tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536747696017789622024-03-13T04:11:01.419-07:00writing con esperanzabrown. mujer. spirit.PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-64695752045764945852013-09-23T00:40:00.001-07:002013-09-23T00:48:36.217-07:00in my wild adventure during college in my wild adventures during college i smoked<br />
weed a lot one year <br />
never got searched<br />
never went to jail<br />
never got a misdemeanor <br />
never even paid a fine <br />
yeah, Christian young woman, saved and sanctified me, smoking out<br />
and getting high<br />
living next to the weed man was pretty convenient <br />
he guided me in rollin' my first blunt<br />
she coached me in taking my first hit<br />
dam near passing out on the floor <br />
yeah, Christian young woman, saved and sanctified me, packin that swisha tight<br />
like spaghetti on a fork <br />
together we got high<br />
seeing you in juvi today<br />
brought all the memories back<br />
i'm embarrassed to compare<br />
my story to yours <br />
never got searched<br />
never went to jail<br />
never got a misdemeanor<br />
never even paid a fine<br />
in my wild adventures during college<br />
i went to new york<br />
made it my mission to get some weed one night<br />
i was thrilled by the allure<br />
by the waft of danger on concrete street<br />
new york weed laws back then<br />
were much more severe than los angeles ones<br />
the adventure became all the more appealing<br />
i was with T and X, my black and brown brothers<br />
we finally settled on buying from a random<br />
brother on some random corner of NYC streets<br />
to commemorate T and X bought fortys<br />
as T and X drank they forty's and we walked through<br />
a park<br />
New York Police descended from the trees<br />
shown flash lights on our brown faces <br />
T and X were searched and given fines for<br />
open cans of beer<br />
i never prayed more<br />
and my knees shaked<br />
as police ignored me<br />
useless bait <br />
my recently purchased sak lay in the bottom of my purse<br />
dead silent shhhhhhhhhhh<br />
Lord Jesus help<br />
yeah conveniently calling on the Savior<br />
press on press off relationship <br />
never got searched<br />
never went to jail<br />
never got a misdemeanor<br />
never even paid a fine<br />
from the outside<br />
we ain't the same<br />
i am college educated<br />
high school graduated<br />
two-parent household raised<br />
mentored as a youth<br />
church born and bred<br />
but, you see,<br />
i like you have made<br />
my choices<br />
you me, we<br />
we have made choices<br />
i smoked weed because i was depressed<br />
choice,<br />
i smoked weed because i felt like dying<br />
choice<br />
i smoked weed because i thought nobody cared<br />
lie<br />
i smoked weed because i felt alone<br />
lie<br />
i smoked weed because i was mourning a broken relationship<br />
between Christ and I<br />
truth<br />
in my wild adventures during college i smoked weed a lot one year<br />
never got searched<br />
never went to jail<br />
never got a misdemeanor <br />
never even paid a fine<br />
the truth is if i was a black or brown man<br />
i would probably be telling you a different story<br />
if i had the appearance of what may be a scary threat<br />
i would probably be telling you a different story<br />
if you're in juvi because of weed<br />
you were not so fortunate as me <br />
but this i know<br />
you aren't no different than me<br />
after all<br />
because you and me<br />
need to be ten thousand times more<br />
doses of Jesus<br />
to cure all the ills and fills<br />
within us<br />
to be WHOLE<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-51730682511488607162013-05-11T07:45:00.001-07:002013-05-11T07:45:45.998-07:00staying reflective in the crisisi notice a pattern on this blog. the pattern is a write a lot of my angst out of writing. i'm glad their is a record of my shadow side with writing, because my journey is not all flying unicorns and chocolate buttercups. something happened to me at work yesterday that uncovered another one of my shadows. shadow is another way to say learning edge, growth edge, quirk or, let's break it down, straight up weakness. a crisis happened at work, and i failed to share with my co-worker what i truly felt about the situation. instead, i let her worry become my worry and cloud my feelings. i became reactionary instead of reflective. as i reflect on the incident, i can name my feelings and the despair i felt in the moment. i felt alone and unsupported by my co-worker throughout the shift and i was not able to express this to her. instead, i kept silent. my survival tendencies have shaped me to be "keep calm" during times of high tension. this happened in my family when emotions were out of control and ready to punch-someone-in-the-face. in