An Accidental American

The Drama Experts

2012-02-16T06:31:00.000-08:00

Television has been part of my life in various ways. The Philippines is the sole American 'colony' in Southeast Asia and American popular culture has always fascinated Filipinos. My friends and I grew up with (and loving!) Sesame Street and the Electric Company's lessons and entertainment.

As a communications professional, television remains a fascination, a source of insight, a form of education and a diversion. As I watch TV, I find myself shifting between someone engaging in content and someone evaluating what the content is saying about our culture. Why some shows or genres do better than others is telling us something about ourselves. Why certain personalities gain greater traction and recognition than others sheds light on what the population looks up to, even aspires for. The staying power of 'reality TV' and the shift towards a sensationalized approach to presenting the news are telling us something: Drama is here to stay.

Studies say the average person watches 4 hours of television a day. That one half of the work day, one sixth of a 24-hour period. If we apply Malcolm Gladwell's 10,000 hour rule this means that seven years of consistent TV-watching will make us experts. Experts in what, you might ask? Drama. Consider the way elections are presented, or the nature of popular political discourse. Consider the precocious nature of programs targeting young audiences. Consider the fact that the Whitehouse crashers were also Reality TV personalities. Consider the inappropriate celebration of toddler beauty programs. Consider the disconcerting displays of excess in housewife and real estate programs. Is this really the best we can give ourselves? Do we really want to raise drama experts who thrive on pettiness and hide behind caricaturization?

Sesame Street and The Electric Company opened my eyes to a world that was inclusive, compassionate, musical, cultured, ethnically diverse, articulate and curious. Words were carefully chosen, stylistic choices were made to enhance the content and not compensate for the lack thereof. There was nothing trashy, there was never dumbing down. I am not sure when the bar was lowered, or indeed how low it has shifted but I am beginning to see signs of hope. I am seeing an influx of well-written programs, complex characters and compelling plots coming onto the small screen.

Perhaps the TV industry is reclaiming their power once again. Perhaps they found their way back to Sesame Street. Perhaps they are gonna turn it on and bring us the power.

In Praise of the 140 Character Form Restriction

2012-02-09T13:58:00.000-08:00

With a Nod to Taylor Mali

Verse, rhyme and meter have been among my favorite companions since as far back as I can remember. One might attribute my open-mindedness to verse, rhyme and meter. I always get such a rush when I play by rules of rhyme, form and meter with the unadulterated liberation of language.

For me, twitter’s je ne sais quoi lies magically in this tension. It’s why I get such a head rush when I dive the endless possibilities that lie in 140 characters or less. 140 characters demand clarity and conviction. They expect a point of view from you. They force you to make choices.

From the fall of 2010 when I followed my mom-blogger sister’s lead and got into twitter in earnest, it’s taken me all this time to figure this out. At the heart of my twitter conviction is a bit of smugness. It’s that part of me that says, "I can be articulate and speak with conviction in 140 characters or less. What have you got for me?"

As the twittersphere expands and the tweeting becomes mainstream, know this: Just because you are tweeting doesn’t mean you are actually saying anything. So whether you’re planning to tweet, shit talk and engage in the space remember this: Speak with conviction, take a stand and enjoy the ride.

It's Friday, I'm in Love

2012-02-03T13:21:00.000-08:00

I remember really looking forward to Fridays when I was in school, and I suppose this is where the rhythm of my week started. So here we are, it's the first Friday of February and I still can't get over how quickly January whizzed by.

Hello, Friday. Hello, love. Yes, love. Take your cue from The Cure. It's Friday, you're in love. Oh yes, you are. You are.

It's Friday and It's All About Me

2012-01-20T09:41:00.000-08:00

The company I work for does a feature on me in their blog HudsonHouston today.

Yes, me.

If you want to know more, check it out. Check it out.

Happiness Requires A Plan

2012-01-17T12:11:00.000-08:00

Remember how simple things were when we were younger? How the most basic things like tickles and pickles marked the difference between being happy and being unhappy? Now think about how many times in your grown-up life you've heard this frustrated utterance: I just want to be happy.

Here's one of life's biggest coups, we don't just get happy. We have to make happy. Yes, folks. It is true. Happiness requires a plan.

