POETRY
Available Now:
A Family Recipe
1 cup of impossible barriers
¾ teaspoon of racism
3 cups of forgotten
⅔ tablespoons of missing
¾ tablespoons of tomorrow
A pinch of hatred
¼ cups of manic
1. First, watch the boy flee the arms of his nationality after watching his own sister get shot by a uniformed man for an extra dollar and his father fall too fragile so he does nothing. Insist he wait his turn in a revolving line, in the circle that never ends, and then maybe his family name will no longer be hunted by those who were supposed to protect them. Watch him flee for safety only to run into the arms of the same monster, just different colored scales and a complicated tongue, and an appetite for ones who think they might actually have a chance to change their fate.
2. Then mix in the girl with genes as robust as the nation’s history but tell her to pipe down, she’s always been way too loud. On every application she puts in, they ask her if she identifies with the nothingness that is her people or if she is brave enough to betray them. A box can mean nothing but a box can mean everything. Why does everyone else get to claim the land except for the actual hands who sowed it? She will always leave it blank. They will never care about her anyway. They will never let her use her voice anyway.
3. Serve the family with indigenous hair and Spanish lips a platter of fake fight, of political backing and then spit on the feet that follow behind. Continue to make a scene and protest and then go home and toss the baby to the one who has loved them from the beginning and pocket the thousands of dollars your gardener paid for a chance to give his wife a new life and choose the lead who actually checked off a box and then forget about it all until Taco Tuesday.
4. Take a bite of the American way and enjoy. Unless you’re Latino, then go back to the kitchen.
Poetry was my first love, and continues to be a steadfast medium of expression and craft for myself and my clients. My ample experience and passion is palpable in my poetry collection now available world-wide!
A Day
In the language of forgotten lover I say,
to which dawn am I enslaved today?
Forbearance has enveloped my gleam
and by the time this letter gets to the master,
I will have already melted back into a mere mold of clay.
They say the poet is the only loyal friend of lonely.
I disagree until there are lakes of my own dust in front of me.
Can it really be dusk asking me to rise
or am I that amatuar of soldier to not speak the language?
These are days of uproar with vacant vicinity.
Nowhere near these empty heavens rule the Muses
and today a walk wilts fed by solitary truant.
There are no more bars to fight in
and no more poems to build of fireflies and sometimes war.
Today I die with nothing more than the blood I was born with.
Seeds
and when i look at tomorrow, there are more
watermelon seeds than sweet and it terrifies me
to see how many sprouts sit waiting to be born
through the very palms that graze this skin. this
is new by nature but time knows the nectar of
your neck so she is on your side as am i. to call
it magic is to call mother nature dead and to call
it supernatural is an excuse used by stone men
sitting in colorless houses, so instead let’s call it
destiny; the one thing no one can slip past
without a couple of scars. so scar my name
on your heart and i will bleed a thousand reasons
why i love you. let the crimson seep into the earth
so that even the core may tremble with promise.
then let there be a rebirth of everything good
and come the dance of the willow tree branches
to the song of morning.