those instances of family violence, i remained silent. unable to name my feelings because i am embedded in the despair of the moment. so i swallow my words, and ignore my heart. numbed by the moment i freeze my feelings. only to resume later, and discover the soil where the emotional seeds fell. i am at a loss of what to do, do i go back and remind the co-worker of the situation. do ignore what happened and be better next time? i don't know. PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-53903664974168241062013-04-26T08:16:00.000-07:002013-04-26T08:16:15.104-07:00creative tensioni feel stuck between the tension of creating and laziness. i don't think this is uncommon for many artist. but i've gotten quite the case lately. i've ignored my desire to write, to fotograph, to create. i asked my friend to help me write a movie script and he said, "i'm not feeling creative right now" i felt sad. he named a reality for himself that i did not want to name for myself. i have aspirations but my follow through is incredibly inconsistent.<br />
<br />
i consider teaching to be an art. but setting aside time to work on my art regularly is radically different than teaching my young people how to take pictures or how to write. i also need to be embedded in my own practice. today, i dwell on reflecting not only what i can do, but how i can do it. my coach and i have been working on creating a plan for the future. she's suggested i create a step by step plan. i will. ahora. now. time. do. did. ciao. PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-87519603392487123552013-02-28T21:48:00.000-08:002013-02-28T21:48:25.916-08:00volarevolar sin lunadas<br />
le canta a la luna<br />
que tiene en especial la luna?<br />
le banaron el cuerpo<br />
mas la luna no pudo sostener el poder<br />
del Salvador<br />
y por eso la luz se murio.<br />
el dia que se murio la luz<br />
nadie le canto<br />
el dia que el resusito<br />
el cielo quedo mudo<br />
con un nuevo respetoPALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-61254054775040846042013-02-27T21:40:00.000-08:002013-02-27T21:46:13.473-08:0013 year anniversary it was 13 years ago when i became rebellious. i experienced a true teenage rebellion and weed was not my drug of choice. writing was. i was so ashamed of my addiction, i hid it from so many. not feeling worthy to call myself a writer, because i was not affirmed with an A. so i secretly kept at my craft only practicing when english papers were due. or when i attended and wrote in the occasional poetry class. i did not, however, stop fantasizing of my dream of becoming a writer or a poet. especially when i attended the youth poetry slams that san francisco made trendy. i have since become a writer. i am still far from good. even farther from great. two moons removed from prolific. i'm okay with that. i am closer to being ready to die trying. i have started by teaching. someone once told me try doing something else, and if you can't live without it, you'll return to it. it, for me, has been writing. i've tried to be someone else, do something else. and when i read "bad writing" mine especially, i get pissed. and i want to be better. i just got feedback from a teacher, "you have to be clear and precise" "people out there get pissed when you waste their time" with "bad writing" said she. well, once i got passed the shell shock of truthness, i allowed reality to do its work. i let the words sink in and grip my ego. i thrusted myself into the messiness of this work and the long road ahead. thank God for my insistence. for the gift of my insistence. until i see the books that lie within on that self. i will die trying. and so there i went to the house of writing. and there a met on paper many writers, authors of more than 30 books what?? and i saw the cost of a class $200 dollars for six weeks. and i began to think of a master plan. PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-20835427976248393382013-02-27T21:34:00.003-08:002013-02-27T21:34:10.844-08:00jazz scholaris there really order in the chaos?<br />
do humans only say so to be right?<br />
is our need to make meaning that embedded?<br />
is it necessary to identify the order?<br />
just be<br />
be <br />
free form<br />
form<br />
be<br />
free <br />
my feet can keep up with the messiness<br />
my hips follow its syncopation<br />
my head rests in the dizziness<br />
i don't have a tv<br />
but i do<br />
have<br />
jazz<br />
PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-55335055079037592992013-02-27T21:29:00.000-08:002013-02-27T21:29:39.073-08:00the re-surfacethere has been a shift in these last four months. a problem that has evidently stopped the flow of words: i am happy. there is a second factor, without asking for it, i received the gift of healing from depression. i have not been depressed in three months. apparently my writing is not use to this inner joy because i've been dreaming in poetry. and when it comes time to commit my words to paper, silence surfaces, giving me little with which to work. so here i am a happy 25 year old woman with a lingering hardness that is blocking my words. that won't let my heart be released. the absence of words and tight-locked air keep my spirit tangled like mushy seaweed and a dead jellyfish. so i've got to swim to release my spirit. write so that my words won't only be sad. won't only be light in my darkness. in the birth of new light, and revealing truths, unravel from the trumpet like dizzy g. to confuse. to make sense. to make meaning. PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-77720386791361607022012-11-12T15:06:00.004-08:002012-11-12T15:06:47.043-08:00writing, writer, escritora, author, autorafor a long time, i have refused to identify as a writer. i know great writers, and i shy away from clumping myself with the likes of these. something happened this weekend, that has (to my current knowledge) never happened before. i had "writer's block." for three days. i've never experienced an absence of words. words are in me, flowing and billowing like smoke in a volcano. they bubble through me, they always come. usually in disorganized, non-systematic patterns, but words have followed me and ooze out of me. what has been hard to do is find time to sit and write. expelling my words onto paper is my ultimate challenge. i am drawn to writers, some i have as friends, some i meet in passing, and most have discussed experiences with "writer's block."because i could not relate to having a blockage to the golden passage of words, i couldn't believe myself to be an authentic writer (and what does that even mean?). still, i negated the calling to write and self-identify. having experienced a blank, which i have come to terms: totally normal. i wish to induct myself to the writers hall of fame. for the secret, closeted, ain't-tryna-claim-that-don't-put-me-on-the-spot writer's around the world. here is to us. and cheers to writer's block. it mean's we're human, it reveals our finitude, and this weekend i was reminded i am not invincible. PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-39310114610185246852012-10-31T19:46:00.002-07:002012-10-31T19:46:53.668-07:00challenge to my inner creatorcreatives in Los Angeles are starting a collective, general invitation, what-have-you to me and the rest of y'all: "always be creating" that's going to be my personal challenge over the next week. have many a projects on back-order. we bring an end to that tonight. my inner creator grows from a whisper to a screaaaaammmmm: always be creating. #peace #trick or #treatPALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-32610350760750109412012-10-31T19:30:00.003-07:002012-10-31T19:30:56.684-07:00reading, writing, reading, writing20 years of reading and writing, you'd think i'd be an expert by now. but i'm not. i find solace that the long for perfection has been a long, uneventful journey---one of tears and waning confidence. i've been told i under-estimate my abilities. it is true, i do. i set the bar low, and its hard to imagine. sometimes consciously other times i don't even realize i am destroying the possibilities of winning by my attitude. naturally, the negativity, comes out in my speech, and those who love me call me out on this. falling short in my own expectations. how will i ever win, if i don't expect to, yet i'm expected to win and mostly everybody else predicts i'll win. <b><i>hmmmmm. interestante.</i></b> i am expected to win, and everybody else's prediction doesn't matter. its a relationship with a telephone and a land-line that directly dials the heavenly telephone owned by my Creator. i have some questions, and i'm seeking answers. my faith seeks understanding, but is it for my self-serving ways? i'm hoping when i call tonight i see Shekinah and the glory. when i ascend into the heavenly realms, a place where no one else goes. a place where its just me and You. that's the kind of power that transforms the hearts and the minds. nothing else comes close. we won't achieve social transformation if our hearts and our minds remain the same.PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-34761268539487383612012-10-31T19:14:00.001-07:002012-10-31T19:14:51.100-07:00she stands at the crossroadsher heart saddens at the cross roads. unafraid she takes two steps forward but longs for ten steps back. she was safe in his arms. she doesn't know whose arms come next. her Father's arms, which are complete, she has the audacity to reject. not that she necessarily wants this to be. but the thought of going back certainly lingers. imprinted on her soul, though she tries to shake him off. he has left a mark, not like the mark on her forehead she inherited from her Mother. no, he