APAD 2 (A Poem a Day)

Food is the miracle

What we do with it -
How we do it -

cook
distribute
grow

will determine our revolution

APAD 1 (A Poem a Day)

Thanks to Mamita Mala for this idea. I'm late, but I'm going to try and do this...

I'm going to try and get over my fear of perfection (because that leads you to a brick writing wall of paralysis) and just WRITE.

So, heeeeerrreee goes...



Lolo and Lolo
I never knew my grandfathers
- grand clocks who stopped before my time -

My Lolo Fernandez rode the train
and loved basil gardens

My Lolo Factora believed soup bones
healed birthing mothers

One Spanish, One Filipino
One engineer, One soldier
Two invisible vines
encircling one garden

When my mother smells the basil in the grocer
Or moves her face into the wind, she says
I'm thinking of my father

In early December, my father grows quiet
And wordlessly heads to a morning mass
He's thinking of his father

They never speak much of them
But I see their eyes change
when Lolo moves in their presence

And the stopped clocks tick one last tock
through my parents

And I listen to their memory.

Milk Stained Bumper Stickers

A Funny Poem About Breastfeeding

It's funny how no one talks publicly about breastfeeding.

It's funny how nearly every man I know is uncomfortable when the topic comes up.

It's funny how, unless you yourself have breastfed before, people get a pained expression on their face if you talk honestly about how difficult or painful breastfeeding can be.

It's funny how cleavage and sexy boobs are somehow categorized differently than milky nipples.

*replace "funny" with "maddening"

Poetry on Feminist Catholicism

I wrote a poem about Adam and Eve. Well, more about Eve than Adam.

I don't believe in the literal interpretation of Genesis. I don't believe in the apple, the garden, the tree, the temptation, the Fall, or the banishment.

I do believe that oral story telling is a rich part of tradition and somewhere along the way, telling stories began to lose their power of metaphor.

In the literal, vein, however, I wrote this poem and designed a backdrop as I think more about my Catholic faith.

Digital Poetry

Sometimes my passion for photography, art, and poetry collide on Fridays and I make some digital collage with poems on them. Lately, I've been ruminating about technology and connection. The way Facebook, Twitter, Blogging, and online communities have brought energy, community, and information to my life.

And, with some unexplained twinge of sadness, I think about how my offline relationships are so scattered because of proximity, time zone differences, and growing up and away.

I watch people wherever I go. On the bus, at a Fish Fry, in New York, at a protest, at church, at a children's birthday party and wonder if technology has enabled us to share our stories more with the world and less with those in our everyday lives. As my writing grows with disciplined practice and immersion into the internet, I often wonder if there's a correlation to my growing need for human touch; face to face conversation; body language accessibility, and audible laughter.

Has digital technology enhanced your relationships? Has it changed the way you see people, including strangers on the street? Where do you see us heading with all this media advancement?

How a Feminist Got Married: A Radical Manifesta, I

Tales from the bedroom are considered sacred, but tales from the corners of marriage are even more forbidden. Why is that?

As I sit on a tender marriage of almost four years, a love ignited for ten years, I often wonder how isolated and crippling that silence can be. Why are married people so quiet? What's with the secretive nature of disclosing details about the primary relationship of one's life? Is it, hold your armrests, it might come to pass that marriage goes through volatile stages of frustration, silence, asexual eras, and betrayal?

Well, we certainly don't want to let THAT cat out of the bag.

Psst...sometimes marriage tastes champagne and sometimes it tastes like rotten arugula.

Well, now that we have shrugged of those nuclei of fear, we can proceed forward.

One of the biggest misconceptions about marriage is one of the biggest misconceptions about primary and committed relationships: it consistently and unfailingly feeds and meets our personal needs of fulfillment.

Read: False.

We all realize that one person cannot meet our every desire, conscious and subconscious, and yet, when we marry, we often fall into a capricious state of allowing community to slip away once we have transitioned into a partnered identity. As children and young single adults, we flourish in groups and find a sense of belonging and purpose. While we grow and develop our sense of self and our yearning for intimacy and partnership root themselves, the communities we once were once active become things of the past, dust on our floors.

