
these frozen pines.

Stars become corrupted by cascading
gray mist. All that seems to shimmer
is sticky frost invading wet sticks—
but I’ll pretend they are celestial bodies.

Praise the rusted flame
extinguished by nature’s whispered
breath. I am brittle
to her charming winter.

I can be comfortable
if my lunacy created my account of you.
At least my heart being occupied –
sick, at the thought of your absence
keeps me away from those
who want my heart to be sick with their presence.
I hurt you
Because I do not understand how to be close to you
without betraying who I think I am.
Nothing scares me more than being safe.
Running fleeing flying fills my time
since my heart first lost love that should have always been there.