The first page

I speak best through my fingers
with each stroke of my pen
I find a louder voice on paper.
I am in pieces on stage,
billions of words skipping inside my brain.

My voice isn't strong enough to hold their gravity.
I get twisted tongues when I try to verbalize those letters
poetry can speak in volumes when its made real
seen along the walls of Jalisco, Mexico
in Oakland,
San Francisco
they are embedded in braille behind my eyelids
seeing words everywhere,
shouting in their silence.

A bed of 26 letters quaking in my throat,
feet pacing,
Tonight my pen cannot give me a voice.
muted whispers fall to my toes,
words heavy enough only for paper.

That poetry is hidden in the creases of my chicana curves
I can't mumble a sound,
my body temperature rising
as the alphabet bleeds at my hairline,
dripping with anticipation,
those words arrive only for the pages.

I stand alone, tongue tied down
I can see every face in the crowd
each letter stuck on the roof of my mouth
every syllable breaking out from my throat
cannot be understood,
all 26 lost between heaven and earth.

So many words that want attention;
want to be read,
but cannot be spoken,
that literature is engraved in stone
my mouth is glued shut
and so then I run.

college

College M Center is running me around like a goddamn toy. I'm so tired of running around I just want my shit done for the following semester. I swear I dunno what I'll do with myself if I don't go to school next semester. I need this shit done asap. I dunno what I'm doing with myself.

the city

" Feb. 3, 2010


I came all this way into a city to draw a crooked tree.

I'm sitting here watching people for my stories. Manipulating them to mean something to me. I hear the sax. He plays here all the time.

Tall strangers, short men with glasses, women covered in long coats, green pants, yellow shoes, others in high heels. Everyone of them counting steps into the next task in their day, pass the tree with crooked branches.

All the trees here grow crooked--because of the wind.

The people are so distracted, most are untouched by the music. Going about their day, in a hurry to where?
All of the lights are turning on, the buildings are alive!

And the people rush along, pushing and shoving time to hold on.

Got somewhere to go, somewhere
anywhere to go to
I keep looking for my next task, next step
I am in no hurry.
I should keep walking
and so I get up and leave the crooked tree and the music behind in yesterday's news.



I'm headed home now. I made no friends. Everyone is still a stranger.

bus, however..."

shake me like a snow globe
turn me upside down make my snow fall
in my little bubble
all around like the real thing.
I can't stand the feeling
that Im having trapped in my snow globe
with nowhere to go.
Nowhere to go need to find home.

do u ever get that feeling
like ur stuck on the ceiling?
Can't come down until im not high anymore.
but I wanna be stuck apparently,
near the fan blowin' common sense around the room.
It's been a month
since the last time I remembered anything
like happiness in my life.

Where am I going?