left a mark on her soul. she regrets his entrenance, or the permission she gave when he knocked on her door. she let him him because his presence was new and exhilariting, ready she was to take the ride after many many years of avoidance. seemed tastier than mint chocolate and caramel fudge or her mental darkness she battled since 1997. when their unity unlaced, depression hit again. she's at the crossroads again, and her heart saddens as she looks back, counting all the reasons for the security of knowing. only distance prevents her from not making the physical return. although in her mind she longs, and in her heart she yearns. at the crossroads the fear of this new fight is the realization that it is not a battle of physical terrain but one of the battle of the heart and mind.PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-34460390277409365802012-10-31T18:54:00.001-07:002012-10-31T18:54:14.597-07:00the U.S. american selvesall the ways of self<br />
<br />
self-protect<br />
self-preserve<br />
self-aggrandize<br />
self-care<br />
self-serve<br />
self-report<br />
self-retort<br />
self-reward<br />
self-renew<br />
self-reveal<br />
self-importance<br />
self-knowledge<br />
self-confidence<br />
self-reflection<br />
self-help<br />
self-harm<br />
self-hope<br />
self-pity<br />
self-caress<br />
self-magazine<br />
self- defense<br />
self-deprecate<br />
self-love<br />
self-loathe<br />
self- portrait<br />
self-publish<br />
self- worth<br />
self-organize<br />
self-obsessed<br />
self-talk<br />
self- gratify<br />
self-guide<br />
self-understand<br />
self-join<br />
self-immolation<br />
self-improvement<br />
self-actualize<br />
self-awareness<br />
<br />PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-83727623092832231062012-10-07T01:59:00.000-07:002012-10-07T02:06:29.079-07:00after feeling like a dumb dumb at the beginning of the week. i feel humbled to announce that Holy Spirit, insisted and saw me through. like a hunter whose arrow pierces the forehead of its prey, i became Her target. moving and orchestrating people on my behalf. for every door that was closed, five were open. lifting my spiritual eyes tonight to new levels. not settling. telling my body that sacrificing everything but spirit is okay, for the short term. still figuring out the kinks of my schedule. be patient i tell myself. honor the season you are in, and don't rush the process. be slow to anger, especially with people who need a new version of love. breaking through the fallacious and complacent standards of love, humans have created. filled with surface "i love yous" and half-commitments, the alternative, the truth is at the depths of Her core, and i must jump. the edge be scary. never alone, She hovers, covers, sustains, when gently nudged, hand in hand We jump. PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-33726506887875497832012-10-04T23:55:00.001-07:002012-10-05T00:02:23.976-07:00prayerso far as i know, atleast three people pray for me regularly. that alone is an act of God Theyself. if i could ask for a prayer request tonight. i'd humbly ask that God rid me of this haunting spirit of perfection. most of the time i wish i was perfect. life would be much easier, in the perfect world i envision. its filled with lots of sun, fresh fruit, boats, and a guitar. also, i don't make a single mistake in my writing, it comes out perfect. every word, every syntactic mechanism that seduces your eye and strokes your mental clitoris. then, i remember, that the pain, the suffering, the beauty of life, that i have experienced was birthed in my imperfection, little sun, almost no food, and with no music. the absence of what i consider to be complete, or prefect, eventually blossoms into learning, new insights, a re-discovery of joy, and above all clarity. we're constantly seeking, to occupy, to consume, to use, to act, to think, to be-- all the wing-women of perfection. we are corrected for being wrong, so we try harder, and better. what if we allowed something else to try for us? Someone, not something, that has meant to do it all along. to ride the wave our imperfections for us, fixing our kinks, to make that imperfect work, perfect with Them? do you hear the call? to be lost in your imperfection? stop fighting. stop thinking what if. get on the paddle of imperfection. get your stick, and let the sea beneath your toes, move for you. <br />
<br />
gracias, <br />
<br />
d PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-26629665414875176542012-09-12T13:25:00.001-07:002012-09-12T13:25:01.221-07:00reflecting practicing what i preachever since i have prescribed reflection in doses to friends and family or just anyone who will listen, i've noticed two things: one when i talk about something i do it less, subsituting the talking for doing. two, if i talk about it so much without doing i am a hyprcite and the tax of that realization ways heavy, so i tend to ignore avoid ignore. that's kind of what has happened in the last couple of months. i don't know when exactly it began, but what i can say is i'm writing/reflecting/praying my way out of this one. of course, an emergency brought me to this moment, i know i am at the beginning of something big, when i want to avoid at every moment. i find a million things to do, and yet what needs to get done does not get done. i have found motivation in a friend who says "i'm always working" i want to be like her. always working, but also with enough pause to say: i have to question and interrogate at the soul level. asking myself is what i am doing to store treasures on earth, or in heaven. opportunities to preach abound, but do i want to be a preacher? or am i too afraid. opportunities to cut the curse of deception abound, but am i ready. who i am and where i am set in. today. now. let it begin. it has been. it will be. get that ______. okay. PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-62913116349479543972012-08-06T11:26:00.001-07:002012-08-06T11:26:30.860-07:00who says you got to take a break in the summer?writing has been slow, but growing and transformation rapid. it's amazing to me that i can track my understanding based on my writing albeit's inconsistence these last summer months. did you know our heart has eyes? did you know if we believe or are chosen, but if we're chosen its because we were going to believe (brain racker i know) then the eyes of our heart have the ability to be enlighten. i want the eyes of my heart to be enlighten. time and space are important to the artist. the artist puts all emphasis on space. to create is her mission. yet the urgency of time, and the slowness or rapidness thereof cannot be controlled. in a physiological sense, it can be, because we're human and our imagination can tell our minds anything. and we believe. we do also however, live in time and space contingent on the middle. do you know what the middle is? what we're living in right now. the beginning was God and the end is God, through Christ Jesus (only), and we humans are living the story in the middle. maybe that's why we're so fixated on balance? but we are not called to be people of balance. we are called to be extreme. to push toward the goal as it says in Romans, and to push towards the end, that is to be with Christ Jesus.PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-85731680396051607162012-07-19T11:19:00.000-07:002012-07-19T11:19:31.926-07:00when months feel like a year, but still there is a lot of growingfeeling more disconnected from the self, who is connected to friends, who is connected to world, who is connected to hopelessness, which is connected to doom.<br />
a good thing, because her feeling more connected to God which is connected to Jesus, who is connected to life, who is connected to abundance, which is connected to hope. but more disconnected become to the things that take away from experiencing this fullness. only few worship it, therefore only few respond to invitation to worship.worship takes surrender people these days "too smart" for that, "too knowledgeable" no bend no knees, too therapeutic with heart's devices. therapists, friends, books, journals, lovers, music, dumb phones, pastors, and even you. take a scoop of heart seductions that call to serve, quieting the voice of Maker, maker who makes and brings Good News. until the point of a Word which meets, which pierces (sharper than a double edged sword), penetrates (dividing soul and spirit), and judges (attitudes of the heart). her prayer oh God, is this: penetrate that divisiveness between her soul and her spirit. they have broken into millions of pieces and need moons of repair.PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-82866310096274306942012-07-19T11:07:00.002-07:002012-07-19T11:07:50.671-07:00Love<b>Under the apple tree I roused you;<br />
there your mother conceived you,<br />
there she who as in labor gave you birth.<br />
Place me like a seal over your heart,<br />
like a seal on your arm;<br />
for is as strong as death,<br />
its jealousy unyielding as the grave.<br />
It burns like blazing fire,<br />
like a mighty flame.<br />
Many waters cannot quench love;<br />
rivers cannot was it away.<br />
If one were to give<br />
all the wealth of their house for love,<br />
it would be utterly scorned. </b><br />
<br />
Song of Solomon 8:5-7PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-68151131653762679022012-06-10T16:01:00.000-07:002012-06-10T16:05:45.808-07:00the feelings of being uglyfirst of all you don't show the feelings. you hide them<br />
there is a hidden door in your soul, and in it are your secrets<br />
the dark side of being ugly<br />
the jokes to embarrass others or laugh when others are publicly shamed<br />
