between the like-hearted

a peregrine falcon wrote:

The machine breaks down.

Feels something is wrong, slows and then stops.

It’s shade covered ground

once moved with intention, now painted on top.

The fixers reach in,

Talk fast and sigh slow, shake heads and connections -

“We now can begin,

pull plugs and these wires, and damn the directions.”

The machine goes to sleep.

“Of what does it dream?” they say in hushed voices,

“Of gearing, of oil, Electrical sheep?” the questions grow stronger

It dreams of it’s purpose, of what it once did but now can no longer,

trapped by design and long-ago choices.

The machine wakes up.

The fixers are finished.

The machine starts moving once more.

and out of an almond eye:

inevitably it moves

finding its groove

because the truth is

he moves this

like the tin man who misplaced his heart

the fixers didn't know of this living part

the headache and earache, the backache and earthquake

it was an easy mishap to overlook this man's will

but no one can stop this machine from being real

though necessary

the pulled plugs and those wires

he fought the adversaries 

with the defiance he acquired

see this machine never played by the rules that were planned for him

what i mean is that he's already paid for those modules that brand him

and though he takes what he must from the fixers with hushed voices

make no mistake, he's going for bust because he knows the answer is in his choices

and he chooses to follow the shapes of his shadows

inexorably moving forward into his bright tomorrows

intrinsically in pursuit of that purpose, of that intention

where man and machine finally find some salvation

written by francis allen and yours truly

a peregrine falcon

because even in your brokenness you defend your nest
your mind 200 mph never at rest
your curiosity a wanderer roaming freely
as you crush your opponent's intellect bluntly
because they adapt to almost every habitat in the world
and i can only imagine how you'd be to your girl
your heart so loyal to your mates
territorial of your hoarded treasured space
i agree, if afterlife were such a thing
i think you'd fly and sing

i think you'd be a peregrine falcon
Because you answer when your people beckon

family

5 years ago today
dreams. came. true.

a lady's worth

this is not a poem for the masses.

just a poem for my niece.
the way she looks at me when i enter the room,
the way she wants to dress just like me.
i swear-- whenever i come over the first thing she says is:
auntie nana can i dress like you?
and then we go through her closet
and we find all the similiars
from high boots to big clips and then she says:
see, we're twins

this is not a poem for the masses.

this one's for my ma.
see i was born with one ear.
for that, i always felt left out.
see i was born the youngest after 4 boys.
for that, i was always left out.
see i was born filipino.
a culture that's most sustainable attribute, is adaptation.
often leaving me feeling kinda left out.
but for all this-- my mother-- my mother always made me feel
like i belonged.
like i was the most precious gift.
like a miracle.

this not a poem for the masses.

this one's for that one guy.
he made me feel common.

i heard once:
a woman goes to bed with a man to show him how she loves.
a man shows love to get a woman into bed.

i don't wanna give too much power to the ideologies between the male and female.
most of the time, i think its bullshit anyway.
but because they do exist.
the male.
the female.
the ego.
my mother.
my niece.
that quote.

i have decided to remove myself from that equation all together.
because if i was to be truly grateful to my mother.
if i were to really honor my niece and all her tomorrows.
then i would understand that no one can make me feel common without my permission.
and some where in my ego i thought i could be that girl--
fun, casual sex, no big deal, i can get down with the best of 'em.

it's true i can.
and i do.
and will continue to.
as i decide to stop sleeping with you.
or you. or you.

if my niece and i are truly twins.
i gotta pave the right way.
the way my mother set out for me.

this is not a poem for the masses.
just a poem about a lady learning her worth.

a mother's route

today marks my mother's 60th birthday
i am half her age

i also got news of soprano's mother's failing health
and simultaneously i've filled my day with watching over twinkle boy's son



what does it all mean?




palms up.
in moment's like these i can only turn my palms
up.

fuck obligation

real time.


feel like.
i need distance.

been so inside the grind.
the love.
the give.
the palms up.


feel like.
no poetry.


feel like.
i've neglected my boundaries.


feel like.
i've been opening my door to the wrong people.


damnit.
i hate that feeling.
when palms are covered with fists.

turned up

unclenched and turned 'em up
... and this is my life

crazy thing is, it was always here
even with my fists
pounding through these daily battles
1 2 jab- uppercut to the head
undefeated in most rounds
but just battles none the less
i came
and i conquered
these matterless battles

but they did matter
so that now i can turn to these same like-minded battles
with palms up and be the light that tells my opponents:
we ain't even opponents yo

mang... palms up is so much more powerful than fists