Read: Common Mistake #1

As feminists, it is common that we seek out fellow activists, artists, and writers who possess a cosmic understanding of our drive for justice, our commitment to vision. And yet, when it comes to our personal relationships, they often falter because we assume that a 1:1 relationship, especially marriage, is and should fruitfully build on its own accord, heal on its own gifts, and reap harvest from its own soil. That is, you know, how you define a healthy marriage. You don't need ANYONE else.

Read: Facetious.

As a married feminist, I find it ironic that I can clearly understand my need for community when it comes to my career. Writers must write alone in their room, but that room must be heated by the same pipe that warms the entire house, other rooms occupied by thinkers and philosophers. However, when it comes to a growth bump in my marriage, I decide to ride the bridle alone, convinced my balance will come with experience, temporary panic attacks, and large amounts of wine.

Before the village helps raise the child, the village needs to rebuild itself to recognize the needs of radical marriage. One that is built safely on the precipice of equality. Marriage will guarantee times of roaring fire and dying amber. You need to know how to tend and control both. The point is not to avoid getting burned, the point is to learn how to build the fire.

And the fire does not represent the love, the fire represents the soul.

In this harsh winter and cold recession, intimacy between partners can be strained for a whole slew of reasons. But a radical manifesta is not a guide for putting together a broken marriage, a radical manifesta is for piecing together a radical love of self and the other that feeds the often neglected part of our deepest hunger: authentic identity. Something that is often lost in the compromising of life partnerships.

And to build that authenticity in the space of marriage, to create a sustainable and passionate bridge, let's first begin by agreeing to dish the silence. That's not a call to irreverence or ranting about domestic burdens. It's a call to speak into the quiet loneliness of a working companionship that the marrieds often fight alone. The manifesta stands to speak into the radical joys and struggles of authentic identity, evolving love, and awareness that grow in marriage.

Break the silence. You can be in love and outraged at the same time.

And to practice what I preach, this is a poem I wrote yesterday about marriage. A day scattered with temper, short answers, and angry blanket hogging.

Love's Decision

I love you
as surely as I swiftly walk in the winter
and toss my shirts into a bloated floor heap
I love you
as neatly as the cable wires behind my tellie
as conveniently as city parking
and as comforting as a broken compass

I'm yours so long as you continue to lay there
snoring your peace into my side
and my knee kept warm by your palm
I'm yours
without my porch knowing death's arrival date
or the bloom of children

Our chances increase every night
We'll make it
says the meatloaf
and even pillowcases that need changing

We'll make it
thinks the leaning garage and scrappy drive
I hope so
prays our mantel

You are mine like the songs said you'd be
and you fit right beside my cheek
Like how the dandelions flutter
and the dog pulls right of the leash
With the yellow sun filling the sky
on an art paper saved by my mom

All things are as they should be.

I love you.
-LFB, 1/26/09

Good-bye to Anonymous Privileges

How I have tried to make you feel included
by allowing your comments and words,
but I think it's time to change that
and now wail a song of dirge.

Your barrage of f*uck you's and threats
once scared me to the bone,
but now I realize you write these things
behind a screen, faceless, and alone.

Oh Anon, I have no idea who or where you are
Managua, San Antonio, or Madrid -
But, I suggest you at least identify your soul
and claim your own words as I did.

Because there's an unspoken rule I believe in life:
That your energy fills your space;
and your constant negativity spewed at me
is neutralized by your Anonymous face.

A troll, a hater, a miserable hobbit?
I don't know why you insist on staying here -
But one thing I know about remaining anon
You don't change when you live in fear.

And so, no more Anonymous comments are allowed
here at My Ecdysis, my blog.
Go visit someone else, go leave your hate there
or wander in your dark cyber fog.

I appreciate all commenters' time and thoughts
and render each person smart -
But I have a thick skin and a witty mind, too
And so your f-bombs aren't taken to heart.

All the best to you, Anon -
I hope you have a happy life that's kind!
I'm sure you're more than your hateful crap
that you fruitlessly leave behind.

"Everything Feels Expensive"

Everything feels expensive
and sensitive
costly
and treasured

There is no movement without wind
There is no movement without sails
So much is needed
to simply
sail

Everything matters
in this organism, life

Everything plays
a part, irreplaceable parts

Each part -

plain,

exquisite -

necessary

Who can afford to sail?

