I haven’t posted a poem up in awhile, but the last few months have been difficult as I’ve transitioned to a new place to live. Much better and happier now. Here’s a poem I wrote almost a year ago, and threw in a few edits today. I cycle all the time; it’s my main mode of transportation, and it’s an amazing one, so here’s one to my days on the road!
The thrill of speed
My agility, my virility
My bike and I
As cars rush by
So close, I can feel the heat
Metals beasts of death
But the thrill as
My body, my core
Flares with galore
A fiery blaze as I maneuver through
Metal beasts of death
I wrote this today in honor of the feminine spirit of International Womxn’s Day. I don’t identify with the category of woman, but I do acknowledge and honor the feminine spirit which lives within me. A spirit which I think lives within everyone, but in different shapes and forms.
We who embody the feminine;
We, the femmes.
It is our day to rage, to be angry.
Because our transsisters still speak and meet
To protest the slow genocide.
Of the Femme spirit.
We are not equals.
We are all different.
But inside of us no matter what the state says
Lives and breathes. A dragon.
With purple scales.
Femme spirits, Femecestors
It is in our blood.
Rage until the femme spirit breathes fire
to destroy the world.
This poem is about not wanting people to define or label me because of the clothes I chose to wear. My body is mine to dress as I want, and how I choose to dress it should not make others choose to judge me or make assumptions.
Thin blue dress
patterned with vivacious horses
slides over red gym shorts
and a black & white bra
slides over a bike seat
as heat swelters, sweat trickles
“Oh you look so nice”
first comment of the day
I don’t usually wear femme; are you surprised?
Now that I fit your stereotype, am I more acceptable?
“Who are you trying to impress?”
No one, but me
My body is not for you
Horses gallop over
black & white bra
eyes slide toward my body
as my body slides on my bike
red shorts glisten, wind caresses my thighs
as I slide through the air
My body is mine
I dress it for me to be me
It does not define me, or my gender identity
I dress it to slide through the air
I’ve had a busy month, no time to post. But I’m back again with a poem about the power of words. Words will not be enough but no one thing will ever be. It’s all connected: our struggles, our liberation, and our future.
What are words?
In the poetics of
How do I fight
with the only weapon I know.
Words strung across
Fires brim at the
turns into arrows
to light a path
towards heavy explosions
shake my body
feels like liberation spilling
through my veins
What are words?
In the theory of
I wrote this a few days ago, in the feels about the different marches that were happening at Trump’s inauguration. I’ve been to a lot of marches, and for those whose first time it was a few days ago, I understand the exhilaration and the empowerment. There is something very powerful about being one of thousands in the street. But that’s not enough. It’s an experience, but at the end of the day it erases the systemic struggles which have existed for centuries. Trump’s presidency is not the beginning of fascism, we cannot make Amerika great again, and kops are not our friends. For those who were on the marches, I just ask that you think deeply about your participation, understand your privilege, be open to critique. I only hope we are moving forward into rebellion. Here’s the poem:
They march to win the hearts + minds
They march for that oppression
which will be gentle and kind
They march so the pigs will place
pink and furry handcuffs on their wrists
They march to fill the pockets of
board of directors
They march to take selfies to post on Facebook or Snapchat
They march so celebrities can smile for their photo-ops
They march to cover up their daily micro-aggressions
anti-blackness + transmisogyny
They march to tell their future dead children
they tried but then failed
They march to snitch on those who take
They march to shame and exclude those who suffer the most
They march because this is a democracy and they have the freedom of assembly
But they never pause to ask for whom?
They march not knowing the history and past struggles
They march blind into police kettles
They march + march + march…
Except there are no hearts + minds to win
There are only buildings, freeways and institutions
Our rebellion grows
from the streets of Oakland, Seattle, DC, New York
and sometimes LA
Our struggle continues.
It did not begin nor will it end in Trump
How many drones did Obama authorize?
How many people deported under his administration?
How many black bodies died at the guns of police?
It began in the 15th century
with genocide and slavery
These marches of the 21st century rest on a resistance movement
They try to forget or never remember
Permits, peace, and police
We are standing up against a violent Empire
Six centuries in the making
We must march to blockade
capitalism is violence on this land
We must march to smash B of A windows
their property is violence on this land
We must march to fight fascists and fascism
white supremacy is violence on this land
Their hearts + minds won’t change
But our hearts + minds are here
and have been.
I wrote this on a train that wove through the northern part of the Los Angeles Forest.
Greys and Browns
Orange and Faded Green
Small trees, low shrubs
and silver rocky hills.
I see Beauty stretch for miles,
but all the greedy capitalists want
is blood and organs
to sell for profit.
All they see is dollar signs
As the Greys and Browns of
trees and plants fade into
identical track houses and what
they call Civilization (and I call Destruction and Death).
Manufactured and installed trees,
What happened to the Beauty?
White settlers destroyed it all.