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Friday, December 4, 2015

How We Do Things


How We Do Things
lina de los ángeles

How folks do things,
how they communicate,
how they make decisions,
how they act,
can be
startling
disappointing
infuriating
saddening
surprising
confusing
shocking
and
we react to their action
with
anger
rejection
blame
hurt
demands
abandon
judgement.

We really don’t know,
why people do what they do,
or the instances leading up
to their behavior, action and decisions.

We don’t know the grief that they live with,
the guilt and shame,
their own sense of inadequacy,
and the fear and pressure,
that rests on their brain and in their hearts,
which propels them to act.  

We don’t know what made them run,
change directions,
make other choices,
and carry it all out,
the way they did.

We just stick to our experience.
We stick to our feelings and responses.
And the world,
starts and ends there.

Friday, November 27, 2015

For the Whistleblower, the dear-heart


Dear heart,

you saw something
that wasn’t good,
for people,
the earth,
the children,
the poor,
our health,
our families,
our time,
our investment,
our history,
our future,
and you,
wrote an email,
or a letter,
you made a phone call,
or had a meeting,
you wrote an editorial,
or met with a reporter,
or told the next one up,
or your co-workers,
or the people closest to you.

And a volcano erupted,
that created a change.

The change could have happened
in one week,
in seven weeks,
overnight,
or over a lifetime,

And you,
sat in prison,
were excecuted,
kept working,
were disappeared,
or fired,
or alienated,
shunned,
rejected,
punished,
written-up,
put under investigation,
shamed,
humiliated,
publicly attacked,
publicly or privately stripped of your credibility,
and stripped of any leadership,
influential position or place, at the table. 

You didn’t know,

the moment you decided,
that something had to be done,

and someone had to say something,

and that you would be the one to do it,

that the change would come,
thanks to you,

but you would also pay a price,
for making that change,
happen. 


9/12/14



Wednesday, November 11, 2015

We Must!



What are we talking about?
What the FUCK are we talking about?
At what point,
do you STOP talking shit,
acknowledge your delusional thinking,
and admit that we’re all fucking immigrants? 

You and your ancestors,
should have/could have/would have/were
been, deported.
And the same tired narrative,
of who gets to be here,
and who doesn’t
is ridiculous. 

The only ones,
who are not immigrants
to this land,
are the indigenous people.
Hostages,
to the eternal
manifest destiny. 

Don’t we ALL know
why immigrants have been
coming here for more than 500 years?

To escape the economic horror of brutual foreign policies and corrupt governments.
To flee crushing hunger.
To flee religious and political persecution.
To flee linguistic and cultural genocide. 
In search of hope,
a chance,
to live. 

The story of migration,
NEVER CHANGES! 

Even the bears are coming down from the Sierras,
into human populated areas,
because they are looking for food and water,
due to the scarcity at higher elevations
because of the California drought. 
You think that if bears are on the move,
humans, who really know what their situation is,
aren’t going to be?
It is instinctual,
and you make it a crime?

I can only conclude,
that anyone who is really talking about
deporting people,
and closing the borders,
and forcing everyone to pass an English test,
or permanently detain families,
in private prisons,
just lacks the most basic
understanding of the human condition.
Human beings
want to survive.

We have a will
and an instinct to live. 
Our movement,
across borders,
and oceans,
and deserts,
and mountain ranges,
is just our instinct,
to save ourselves.

And we’re going to do it,
no matter what you say.
You’ll just have to keep
killing us,
rounding us up,
sending us back,
imprisoning us. 

But
we
will
keep
coming
back. 


We must.

Saturday, November 7, 2015

Las Gemelas


Our land.
Our earth.
Our trail.
Our mountain.

Of gravel and dirt
chaparral and oak
sage brush and black crow
vistas and the northeast breeze
city of angels,
as our backdrop.

Narrow paths,
crisscross, through
the wild flowers, the tall grass,
and the Eucalyptus trees,
gather us,
to walk and talk,
air it out (literally),
wind taking us,
our questions, our concerns,
our grief, our celebrations,
our anger and victories,
away,
restoring us,
to peace and release. 