still it is your face you find uncomfortable, the slouch in your back <br />
that gives you away. <br />
the piercing words, that continue to hide the feelings of being ugly.<br />
you become a slimy snail, to be stepped on and crushed, guts over concrete<br />
or a lioness that roars so hard and fast, she drives you away, no one is around<br />
maybe the please-don't-give-me-a-compliment-cos-i'll-give-you-many-reasons-not to look<br />
or crispy mouth gets in the way because your throat speaks louder than our soul<br />
your soul hidden in the door with secrets, burying the feelings of being ugly<br />
you may have friends, and they uglier than you, or more beautiful than you to hide in they too<br />
your breath smells like pineapple, you use smelly lotions<br />
but your bed smells like shit, and nobody knows it<br />
your pain so deep, that too is hidden<br />
hide to protect, preserve, and survive<br />
and when we let go, someone will teach it, or we'll receive it as a gift of grace and act of God, <br />
we'll know the freedom of feeling, more beautiful than that on your face <br />
soulful feelings more filling than <br />
sustaining the act of <br />
burying <br />
and <br />
hiding. <br />
<br />PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-88181627838109603432012-05-26T22:54:00.002-07:002012-05-27T19:53:25.951-07:00cafe. mujer. espiritubrown. women. spirit.<br />
she sings when she walks home, she notices <br />
the tumbleweeds, her sisters, they share the same shade<br />
brown. women. spirit.<br />
she is the color of cafe when the sun beats, honey <br />
when she lives in the shady rainforest that makes her pastey<br />
brown. women. spirit.<br />
she is the color of milk tea with boba<br />
how many shades of brown can she be?<br />
the color of salvadoran mahogany<br />
burnt dough with pupusas and curtido<br />
she is the color of red mud, her mama the color of truffle<br />
her unborn daugthers the color of milk-dark chocolate <br />PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-4498495110109026522012-05-26T22:33:00.003-07:002012-05-27T20:13:09.379-07:00to my unborn daugtherto my unborn daughter Jerusalem, and to her unborn sister Bethlehem or in spanish <i>belen</i>. <br />
your mother, the living, seeks to know you, who you will be, crazy and peaceful like her or will you possess the inward wisdom of your father jerusalem you will be beautiful<br />
i met you this week, and you were loud<br />
you filled the room with your spirit <br />
i couldn't believe it, but when i met you i knew, it was you my unborn daughter <br />
jerusalem you were the amethyst rock on your mamas little desk with a reading lamp next to her bed <br />
jerusalem you are the city on the hill, you cannot be hid <br />
jerusalem you are the hub, the passage, through which everyone comes, they rest, you envelope them <br />
jerusalem you are free<br />
jerusalem you are a holy city<br />
jerusalem God dwells among you<br />
jerusalem you will have a baby boy, and he will be killed<br />
jerusalem you will never be destroyed, though you're buildings fall, and they will fall, and we will mourn, but always, always you will resurrect. bethlehem, in spanish <i>belen</i>, <br />
you will one day look at your sister, her blood will strengthen you, you will not be jealous. you will know your place. you will hold your own, and will always thrive because of jerusalem <br />
to my unborn daugther jerusalem, be the champion of the people <br />
like your mama you just won't see it or know it at first.PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-12915961413404482672012-05-26T22:23:00.003-07:002012-05-27T20:05:48.806-07:00la letrai can't remember when i began writing. it might have been when i was eight, it may have been when i was 10, but definitely by 13, i was rolling with poets, and fiction writers. i have an idea of why i don't remember when exactly i began writing. i have a bad memory when it comes to my childhood. i remember some really good things, and some really bad things, but have buried most things. slowly, i am re-claiming, re-examining, and re-discovering these stories. 25 years soon to become, i have been living with this self, and the many selves within us. i am finding a sense of connectedness to my story. i'm insistent, my silent voice imposing, rebelling to that which my ancestors want to keep a secret. so i'm still seeking. asking questions, desiring the narratives of kin. though silence be the norm. i am aching to know. to make sense of my darkness. i was a <i>chiyona</i> for many years, why did i cry so much? why now do i laugh? when did the deterioration dissipate and the transformation begin? why me? today, last week, on tuesday when i was fired? was that the beginning of the end? hardly. and to the future, who knows. <i>Solo Dios sabe</i>, only God knows. but the monster has awaken, and it will get easier, and easier.PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-20413043364674437632012-05-21T18:01:00.000-07:002012-05-26T22:44:36.012-07:00san francisco, san franciscoYa no mas, ya basta.<br />