Over the course of the next few entries I'll build this thought out some more, but I want to start you off with something simple and hopefully profound.

Make a list of the five moments in your life you felt undeniably, unquestionably happy.
For each of the five items moments you've listed down, write up a 3-5 sentence story that tells as much about that moment as possible. Go crazy with imagery, metaphor, description, details. Details. Details.

See any patterns, themes or 'ingredients' that provide you with happiness? Chew on all those yummy things for a while cos you, me and all of us happy seekers–we're all about to get busy cooking up a plan. Yes indeed, happiness requires a plan. And guess what - we are on it!

You're the One that I Want in 2012!

2011-12-31T15:49:00.000-08:00

On the precipice of a new year, we are most likely going through the list of things we are hoping for. The things we desire. The things we want.

When we strip away the judgement, when we embrace our true nature we find at the core of desire is a softness that is as delicious as it is infuriating. The things we desire propel us, inspire us, enrage us to move, to live, to be. I want you to want things. I want you to listen to that desirous humming in your breath. I want you.

Red is The Color of My Love

2011-12-16T15:51:00.000-08:00

If you've visited here before this will be no secret to you, but if this is your first time then it's important that you know: I am a brand geek and an ad geek.
I believe in the power of brands, I believe in the power of communication. At our best, we can shape positive behaviors and offer up a world of choices and better options. In our most shining moments, we harness these powers in ways that leave the world better. Or at least try to. I have written a few times about how I continue to fall in love with the (RED) campaign. I love its big ambitions and love the progress it continues to facilitate.

As we gear up for the holidays and wage into the most generous time of the year for most it's important to remember that true gifts cannot be bought in department stores or through consumables. The gifts that matter most set the course for a virtuous cycle and hit the biggest problems that plague us. It is one of those simple, profound ways we can help.

If we truly believe we are in this together, here's an inspiring way to do our share. Click here to create your own panel in the iconic quilt, make a pledge then harness your social networks to inspire people to do their share. What greater gift than to give future generations a world where they are free to love, free of AIDS.

Notes from The Road

2011-12-12T08:18:00.000-08:00

I have resisted the urge to be hard on myself for not writing enough. I have resisted the temptation to lay the blame elsewhere. Life is what it is, and sometimes there is no room even for the things that matter the most. I have started an experiment, instead of reading on the train I've started writing. If it's an issue of time and space being limited, I thought to make use of the time and space available to me.

For real. Leaving the iPad behind, and focusing on the trusty Moleskin and pen. Sometimes it's a fragment that comes to me, sometimes the begin of a thing that eventually becomes a writing artifact. Last week, on Tuesday this notion came to me. I am still waiting for the next train ride that gives it more shape. But here it is, an impulse from the train. A notion of a piece of writing:

"As if there was anything else she knew how to do, she let him in. Again. Without question or condition. She let him back in."

Watch this space and see where the ride take us.

Before the Flash Mob...

2011-09-26T14:29:00.000-07:00

...it was just giddy, spontaneous, unchoreographed bustin' out. For real, just people dancing. With people. For no good reason but to dance.

I was reminded of this over the weekend, when a bunch of us took a shopping ~~sidetrip~~ distraction between brunch and happy hour. We were at a quaint Brooklyn shop called Something Different and they were playing eighties tunes. Who can resist???

This 'Reality Bites' scene below is a close approximation of what happened when Tiffany's I Think We're Alone Now came one. Except in our case, we were all dancing and joyful. We love each other, and celebrate each other's gangsta. And danza.

Where Have All the Best Friends Gone?

2011-09-22T12:59:00.000-07:00

You may or may not have noticed the radio silence, but the day job has kept my mind preoccupied lately. Working through a brand's character and personality (at least if you do things the way I tend to) sends the thoughts on wild rides. As I looked through Jungian psychology, the fundamentals of branding and a snapshot of female popular culture I could not help but as the question: Where have all the best friends gone? The last big chick friend flick was "Thelma and Lousie." This was in 1991, then close to the end of that decade "Sex and The City" took the world with its real-talking, stiletto strutting strong women and their deep friendships. Sadly, with the success of the show and consequent increased production budget and caché, the fashions and romance often seem to have eclipsed the heart of the matter: women nurture women.