Or rather, who of us
can afford
not to?

Questioning the Wood of Feminism

For BA
For Sylvia
Sometimes defense is all we have left.

For today,
Sudy

I wrote this poem in my least favorite mood: edginess. My creativity stalls why it runs into thorny patches, but I opened up, and this is what came out.


Bakit?

Why is it not enough to simply write as a womyn of color?
Why does it change once I write of color after womyn?
like its merits decrease
or its potential increases
I’m brilliant cuz I’m brilliant
not cuz of the sheen of my hair.
I am why.

Why the echo
when say I womyn
My define
so very fine
Womyn
and I write from the insides
and I say,
Yes
I say
it’s not too much
nor not enough

I am a womyn
owning up to my race
-ism
YES
the internalized inferiority
the internalized superiority
that
YES
Skins me alive everyday

And you ask
"Bakit”
“Why you so mad?”

Bakit?
Bakit?

Why?
because I can’t say my own damn truth without
“angry”
following

“Women of color”
“Angry”
world goes YAWN.
and shirks, What else is new?

I’ll tell you what’s new
We the “Women of Color” you love to ignore then agitate for your leisure
are tilling into deep magenta brown soil you never seen
and our tongues,
pink and blistering,
cool and wide,
are sipping honey from sweeter, higher
swinging hives
than your neck can strain

And the “Women of Color” writers
that you flick off with your shoes
are reading aloud to towns and towns
with cackling and krumping to music
…too something
for you to hear

So spit your questions onto each other
and not at me.
I’m busy with other things.

Angry, sure.
Why not.
I’m angry, but I’m a lot of other things too.

Do you need to know all of who I am before you believe me?
Do you even want to know who I am at all?
That’s your question, not mine.
Cuz I know you.

I know you from those glossy cover history books my short arms had to carry home.
I know you from the holidays we gotta jump jump up and down for
I know you from the whys and cries and jiggly thighs you write about so much and call Women’s Issues
I know you from the realtor and the delivery boy
I know you

Do you know me?

I think your books are shallow.
I think that you are not capable of deepening work that contributes to anti-racist feminism.
I think your books are flat out flat and, yes,
I have read them

And your tired Who Me? Poor Me? Love ME!
sounds like that ol’ record my Pops used to play
every Sunday morning at 8
after a while, I stopped listening
and slept with peace

Why’s it not enough to say
No Me No Like Your Stuff
without being asked for my resume
and literacy skills score

Instead of quarreling over the responses
why not analyze the question first
and look at the cornering, stereotyping, sabotaging, limiting, narrow scope
of your own questions

Let’s look at the contaminated wood
of the house before you
kick out the guests who are
coughing, spewing
Allergic
dying from the air
you provide

And before you wonder why your branches
are being cut;
remember that the land your roots settle
was stolen.

From the beginning,
the wrong story was told.


____________________________________________________________________
'Bakit' is Tagalog for 'Why?'

We Are the Daughters

I wrote this poem for myself, and for all the transforming women of color I met this weekend in Detroit. Mabuhay.

