I think I forgot how to speak.

I owe a call to the best friend in my phone,
and an ode to the summer walked on a bone.

An "I'm sorry!" to that boy I somewhat liked,
And a 加油！to that brother who's completely wiped.

The page called my name yesterday,
or was it a week ago? I dunno, Someday.

Standing next to inspiration's dusty tomb
from across the neighborhood of my room

a right on Dirty Laundry and another 
on the Unclosed Shutters

oh dear, I forgot how wonderful Window is!
My word, haven't looked through her in ages!

How many similes, metaphors, and lives now
do I owe to her honor, anyhow?

And Sweater, old friend!
Did I truly fling you to this bend?

Ah well, another poem for you 
And you, and you, and why not you too?

Just round the bed,
words scrambling in my head

And by the time I cross the aisle,

Leatherback tales, spin me a turtle
of stars tattooed on skin
moon washing sand
and people
who live without breath
keep
the tiny grain, boundless pages
keep
curator, the leatherbacked

Ther's a cardboard cookie on the table 
that tastes like Middle School
it is warm in my stomach as
cold crumbs line clammy calluses
But it still yields to my teeth as I bite
too much stale worries and never enough chocolate
It is the little photobook that is bitter
on my tongue, but tastes of decadent
strands of summer caught on ivy
webs, we call cafeteria tables
A past & a prophesy
of lost melodies folded in lonely books
for the next sixth grader 
who sucked on apple lollipops of drama
mouth puckeringly addictive
and of boys that whispered carelessly in halls
for all to hear of the insurmountable feat of
tricking overpriced vending machines for bags of 

                            air

because part of us knew High School, the Beyond
would be hard of oxygen
So, there's a cardboard cookie on the table

Hi everyone,
    For my Girl Scout Gold Award Project (which I think I might've mentioned in an SDJ way back when), I'm conducting a series of creative writing workshops with my local library. I've actually just hosted the first one (journaling) this past Saturday, and I thought I might invite you all as well. It's not quite the same as the fantastic ones Alex holds (because I'm pretty new to this whole presenting thing + they're for specific genres), but I think they're pretty fun. I've found for myself that even if I'm already are very comfortable with the genre, it's also a great way to set aside a period of time to writing.

(Ideally) these workshops will:
- briefly explain each genre of writing,
- provide a safe environment to share,
- give feedback & encouragement,
- & let you express yourself!

"California is on fire."
We are moths aflame.

Gold coins spill from our tongues
soaking all the sunshine until skies are gray.

A politician's dead eyes watch
orange skies in San Francisco, unfeeling.

The fires stole the mountains, the smoke the horizon
but you, fish eyes, you stole the security of my home.

We are Esaus, who will go down as fools
for selling a birthright for diamonds and doubloons,

villains the moment we renounced nature
to become Midas instead.

My home is a prison that reeks of smoke,
the AC on while we freeze underwater.

How long will we wait, will you wait,
until the ash taints your golden tongue?

I beg you, I warn you
that California is just the tip of a matchstick.

Yes, suffering brings a nation together
but if you cared, don't let us die so ...

there are babies just being born ...

Wet sand cakes my legs, a briny armor
earned from drowning in a sea

hopeful gold rimmed violets destroyed, weeks of stifled blues
meaningless plans shredded, tearstained shards drift to my feet

chained to the sheets, the gasps as I wail
but COVID is deaf to effervescent pleas

sleeping away the sun, why live this nightmare
when I can be a bold pixels pulsing on a screen?

the days blur weeks blur days, time as I know it dies
broken hourglass, steals my breath numb while flesh bleeds

and it's bled and scabbed and scarred
now knocked down by the upstart of the feed

watercolor drama etched in notebooks are paper mache
a poor replacement for scorching cement drenched in iced tea

bitter isolation, a decadent chocolate gorged upon
a glass of blank hall lining faces, please, I'm on my knees

the littered books all read, a closed library locks glass doors,

Liar, liar

pants lipstick black
screaming sirens afire

No choice, no way
betrayed your conscience 
one too many times
caught red handed, 
but you open your fist
lined palms conceal the fact,
that guilt has long departed

they were filled with empty jewels
promises you failed to keep
refracting the guilt on fate,
you blame the stars
you love your son

so you stab the family photo
of strangers, fighting for
survival, just like you
drown my mother to keep
his alive

no? am i wrong to blame
you
instead of balls of fire
somewhere beyond the sky?

here you stand free, 
in blue jeans burning
diamond daggers against my throat
clenched hands, 
the one that pushed us to the edge

don't tell me why
don't lie

I know it was you.

 

The rising waves hit the sand
that already teeters on the edge,
the rocks that have no choice but to settle
on the line between poor and poorer.

The smog clears in L.A. and New York City
and that is supposed to be the silver lining?
The rich devils came to collect their souls
and they gave them to protect their angels.

He is not allowed to cry as the sapling shrieks
but the sweat on his brow sobs rolling thunder
for the great dragon's trunk, severed in two,
the guilt clings under his nails no matter how he scrubs.

She once danced to the rainforest and listened to the wood.
Now she can hardly fall asleep as her beloved stars choke.
Stop papa, she begs as her stomach wrecks her mind.
Damp I'm sorrys water the hard, hard ground.

The baby is born into a world of disillusion
where "politics" means more than "truth." 

imagine

isn't it so easy to imagine?
feel the night's breath waft life into a book
a hushed melody crumbles
erodes at the nightless stars
as it puffs like creme brulee

coronavirus

COVID-19, with a little over 19
months until I'm gone
with the wind, with life
with heaven's plan and hell's pain
graduated from a childhood that is just short
a few years, stolen under spring's simmer

and mestasized into summer's sonder
as the AC freeze dries my sullen smile
i have often wondered if lying face up
on the street hollering as it burns outside my window
belly up, bottom's up
would free me

do you think death's champagne would taste like
rain and concrete humidity
as it rolls sticky memories of sunken lemonade
stands on your tongue 
radio songs belted on the highway
trails off into mournful tears