In Good Company

Who said 'show me your friends and I'll show you who you are?'

I am proud to endorse this gorgeous project of someone I am proud to call my friend, Geko Jones. Having grown up in a country whose indigenous cultures were trampled upon by a host of conquistadores, I am THRILLED by the respectful, inclusive and festive nature of this project. Cultures evolve, and as we cross borders we co-create aspects of the culture that are universal.

I support the Pico de Gallos project, invite you to do the same and consider yourself in good company. One of our tribe.

An Open Letter to Hades

The first time you came,
you came for my mother.
You made her slip on the slush
and I was collateral damage.
Swaddling me in four inches of blanket, 
her woolen armory a forcefield and foretelling.
She had seen this before, the attack
on our kind. She knew to be ready,

Then you came for my five year-old legs.
An imbalance in my blood attacking
with boils, open sores and such pain
no child should ever know.I came back fighting. 
You cannot keep me from running 
on grass, in mini skirts. Don’t you know?
I am the grasses that green the earth.
I am everywhere  all at once. 
Catch me if you can.

You could not catch me  when you returned
as the 12 year old boy and his shine.
Fingers and lips on my 8 year-old body,
Don't you know? I am out  of your reach.  
My virtue is the air you breathe, I can 
fill your lungs then vaporize inside you, 
in a flash, leave you longing
for the lover you never had,
elusive first kiss, untarnished mouth.

You came back for my mouth in 
high balls and shot glasses.
Johnnie Walker, Jose Cuervo, 
Stolichnaya, Jamieson, Jack Daniels. 
Laphroaig. The one for the road
you thought would break me, the voice
from the bottle telling me I could drive. 
Don't you know? I am black rubber on 
concrete and I stick. I am the long 
and winding road. I always make it home
by curfew, unscathed, still dancing.

Dancing with me those smoky nights
in those red light districts, on my
parents' bed, on the beach, in the
kitchen, on the first mattress I paid
for myself, the unprotected sex.
You came back for my blood by
seduction. You came for my flesh
in fluids, in ecstasy, on all my hot spots. 
Don't you know? I am your orgasm,
I am your release, the humming  of your
flesh. You will never be rid of  me.
I will spend you again and again,
I drive your desire. I am
the lust that keeps the species
alive, the fire that multiplies cells,

I am life itself, an unlikely result.
Six ethnicities race through my DNA,
my bloodline is of warriors, wizards,
and wise men. I am priestess
and prostitute, The first time 
you tried to kill me was the last time.

Before you come back, I have an offer
to make, a dance, a deal. 
Come for me on the summer solstice. 
Come for me in a leap year.
Come for me in a flourish, 
as an ending, a magical cure.  
Come to me as liberation  so women
can take their place at the table
and the troubled can  sleep at last. 
There is work to be done here,
not a moment to waste
So if you are coming, come. 
And bring it.

30/28: The Inkless Tatoo

She is curious about your markings,
wants to know where they are from.
Wants to know which hurt the most?
Which took the longest? Her line of
questioning should be familiar,
you wear your story on your skin.
Years ago you were a blank canvas,
then voice found its way to ink
and now you are ink god, confessor,
work in progress. Author, painter
and commander of ink on your body.
You are an architect co-writing a
story on a patchwork of skins we
tell together, but separately. This
woman from the Midwest, she
wants to know more. She asks
Do you remember your first time?
and this is when you realize she is
telling you about her skin, telling
you about her markings. So you
listen to what she isn’t saying, with
eyes that avoid yours and skin
well hidden under clothes hanging
loose on her weary frame. She
gives nothing away. Her markings
involve pain, but no ink. This is not
the story she wants to tell, the chronicle
of bad choices and desperate cling,
of lovers who love inadequately.
So you answer each question
delicately, knowing her fragile
ears are drowning with a truth
that threatens to own her. You
look straight ahead, knowing
her eyes are always close to
bursting and give her a kindness
she might recognize from the days
when she was a blank canvas.
And when a text message
unnerves her so that she has to go,
you finally look into her eyes and
speak clearly You take care now,
and lift your glass to her as she goes.

30/27: The Year of Kissing Girls and Boys

It is the era of Absolut Vodka in the year
of the DVD’s break through.
Tommy Lee is in love with a buxom Baywatch
blonde and Tupac breaks the ceiling scoring
a number one album while he is in prison.
ebay is a newborn and we are plump
with the prime of our youth.
We know little of limits and consequence,
we will  hear nothing of no or stop.
Wild night is calling and this is all we heed.
Thirsty for pleasure, we heed with our mouths.   
Absolut Kurant is our rave, splashed with soda
served in a martini glass garnished with a cherry.
The heat of urban nightlife stokes our pulse and
we are parched. So we drink to our youth
and beauty, and we drink to love. And we
dance, dance, dance. No matter the
absence of dance floor, we are hips on fire.
We know little of guilt and shame,
we will  hear nothing of stop or convention.
Wild night is calling and this is all we heed.
Thirsty for pleasure, we heed with our mouths.   
We are plump with the ripeness of our youth,
succulent lips and supple skin.
Spectacular spectacle, we are wet
with kissing, hot with tongue.
Oh luscious lust, you are our
Church. Everyday is Sunday
and every night, we witness.
we testify, we praise.

30/26: Flowers From Vincent

I marvel at this land you have
walked before, where once
you found muse and anguish.
I bathe in the hues of the sun,
I am yellow princess of this rocky
field of gray. The irises curtsy
in respect of me. By nightfall when
the sunflowers are sleeping
soundly I go barefoot,
ravenous grazer in the fields.
I swallow this starry starry night,
collect fireflies with my hair.
In the morning when I wake,
by my bedside the sunflowers
are aglow. The window
frames a mosaic mountainside
of slate and flowering orchards. 
All this, all for me. From you.

30/25: Makahiya (The Shy One)

I lie in the sun
and slowly open
one leaf at a time.
This is when
you see me,
in this simple way
on an ordinary day.
I soak in your
light and vapors,
take in your rich
words to the deepest
roots of me far
into the earth.
We find a spring
and share a drink
there. They think I
am shy, call me by
different names.
Bashful. Sleeping.
Shrinking.
I know you see me,
feel your longing,
let you touch me.
The touch of you
stings my delicate
leaves and I close.
The strength of you
closes me and in
this closing, I find
my destiny.


*'Makahiya' is the Philippine name for a grass that grows there. The word means 'shy' and describes a plant that, once touched, closes. In other parts of the world it is called Humble plant, Shame plant, Sleeping grass, Touch-me-not, and Mori Vivi (West Indies).

30/24: The Shallow Well

What is a woman to do
when the husband
she will not leave
is no longer hers?
What is a man to do
when he loves his children
but cannot live
with their mother?
Dear love,
some days
you are not that
deep or complicated.
Once you’re gone,
you’re gone.
Do you take
the blueprints
with you?
All that’s left
is cataloged in
photographs
and a pile
of post-it notes.
After you left our
home, we hankered
for you, fingers
scampering
for crumbs in
the cookie jar,
mouths
searching
thirsty for
drops of
you in the
pitcher.
I called for
you in whispers
and all I found
was the salt.