We Are the Daughters

We are the daughters of the forgotten, the skinned, the given-up in the trenches
by the roadside
We are the daughters once covered in blankets, helpless heaps
without shields
We are the beaten with sticks, paddles, belts, and bricks
We are the daughters of violence
And the violated
Our mothers knew the pain of childbirth without anesthesia
contractions throbbing with wariness
We are the daughters of doubters, the relentlessly uncertain
We are the first documented, freshly counted
The ones who know community by faith, street, and fringe living
Not by gathering, similarity, or food
Our mothers and fathers are the immigrants – the forced travelers – thrown
We are the daughters with honor, without legacy
With riches, without inheritance
Our traditions are storytelling, sharing, remembering
Branding it in our minds because it will not be texted, printed, distributed, categorized, considered
We are the daughters of gates
Passing through with filthy, but functioning feet
We are the ones sacrificed, priced, shamed
We are all of these
We are all of these
Our troubles are less jagged than our mothers
Our survival less in question
Our thriving dependant upon more our will, not chance
We are the daughters of the umpteenth strokes of window washers
And poor wages
We are the daughters of cruel legislature, temporary amnesty, refugee camps, and collision
We are the daughters of grain, cotton, las floras, and sugar cane
We are the divergent behaviors, red with depression, pale with negligence
We are the mules of silence, withholding, and secrecy
Our tongues speak our history, hyphens
Bridging the borders of land and sea
We are speakeasies, the back alley ways
We know the gravel and dirt roads
The railroads sound in our dreams and whistles goodbye
We are the daughters of stopped clocks, crossovers, irreverence, heat
We flip paradoxes on the tips of our lashes, especially within ourselves
We look for madness, familiar
We know the smell of grass cut by machetes
We are the daughters of failed government, tastes of sovereignty, uprising
We are the daughters of broken tsinelas, broken hearts, broken bones
We are the daughters of the vanished, the unforgiven, the debted, the disappeared, the murdered
The long funerals, the lonely guitar, the rambling corner, the panic rooms
We are the daughters of slurs and political graffiti
We are the walkers through fresh basil gardens with our fathers
The orphaned sparrow
We are the sought prize of many, those waiting to kidnap us
To lure us with scholarships and jimmies
To convince us we deserve better, we are better
Than our ancestors who couldn’t read a coke bottle
Forget them, they say
They want us
They want us badly
To be human erasure for a war waged against our blood, our families
To slowly abolish the mass graves,
glossing over them with petals and dowry
Our deliverance eradicates the atrocities, the scratched signatures allowing the rapes
their misnomers, their wide eyed pretense
they want us to bow to the ivory tower, the one granting us degrees
they want us to forget the hours, lives, humanity that was stolen from our people
they want to shave us clean from any bandages, scars, proof of their imperialistic sodomy
they want us to forsake our memories and accept their offertory
our privilege circles our feet, hopscotching our destinies, leading us away
they want us to be grateful, but not mirror our mothers
or drink from the same clay cups, or splinter from the same broom
they want us to be fed, but hungry for more, and therefore compliant
they do not know that we are the daughters of hair, Brown, restless, and fight
they want to brainwash, inculcate us
but they do not remember our mother’s blood is not a drying stain, but a free flowing wound from which we still suckle and warm ourselves
we feed ourselves
we are the daughters of vision
and we are the thieves
stealing, taking, claiming, owning the
land, fish, air we righteously and already own
we take and give back to our foremothers, we kneel before our scrolls of imprisonment
We breathe easier
But we live with memorials and pledges
Mourning
We invoke what we did not live through
We remember our reasons
Our mothers were never bought
And we cannot be sold
We are the daughters of a thousand dreams
we are both the fruition and bearers of completion
We are the daughters of swallowing caves
Erupting ground
cracking trees
and mulberry scents

We are the daughters the world hoped would die in the bellies of our mothers

We are the unlost, thrice self-found
And rejoicing

The Path

I wrote this poem after being told a friend had been brutally raped by two men. Heavy-hearted, I wrote this for her, and for my dear friends who are also Survivors of sexual assault.

I'm thinking about my friend.

My friend who was raped last night.

Last week.

Last year.

Last decade.

Last teenhood.

I'm thinking about how I can now lose count of how many have been raped. Their wrists held down. Their mouths silenced. The judgment of so many.

Why'd you drink so much?
Why did you ask him to drive you home?
What did you think would happen?
Who else was there to witness?
How did you let this happen?

I can't create anymore tshirts for the Clothesline Project. I can't stand up anymore at Take Back the Night rallies. I can't read anymore from Incite! newsletters. I can't advocate the system anymore or read Trauma and Recovery one more time. Because as much as I want to say I'm not, I'm weak and wilting from this battle.

Another rape. Another.
Not a client, or one of my students, nor a hotline caller, but a friend. A person I laugh with, drink with, both casually and deeply love. She has been raped.

I'm dying with you. Inside.

I can explain
nothing.

I can offer
nothing.

Who'll believe you?
Only a few.

This is all I have for you
Stories.

More stories so you know that you are not alone. A place of comfort and horror is knowing you are not the only one. And I'm sorry, but I can take you there. A place where so many find haven, a cemetary where you can bury the person who died that night. A place where you can remember the terror, the agony; how it went on and on; how no one heard you; how he...they...never stopped. You may not know this, but you'll spend much of your time preparing for this place.