Gratuitous bromance hunk shots appear
thanks to www.sheknows.com

Meanwhile the world has come to embrace male friendships, celebrating them through the birth of the bromance and it seems the tides turned on female friendships with the introduction of the term frenemies. Granted, it isn't exclusively for female use only, it is quite alarming that while the press celebrates the shirtless Lance Armstrong + Matthew McConnaughey tandem training for the NY Marathon they taint the Oprah - Gayle friendship with speak of closeted lesbian love. I started to worry. Then, I found a spark of hope in the most unlikely place - the box office!

This summer's top grossing film
was by and about women.

This summer, guess which comedy flick kicked every other film's butt at the box office (well, except for the one that utilized similar gratuitous hunkiness in its promo)? A charming, heart-warming, witty, well-written, well-acted film authored by women, celebrating the friendships of women. The film is called Bridesmaids and it was the summer of 2011's top grossing film, with an impressive $26 million the weekend it opened and Box Office Mojo reporting box office sales of $283,444,100.

I realize life gets busy and hectic, blog posts take time to write, Facebook and Twitter can make us forget to actually stay in touch but we gotta gotta gotta romance our most treasured friendships, we simply must. I am not asking anyone to run around shirtless (unless of course that's what you and your girls are into, then by all means go!), I am simply putting a loving reminder out there: your girls need you, this girl needs you.

My blood sister, my treasure
www.motheringearthlings.com

Before I go walking and not talking, let me salute my girlfriends, and the men of my inner circle. You are the loves of my life, the sass to my shimmy, the chili salt to my body shot. You all know who you are. We brunch together and poem together, we dance together and booze together, we have seen so much life together and look ahead to so much more. I only have one blood sister and she's the bomb, still I must be doing something right because lucky me, I get to choose an arsenal of amazing women (and men!) I am thrilled to call my girls, my sisters, my friends.

I will probably tag you on this post, or tweet at you - but that's just right now. Just you wait till I see you, you'll get an old fashioned hug and then some because that is how we love.

A New Place to Call Home

2011-09-06T12:32:00.000-07:00

There is no exact number I can come up with when I try to count the number of times I've moved in my life. More cities than the fingers of two hands, and enough countries to occupy all the fingers of one hand. Even still, finding a place that feels so much like home in a city that is so far away from most of the people who know you best and love love love love you is always a magical thing. It's been a week to the day, and the report remains stellar.

An early drawing by Gaél, a foto with a story I might tell you, an old-school writing kit from my brother.

The place is warm and nurturing, somewhere between a beachside fire and a shot of whisky. Neat, of course. It sits on a tree-lined street, where today an HBO series will be shooting (yep, it's THAT pretty). My desk sits facing the street, so I get a cool breeze as I think and work surrounded by mementos from friends and family. This new life is punctuated by touches of where I am from, a pair of ash trays bearing the words "Casa Vallés" from Abuelo's collection; the scapular my great grandmother brought to the Philippines from Spain - a present during my First Holy Communion, one one side The Sacred Heart of Jesus, the Blessed Virgin on the other. It is all part of the dichotomy of who I am, and I like it like that.

This is how we do breakfast chez nous.

For all the time I've lived in New York and for as much as I love this city, I have not felt like I could claim a space and call it home until now. The art that sits waiting for me to get my bearings will soon board a ship and find themselves, as I have, in a new place to call home. Until then, I continue to get to know what this new home will mean to me and my story. I invite you to come over for a meal, we do quite well in the food and beverage department. I may be a New Yorker but I will always be a hospitable Filipina at heart, ready with a big hug, warm meal and clean sheets for my friends. Come visit us in Brooklyn, donde hay vino para el vecino.

