She was a seamstress that walked on water
It was said that men who used to drag her by the hair converted to worshipers
Running their fingers through her locks like children
When I rub the breast of her gold
body hanging on my chest
Men drunkenly confess all their good deeds
Back home we hang blood cloths above our doors to ward off evil spirits
During the rule of mother Magdalen over Rome, generals surrendered to their horses made rooms for their hearts by cutting off their tongue
Missionaries traveled to Europe to save the souls of the civilized
child priests drink pomegranate juice for moon day mass
A space camel, three wise hookers and Meryl Streep all arrived with gifts the moment she was born
When Columbus arrived to America
He washed the natives feet
And cried birds from his eyes
When he saw the extraordinary beauty of their faces
When I pulled her off the cross
She walked it off and asked if I was hungry
They used a wood saw when they castrated Joseph at the age of seven
Heavens fully equipped with 72 male virgins
The kingdom of God is in the hands of the Dula
We measure time in the speed of dreams
Militaries are humanitarian efforts
The church is a living body of water
The mouth of a river
The shade of a tree
When mothers pass
We tattoo crimson roses on our stomachs
The resurrection was her giving birth on the cross
As me and my homeboys were puffing blunts and pinning our hijabs to cover our beards
We bragged about the mercy we'd had on our fathers
If jesus was a woman
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Friday, February 8, 2013
Do I wonder or am I under the stone of black crows
that love the color red.
There is much space to wander, to perch, to pivot and to march
but is there room to wonder.
Is there room to wonder if you are always waiting for the cue.
Is there any reason to wonder if reason has little to do with this story?
Is there any yearning to wonder to you wake to my shadow?
Is there any way to wonder if the steps are already placed for us?
Admit, that we are taking turns in this cycle, for the silence is sweet
if not for the effortless nature of it.
Some pick the flowers others hit the highway.
How can I prove to you that no matter what manner I wonder in,
You are the one who I've chosen to ride it with.
How can I make you believe in something you have only carried
for a short period, when there is the massive weight of your past
waiting for you to feel the loss of hope
and fall back into its expectant arms.
If you fall I will pull, I wonder if I must fall as well.
These lessons that are carried must be applied.
That is the only way to know if they are worthless.
To wonder, I cant be under the monotony of dependency.
The habit of waiting for another consciousness to wake and rise
in order to wake and rise
In order to wonder and make bread, make love,
there needs to be fresh air in the room, the sweet soil of calm silence
of two stars existing beside eachother
of two horses galloping in the same direction
without harness, without ropes
simply to run in the wind
and see the nature fit and transform around them
To wonder effectively, i need to be let free,
for we struggle with wonder
if we are constantly being pulled upon,
pulling. Worsened by the clown of jealousy and suspicion
even my personal quiet individual reflections, (wonder)
are deemed lies,
when they are merely moments
where i am wondering
about how to keep my sanity around long enough
for you to see
the real me
so we can wander in wonder
and in ever.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Thursday, January 10, 2013
La forjaron de las lágrimas de un volcán,
con una lengua de fuego que se veía desde
el albaycín hasta el Kilimanjaro.
Le dio color al día y a la vida…
Hecha de añil de Ginkgo biloba, cada
momento único y solitario como su corazón,
que se mezclaba con el cielo, cielo carmín en
matrimonio dulce como el pionono.
¿Será ella la mezquita escondida en este mundo
de nombres falsos y tópicos?
¿Será ella el suelo que se estira por la voluntad de mi
Pues lo haré… Caminaré hasta el día en que me pueda
quitar estas botas y relajarme en sus brazos,
mis tobillos rendidos en las chanclas…
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Persuaded by children and blizzards
I crack the hard shell of indecision
proclaiming my reluctance in the belief
that I'm not so sure.
Sitting securely in my movement,
I think of water and light
Their enchanting dance through creation
I wonder for my friends
those who walk on fours, threes, those who fly
those who gallop and waddle across terrains
I can only dream of becoming familiar.
Standing stoic in my direction
I'm pensive about my food, its taste, its quality,
the nomadic ones that travel crippled from poison
meant to make it be something it is not
The colors that add vivaciousness to necessity of
feeding, from breasts of hands to poor to worry about
clenching their fists and screaming for serenity.
Running officiously through my inertia,
I propel my observation to the prospect of harmony
between those who look like me,
walk like me
think like me
but are of course, not me, but their own human selves.
Idolizing only the ability to say, We Are HERE,
And YEs We MOVE
Idle No More
Idle No More
Idle No More