You may resist. You not want to go right now. And I will never make you go there until you're ready.

But at some point, you will. Everyone does, no matter how you try to escape it. No matter how tight you sqeeze your eyes shut or the blankets in your hand. Rape is the poison, but the aftermath...that's when it begins to flow into your body, life.

It's not that he...they... were that strong,
but the memory
the nightmares
daymares
the gnawing
the groanings
the memories will not be released.

At this cemetary, you will carve out a place in the ground and lay her in the tomb. Everything will tremble. You'll say good-bye to that beautiful, lovely person who you so want to be again, but cannot return to. You will scratch stones to commemorate her strengths and will. You'll cry fast, lonely tears that consecrate the covering soil.

You'll see the other grave stones and eventually your eyes will adjust to see the millions of others who are buried there.
Scattered. Everywhere.
Some are slowly digging, their hands dirty.
Others are still consecrating, weeping on their knees.
Some silent. Others wailing.

There's an eyeful view of the Others,
all the Others
beyond your sight
beyond belief
that lay underneath

You can stay for however long you need. You're allowed to come back and visit her, but I don't think you'll want to. Once you walk away, you'll want to keep moving, out of the fog and into the wind.

I'm sorry, but there is nothing else I have but the path, this way, this knowledge of the cemetary. I will take you when you are ready. Tomorrow may be too soon. Tomorrow may not be soon enough. It may take months, maybe years. I'll wait for you.

You bury
not the memory
not the pain
but the power of the past.

You will replace it
with the power of today,
resilience,
rebirth,
renewal,
strength, conviction,
and knowledge.

And you will be a Survivor, not a raped womyn, not a case report number, not a witness. A Survivor.

A person, a human, who refused to die. Who fought and endured and embodies the things that we all aspire to someday possess.

Readiness. Truthfulness. Faith.

I will wait for you, my friend.
Until you're ready.

I will walk you there,
but you won't need me coming back.

Activism

I wrote this poem several weeks ago. I am willfully burying myself in books about feminism, social justice, and what we can do while we live on this planet.

Activism
identify yourself
stop apologizing
stop giving pre-ambles
say if you're wrong,
only when and if you truly are
be open to being dismissed
spend a significant amount of time
in a developing country
know when to drop pebbles
so you know when to drop boulders

Feminism Anymore

This is a poem I wrote in reaction to Listen Up! Voices from the Next Generation of Feminists.

My Feminism anymore is not about knowing
that when I walking into a room my body belongs to me
and
my choice,
my sexual choices
are a reflection of my dreams and my desires,
not just a flaunt
of a carefree
sexolution

My Feminism anymore is not demanding.
If you demand something, it still has a connotation
(and a degradation)
that something must be handed over
But it was never theirs
to begin with

No, My Feminism anymore means I Expect it.
All of it.
My raised eyebrows say, "Oh, you haven't heard?"
The revolution is here,
today,
in this conversation,
existing,
between us.
I'm not lofty.
You're just behind.

The F/Peminist Catholic

As a Spanish Filipina, one of the most complex elements of life is faith. Faith is not just the Catholic Church. Faith, for me, incorporates relationships, love, and family. My faith is the beating heart of my life. From what gives life, I believe, is my faith in Something larger than the human mind's comprehension, and therefore, is considered sacred.

My relationship to catholicism is complicated by all the human conditions that I have been raised with: immigration, translation, ethnic shame, and ignorance. But it is a strong relationship. I know no other kinds of relationships other than strong ones. Despite all the destructive and narrow aspects of the human leadership I have experienced in the Church, I nonetheless, still believe in the power of Something larger and I believe in the spirituality of progress and growth.

As a peminist ([Filipina-American feminism or Pinayism]the "f" sound is not found in Filipino dialect and was enforced by the Spanish's conquest and King Phillip - note the "PH" sound in Phillip), there is an often disruptive relationship between peminism and catholicism. The Philippines is largely Catholic, something like 90% of the Philippines identifies catholic, and there is no divorce either.