Oh, Vast Sea

2011-07-30T12:07:00.000-07:00

Oh night of poetry, oh open heart.
Oh moon playing all your tricks,
tonight you win. Here I sit misty,
longing. Nothing to console me,
not my stoop, not this starless sky.
Not the cup, not the apple. Not
the pop of cork, not the haste
of these champagne bubbles.
What I need cannot be found in
the pulsing city of cities I now call
home. I have learned to live with
the ache, the watery eyes.
I take this sadness to bed
fall asleep thinking of my loves
and the parts that keep me away
from them. Tomorrow when
the sun rises I will look away
so I do not see the ocean, the
sky, the vast land. I will look
inside and find them all in
my pulse, in my breath.
I will close my eyes.
They will be
there, right there.

(a work in progress written after a magical night of Poetry at the Greenlight Bookstore in Brooklyn)

Hey, Jo You So Fine I Love You Long Time

2011-07-17T07:57:00.001-07:00

When the white man first came, he brought
The Book, a cross, goblets of wine, white bread,
silk robes and the promise of a Heaven.

When he left, he took our sun and mountain,
our worship, our medicine, our brown magic.
He lined his trail with mosaic bastards,

the aberration of a people who once sanctified
women and battled with spears,
yo-yos, blow guns, western wind.

The white man came again, this time in
camouflage and boogie-woogie. He brought
Santa Claus, democracy, and hand grenades.

He took our fight and aimed outwards to the
yellow neighbor and his Kamikaze, took our
women for servants, sex slaves, nurse maids.

When he left he took our words and letters,
our lessons, our drum beat, our open fist.
He lined his trail with shrapnel and gunpowder,

flattened our cities, tarnished our dreams.
When is the white man coming back?
I look around and see his ghost everywhere,

he is never there. Why won't the white man
love my country anymore? Has he grown
tired of our unflinching love?

The bountiful lands he pillaged for rice, pineapple,
bananas, tabako, mangoes, coconuts are barren now.
They long for the white man's science again,

My tears have always come with ease, this is
something you learn in my country. I remember
when the white man told me tears are prayer,

blessings from the white god with the high nose,
The cheek the white man never touched
still burns from his un-loving.

The Heart's Desire

2011-07-15T09:13:00.000-07:00

I used to say I was a reformed Catholic.
Really, I did.
As I think of it I realize there is something dishonest about that.

The more honest statement is this: the values I learned from the way the Catholic faith was taught to me are the very fuel that keep me going, that keep me true. If I am truly honest, the values of love, compassion, fidelity, child-like-faith, the unflinching pursuit of deep understanding and a genuine sense of wonder - these mark my character and strength. I learned them all through the way my heart and mind were reared. Some of this happened in "school" and a lot of this happened through the people life continues to shower me with, through the school of life.

In a country where poverty sits side by side with opulence, a heart can only make sense of things through faith and understanding. In a family where night time rituals include bedtime prayers, the soul learns to search every day. And in a home where love indeed conquers all disagreements, misunderstanding and heartbreak one inevitably learns how to make room, to forgive, to accept. And ultimately, this is what all lessons about the life of Christ taught me - a compassionate heart makes room.

And isn't this ultimately the heart's true desire and destiny? To love wholly, without condition. To accept people for who they are, be a mirror that reflects back their best light? The moon is full tonight, and so is my heart. If you hear some raucous howling, join in. Heed your heart and sing the happy howls so full and well-loved.

That Sickening Sense of Entitlement

2011-07-13T13:15:00.000-07:00

What is it with people who come at things with statements like "I deserve this?!" Where do people get off feeling they are entitled to anything anymore? Have they been living under a rock? Have they been on a media diet? Or are they simply without a clue or two?

What we do or don't deserve is irrelevant in this world that is all topsy turvy. Let me tell you who deserves better.

Think of that hard-working father of three, who has kept at a job that doesn't inspire him so he can build a solid home for his family and send his children to school and have them covered under his company's HMO. Then think of him in a 'town hall' meeting at work, hearing ugly words like 'downsize' and 'restructure.' Now think of his heavy walk into the house he has almost paid for, the painful conversation with the wife he loves, with whom plans for a happy retired life have been made. Think of his dwindled retirement fund, the mortgage he is almost done with but cannot keep up with. You have just conjured up a man who deserves more than that pink slip he was given. You have just conjured up a man this system and all its promise has thoroughly failed.