<br />
You are no more, Sea-Town<br />
<br />
I’m going back home now<br />
<br />
Home is something that I’ve mostly had<br />
<br />
San Francisco it is you I associate <br />
<br />
This thing called home<br />
<br />
You are the saint<br />
<br />
You are the sustenance<br />
<br />
San Francisco<br />
<br />
Is it you that’s home?<br />
<br />
Or the inhabitants?<br />
<br />
Maybe the familiarity?<br />
<br />
Even in my own four walls I felt un-homed<br />
<br />
Unable to breathe, respirar, like a bag over my head that fogs<br />
<br />
I met your son in San Francisco<br />
<br />
Are you bound to your robe?<br />
<br />
Are you a slave to your robe?<br />
<br />
Am I a slave to mine?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
My feet hella hurt<br />
<br />
Why is it raining so hard<br />
<br />
Dam girl<br />
<br />
La puta madre<br />
<br />
Why did I ever agree to this<br />
<br />
I just didn’t want to say no<br />
<br />
I definetly wanted approval<br />
<br />
To live simply San Francisco<br />
<br />
I want to live simply<br />
<br />
But self gets in the way<br />
<br />
of<br />
<br />
you<br />
<br />
and <br />
<br />
home.PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-15785109241285444442012-05-09T09:10:00.000-07:002012-05-09T09:10:00.354-07:00if you live by faith you may not seefaith depends on spiritual blindness and it needs an object. for example faith by whom and and for whom? if one has faith it implies that you are certain of something you cannot see (Hebrew 11:1) but how do you know something is certain if you cannot see it. you believe. and if you believe, you is the object of your belief? God or something else no? i'm living in that space of the unknown, only faith will guide me, but more poignantly only faith in God. it is discomforting to be in this place of faith, as my friend said yesterday, "that's when shit gets real." it has gotten real, and i've been stressing about it. but today i choose to let go of stress, and enter into the desert of faith, purposefully, aware of my feelings, and working for intention. i'm almost 25 and the impulsiveness will not fly anymore. i've been relying on grace, based on my hasty decisions, but now as i enter into this new season i choose to rely on faith. holding the tension of the inconsequential blindness.PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553674769601778962.post-38842713311312222622012-05-02T00:56:00.000-07:002012-05-02T01:03:43.868-07:00the fuck-upher "i love you"s were self-serving. she sneaked her boyfriend in her family house, and then dreamed of her mother, slipping through the walls with the powers of <i>La llorona</i> and wearing a white robe. the mother took a peak at the two lovers in bed. with a mixture of jealously and fear she whispered, "<i>puta</i>."Whore. the thoughts of her mother whispered loud.
"what a nosy bitch," she said, but it was too late. her mother grabbed her mija by the hand, and took her to the hut where it happened. in 1976 her mother was raped by her uncle. she's never told a soul, until she took her daughter in her dreams. but what the mother didn't know, is that her daughter already knew, the signs were there even before her brain had formed in the womb. she cried the first ten years of her life, not knowing why, but her body knew. until one day, she met laughter, the next day she met shame. when she met shame, she couldn't eat her fried KFC chicken on her plate, her neighbors window broke with a rock, and her father had to pay. the same rock that would later assuage her heart. the pain of the rock to deep, it scarred. she was afraid of men until she entered the year of the birth-day of the enigma. then men became her refuge, seeking the thrill of fear mixed with intrigue, and feeling the depths of spirit memory, he had raped her mother. the immortal spirit carried the secret, and she knew. before she was floating in the fluids of both father and mother.
mother carried fear of men, but she needed a father, so she married a man. "pick wisely," she told daughter when daughter doesn't know any better. this is only the beginning. mother transported her silenced fear through her fluids floating in her placenta. all her daugther could do was absorb it, confusing it with vitamin D. duaghter became the fuck-up of failed relationships and broken pieces. until she let go, she could finally hear freedom. tasting for the the second time release. in the distance she recognized healing, and a lifetime of <i>heridas invisibles</i>.PALOMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731576871067120541noreply@blogger.com0