If you are Christian, you may be observing Holy Thursday today. This marks the beginning of the holiest time of the year in the Catholic Church. It is a time of solemnity, sacrifice, deep prayer, and observance. It gives way to Easter Sunday, the fireworks of all Holidays for the Catholic. (In addition, I can have movie popcorn again make it at home during Grey's Anatomy. This sounds trivial, but you have no idea.)

So, for those of you who identify with the Catholic Church and concern over its well-being, here is a link. It's a survey asking for any Catholic, under the age of 40 to answer questions pertaining to the future of the church and your personal experience. I had much to say, surprise, surprise.

But, I believe in supporting any kind of initiative that tries to gather opinion from the young. I believe that, despite what my experience tells me, the leadership, or at least some of the leadership, cares about what I, a young Catholic woman, thinks. This effort stems from someone in the the D.C area, surprise, surprise, and I encourage all who observe these holy days of the year, to contribute your thoughts to this survey.

In English:

http://www.emergingmodels.org/survey/catholic_diocesan.htm


En Espanol:

http://www.emergingmodels.org/survey/catholic_diocesanSP.htm

Feminism, Connections, and Whose Voices You Hear

picture found on amazon.

For those of you unfamiliar with new media and the intersection with feminism, there is a large explosion of women bloggers, feminist bloggers, and women of color bloggers. What's the difference, you might ask. Good question. And good questions often spit out complex answers.

There are women who blog about random things - work, business, gardening, family sorts of things. There are feminist bloggers who take on women and gender issues. Then, there are also women of color bloggers, who tackle issues of gender and women, but take an even more cerebral and, brave, I might add, step in publishing their CRITICAL thoughts of the world, especially the feminist world.

Jessica Valenti is the executive director and founder of Feministing.com (I won't provide a link, google it if you want), which is a high traffic area for feminists, activists, academics, and journalists. I emailed Jessica several months ago and she was kind in dispersing advice about writing, academia, and connection. She and I are the same age and I couldn't help but begin to devour blogs shortly after I found Feministing.

Joining the ranks of Jen Baumgardener and Amy Richards, authors of Manifesta,, Valenti/Feministing and mainstream feminism is skyrocketing with its cultural punktified articles and seething sarcasm targeted at patriarchal practices and governing politics.

However, shortly after familiarizing myself with Feministing, I tripped and discovered the Women of Color Blog, Brownfemipower, and her axis of progressive persons of color; activists, academics, and writers, my favorite folks, who exercise and advise caution with mainstream feminism. The featured cover is Jessica's book that is coming out this spring. And I once again, notice the white skin tone of a book with FULL FRONTAL FEMINISM as its cover.

Sigh.

Oh, how many more white women writers with such certified feminist dexterity, empower their books with such titles and then dare to put a white woman's body on the cover? How many MORE books will do this? How many mainstream feminists will once AGAIN put a face (or hip) on the cover of a supposedly feminist book?

STOP EXCLUDIG WOMEN OF COLOR. STOP BEING NARROW AND STOP SHORT CHANGING FEMINISM. STOP THINKING YOU'VE GOT THE ANSWERS FOR ALL OF WOMEN. PLEASE BEGIN TO PUBLICIZE YOUR BOOKS CORRECTLY, WITH THE TARGET AUDIENCE IN MIND.

For individuals who think that a white naked hip is an appropriate cover for a book dealing with Third Wave feminism. For ultra-hip cool folks, who prefer high fiving other hands that agree with Whitestream feminism.

Veronica Rose

The idea of birth,
cracking pain,
pulsing rivers of blood
and widening vessels
where
gushing streams are
rushing out of me,
out of my tiny,
sacred cave
Doesn't scare me.

Whether she'll be seen
or heard
or even acknowledged
with a nod
is what distresses
me
Not dresses
or tresses
but how she'll be addressed
causes me
alarm

And whether my maternal instint
will be instinctive enough
to keep her, shape her,
sharpen her
keeps me
up at night

I worry that her father's height
won't carry far
because her mother's brown skin
will communicate
an indigenous freight
about some untrue inferiority
that she'll start to believe
herself

I worry that her half-ness
will split her into pieces
and drown in weakness
forcing her to spend her
time needling her fingers,
lingering
to sew herself back together
when she was never broke
to begin with

The idea of her is miraculous,
a flickering light yet to be;
but what the world may do to her,
may convince her,
terrorizes me.