Here's the thing. Stop the whining, stop the pitchy tweets about your pathetic life. It isn't about you. It's about the choices you make. You don't deserve anything but the chance to work hard and do well. And that is a lot. There are people who don't even have access to these. You deserve whatever you have and wherever you find yourself right now. It's the result of choices you have made. Don't like what you see? Then it's your call, not mine so don't complain to me, or to the weary man trying to fix things for you. Life is tough and whiny people can't cut it.

I suppose I could say it isn't your fault, that society has sold you on this false sense of entitlement you so proudly wear. But I won't do that because unless you are under the age of fifteen, I hold you entirely responsible for yourself and your bloated sense of what you deserve. Unless you can get over that, then you'll never really get far in life. And the short distance you are destined to travel, you'll deserve that too. In fact, that might just be all you do deserve.

Come on Baby, Light My Fire

2011-07-04T13:30:00.000-07:00

In the final analysis, there
shall be no regret or remorse;
no spreadsheets, no checks and
balances. In the final
analysis there is only you
and your truths, the good ones
that light you up and the ones
that take you to darkness. In
the final analysis it will not
matter that you were loved

wrong or right, only that you
were loved. More importantly
that you loved with furor and
unflinchingly. And that you
danced with abandon. In the
final analysis your swagger
will only matter as much as
the sweat of your hard-working
brow. How much shit taking
was equaled by walking and

working. In the final analysis
how much you know will make
no difference. Your curiosity,
generosity and how openly you
taught, this is what will count.
What you did with what you
know, how you surprised
yourself, that's what I'm
talking about in the final
analysis. Were you kind, were

you gentle - this won't matter this
won't bear much weight in the
final analysis if none of it was real.
So here we sit, on American Independence
Day halfway through the second year of
the second decade of the 2000's and
in the final analysis the thing
that will be most stoking, most
inspiring, most excruciating is this:
have I lived, really lived?

In the final analysis, have I
embodied myself - the good,
the bad, the ugly of me with full
authority and furor? In the final
analysis the real question is am I on fire?
Does the life force of me burn
a steady flame, or spark bursts
of heat? When I speak, do I light up
inside and maybe through the room?
Do my eyes gleam with ideas,

do my lips flicker with their words?
When I write, is the hand possessed
by pen kinetic? Do I sizzle?
Does my life stoke me? Tonight
cities will light up in fireworks
and cheer, but in the final
analysis and in the spirit of real
talking, to be truly free requires
fire. So when the dust settles tonight
do it. Find your fire. And work it, baby.

Made in the Philippines, Born in New York

2011-06-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

We had a family home in the north of the Philippines, in the mountains of Baguio. In this home was a master bedroom where my father, his siblings and most likely their cousins honeymooned. Being a honeymoon baby, I suspect I was made in Baguio. The weather is cooler there, the air smells like pine. Baguio was built so the American officers could have a vacation place. There are golf clubs, cottages of western style, they even have an American school there.

Nine months or so after my parents' Baguio honeymoon, I was born in upstate New York on a crisp September day. At least this is how I imagine it. So like most things outsourced, I was made in Asia and managed to be born in the USA.

The Dog Days Are Over

2011-06-19T13:10:00.000-07:00

The first part of the year was bittersweet for me.

As an artist, I found a thunderous thread in my voice and this fired up my writing like I have not experienced before. In this thunder I also found community, this formed a bridge through which I made deep connections with my New York family and the reason I am here. And though this has happened to me before, I found myself falling in love again with New York so deeply, I knew she was reminding me I was home.

Tish and Nave at a Brooklyn fund-raiser

As a woman, my partner was faced with a health challenge that has altered my life in ways I am only beginning to understand. It was a tough three-month run for me, and I will never know exactly how tough it was for Navé and how he is having to adjust. The good news is that he has been declared cancer-free, the only mark being a scar to remind him of the grace he has received. As only he would, he is using the experience to inform his artistic purpose, starting with writing a poem a day from the first day after surgery until he gets to 100 poems by July 10th.


The groom flanked by his sisters

Then something beautiful happened. I had to go home for our family's first 'proper' wedding. My baby brother (okay, he is 30 years old and may kill me) got married and I got a new sister. I got to spend two weeks back in the home of my heart, immersed in the simple and so profound gift of family. I got to hang out with the nephews I am crazy about, and soaked up on all that good stuff only family and long-time friends can give you.