This,
is our Debs Park.
Our ombligo.

To heal, to regenerate,
to recover, to return.

But this week,
a dark veil, descended on our mountain.
The earth, sky, crows, hawks, chaparral,
oaks, Eucalyptus, and creatures,
witnessed
two deaths,
of two girls,
las gemelas. 

In our sacred space,
a crime has been committed.
Life,
stolen!

ON OUR LAND!

Young sisters,
bright smiles,
Latinas,
daughters,
high school students,
members,
of our pueblo.

I am burning sage.
I am lighting candles.
I am pounding the drums.
I am summoning the protective forces.
I am commanding,
the universe,
to re-member,
our land.
Bring back the balance. 
Guide our departed sisters,
to the ocean of eternal life. 

Our park is empty. 
Free land, now heavily patrolled. 
Ancestors,
reconnect us to safety,
to community, to connection,
to pueblo, to progress, to possibility,
to the sacred, to hope…

Queridas hermanas,
as I walk the dirt caminos,
I will remember you.

On your journey,

            travel well. 

Saturday, September 19, 2015

Species



They say
that animals
carry on with their plight.
Whatever it is,
they don’t complain,
begrudge, or give up.
They keep going,
and live,
or die.
But our species.
Humans.
Mostly,
begrude, complain,
hate,
our journey.
And we ask,
“Why? Why me?”
And we drown,
in our sad story,
and blame,
and excuses. 
But the rest,
of the animal kingdom,
keeps going,
they do their best,
and keep going.
And they don’t,
complain.


*I saw this1/4 inch snail on my hike, on a ¼ mile hill, with a 70% grade.  I almost stepped on her.  I thought, “Shit, if she can do it. So can I!”

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Lean In

you/me/we
are so afraid.
so fucking afraid.
to feel. 

we cruise through life.
waving along the way.
getting along.
or not.
not a big deal.
until it matters.

and then,
we run like hell.
we insult.
we push away.
we become unavailable.
we make ourselves,
irresistibly annoying,
to turn the one who loves/
we love,
away.

so that we can be alone.
safe.
in our zone.
of fear.
and being untouchable.
and unaffected,
not alive,
but safe.
safely,
not alive. 

until the next rapid heart beat.
and then,
we feel alive for a minute.
but we shut that motherfucker down,
in an instant.
and then we’re back,
to safe,
and being dead,
inside.

Sunday, September 6, 2015

Inousa


Home.
My kitchen. My dining room table.  My living room.
Our beds.
Our bathroom.
Our TV.
Our groceries.
Our meals.
My front door. 
My small patio, with plants and caged bird.
Picture frames. 
Books. 
Echoes,
of our talks, our laughs,
our arguments, our scolding,
of soft assurances,
that there are no monsters under the bed. 
Curtains to open and close,
and brooms to sweep up,
the dust and activity of our daily life. 
It’s all here. 
In this house. 
On this block.  At our market.
At the spice store.
At the tailors.
At the bakery.
At the temple.
At the school.
In the shade of the olive tree,
at the park. 
It’s all here. 
It’s all assured.  Guaranteed. 
We have tomorrow. 
And next year,
and the next decade,
and the rest of our lives. 

3am.
Deserted island.
No more home.
All rubble. 
Haven’t eaten in days.
I hold my four-month old baby,
in the dead of night,
can only hear the lapping of the water,
and our faint breathing.
Haven’t slept in a bed in nine months.
Gave birth in a refugee camp.
Desperate,
I agreed to board the boat,
from Libya,
hopefully to Italy.
I don’t know where I am.
I don’t even know if I will survive. 
I don’t even know if there is a place for me in the world.
I don’t even know,
if my baby will live. 
I’m numb. 
It is dark. 
I’m freezing. 
There is no one here. 
I can’t even remember,
my life before the war.
It is a lifetime ago. 
I’m not sure. 
I’m not sure. 
I’m just breathing,
for this moment. 
My life,
is one breath,
at a time.