If You Want to Know Me

If you want to know me, you have to want to know what is in my blood
Where the lines extend from, where my blood trails from
You have to know where I come from and what ancestry flows in my body
and through my eyes

If you want to love me, you must know what I most detest
The hunger, dying, poverty of children
The rape and denial of women
The savage punishment of feeling men

If you need me, you need to know I am needed elsewhere, too
to beg for the collapsed,
to defile the know-how,
to find arms that are ready to give
and provide relief

You must also understand that I do not understand myself
yet
That I was born a non-negotiable complexity,
an unfolding idea,
a slow-motion birth to completeness

I am pushed forward by something Divine,
a circulating Wind that moves the clouds
a Voice that stills the trees
and a Breath that moves the grain

On Living Brown

When I show up,
it's not my mind or my critical thoughts
it's the disheveled parts of me, they see
with my panted breath because of that spiral staircase, up

When I cut you off without permission
I'm a dameless tragedy, with acidic volition
without manners, without a filter
Must have grown up, bitter
That Brown Girl, yes.

And if I moan, I'm a whore
with no boundaries, or more
No selection
I must have disregarded all those religions of Asian predilection
Buddhist, religous, nonesense, whatever they teach over there
And fulfilled my losing prophesy of sexual warfare

No satisfaction found?
Better next time around.
Except 2nd chances don't come along like
trains, buses, bikes, and boards
So I gather what I can, gather and hoard

What can you do really
when your Brown is taken
as canary from the east
or scarlet, creme , even raven

Brown is never Brown.
Brown is never seen.
Cuz it's transparent.
An Invisible machine.

I Do

When I said I do

I didn’t know what it meant
I thought I did

I thought it meant
I do love you
I do want you
I do believe in this

I didn’t know it meant endless days of trying
And not knowing what we were trying for
Or how to choose a future together that may
Not agree with either of our past dreams
I didn’t know who would later come into my life
And make me wonder so soon
I didn’t know I do means
I do know I will doubt myself, and you
I do fight with myself more than I fight with you

I didn’t know it would mean spiritual mountains
And verbal misses
And monthly visits on domestic responsibilities
I didn’t know it would mean more crossroads than
Entryways
More unknowing than ever

Did you know what you meant when you said I do
Did either of us realize the humbling task of loving
The call to let go of ourselves for the sake of the other
I didn’t.

Does anyone?

Does anyone truly understand that I do means you do agree
To not only love, but pain and jealousy and doubt
To not only faithfulness, but the mindfulness that comes with truthfulness
To live not in harmony, but in effort to constantly strive

I promised I’d be these things, and more
I swore before all, and even before G*d
That I would live beyond myself, learn to love beyond June
And all the things that brought us to that day
With that ring, I wed an entire symphony of mystery
And unknowing

I didn’t know who I would be, who I’d grow into
And whether I’d even like her, but I swore
I pushed a circle onto your hand and my voice
Cracked with heaviness, the weight of the moment
Perhaps my voice could glimpse what was to come
But I didn’t know, I only hoped

There is so much unknown in a promise
That it’s a wonder they are ever made
Maybe that’s why they’re so easily broken

There is nothing stopping me from leaving,
Except this promise I made years ago
Years before June
Years before that kiss, the wide smile
Not to you
But to myself
Not to G*d
But to me

The promise that I would do this
And do it beautiful
I promised myself I was worth this
Worth the struggle
Worth giving a damn and I was worth
Not knowing, not figuring it out all at once
My life mattered more than grabbing easy answers
And holding onto scribbled notes that don’t reveal much

I promised long before you came, long before you arrived in my life
I knew the kind of love I wanted for myself,
the kind of fire I would build in my existence
The kind of freedom I needed
The kind of freedom
I needed

The promise I made is not binding, the promise is a reminder
A reminder that I saw something rare, something I knew I wanted
Love
And I promised to live and grow and fall and agonize to become that
Love
A force stronger than pain and more consuming than confusion
I promised myself first

And then to you.

-2.11.07

Again

It's amazing what you can see
if you pull back,
even just a little,
and focus again.