A wedding is always a happy event, and for our family this was a first wedding despite the fact that my brother (the groom) is both the only son and the youngest sibling. I don't really think I'm wired up for the traditional approach to marriage, and when my sister and brother-in-law got married in Barcelona, it was a simple affair and not the 'whole hog' celebration Enrique and Isha were having. So for our family, this was THE wedding. And it was exactly the wedding for this family. Upbeat, young-spirited, very modern and lots of fun. As part of the wedding, the couple had asked the entourage to do a campy flash mobesque dance number to kick in the dancing hours at the reception. He chose a song that speaks to what this second half of 2011 means for me. Not only do I get a new sister, Nave has a 'new' clean slate of health, I start a new job and we have a new apartment in Brooklyn. I also acknowledge what we have gone through and keep it in mind as we dance into the summer sunshiney days and embrace the grace and good times ahead. So sing and dance with me, Nave, Enrique, Isha & Florence and the Machine. For real, the dog days are over!

Left-Leaning

2011-06-12T12:07:00.000-07:00

The parts of me that needed attention mostly sat on my left side. My left eye was legally blind and ridiculously astigmatic, my spine curves in such a way that makes my relaxed stance skew left. Even the aberration in one of my female parts lived on the left until it made its surgical exit (did it use stage left or right?). These musings are making my mental DJ conjure Beyoncè and shimmy 'to the left, to the left..'

Does everything about me lean to the left? When at a crossroads or literally an intersection do I always veer left? When I bowl does my striking spin favor left? Does the slant in my cursive face East or West?

Then the sensible question of what does this all matter? The values and principles that guide all our choices sit squarely at the core of who we are and the space we occupy. We are all guided by our individual sense of what True North is, and this is as specific to each of us as the thumbprint. As for me, you probably know where to find me... to quote another fabulous female singer, "if you what me, you can find me left of center If you want me you can find me, left of center off of the strip."

Ink Agimat

2011-06-02T04:04:00.000-07:00

With this new semester comes a new chapter in my adventures as an Accidental American. The chapter involves a refinement of the track I tried to get on when I first arrived here, only this time I stomp the track with far more swagger and savvy. And to remind myself to stay true, to not let myself get swallowed by the American (corporate) machine, I armed myself with an ink agimat which I had done while back in the Philippines on a quick vacation. With the help of the inspiring artists at Republic Tatoo, I marked my skin with battlecry, mantra and story, my virgin skin a blank canvas for art to lead so life would follow.

Getting a cherry popped at 40 years-old happens with far more thought and understanding than my memories of my long gone cherry-popping days of youth. I came with a clear understanding of why I wanted the tattoo and what the message was, mainly to myself. And since it is body art which can be shown publicly, I had even thought of the public aspect of how it would work. I wasn't prepared for the magical trip Oman, the artist, and I went on to take the germ of my idea to a place I can righteously call body art.


Fresh ink in front

My brother in-law Paco, adventure, kick-ass photographer and admitted tattoo addict came with me, sweetening the trip even further. This body art-amulet-agimat of ink on my skin sits on the precipice of where I come from and where I am headed. It speaks all the languages of my bloodline and my spirit, taking a Spanish word and rendering it in the visual style of traditonal Filipino tattoo art of our inked warriors from the North, the region my mother's family is from.

I mark my body by saying "Si." Cutting through my heart, I say yes with one part in front, speaking just to me in mirror image and another part on the back, reminder to those who see to say YES to their bliss.

So fresh and still sealed in plastic

Each life tells a story, and everyday is a chance to tell a better story. This Accidental American, this woman of words is enhancing her story with image. I say YES to my heart. My heart says YES. Corporate America look out, this tattooed warrior is coming with her marks and her bliss.

And you know what, I think you're gonna LOVE her.

In Good Company

2011-05-10T12:33:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-07T13:29:00.001-07:00

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

2011-04-30T12:06:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-30T07:33:00.001-07:00

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

2011-04-29T11:16:00.000-07:00

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.