what she left

we are not a rich people (yet). 

i mean, like the rockefellers, the lauders, the gallos. 

like there's no trust fund or some large inheritance. 

but i went to take a shower in this bathroom in my parent's room in our old family home. 

it felt... noble. it felt... dignified. it felt... fancy. 

even with the dust bunnies in the corners. 

the sensitive shower temperature that will change without being summoned. 

and when i stepped out, i took a good look at my body on the wall sized closet door mirrors. 

the way my body curves. 

the stretch marks. 

the way it tones up. 

the way it tones down. 

the color of my pigment in the light. 

the redness of my eyes after a good cleaning. 

where the weight of me gathers. 

the shape of my feet. 

the structure of my hands. 

the broad of my shoulders and the filling under my skin. 

and its funny cause i see these same forms in my cousins and my aunts and my uncles.

my nieces. my nephews. 

in my brothers. 

my daughter. 

and in our speech. and in our laughter. or the way our emotion comes up. 

the way we're angered. the way we mourn when we tell stories of grandma. the way we sing. the way we play. 

the reflection in this mirror in this room in this house. 

i look in this mirror and i see my tribe. 

this weight that hugs these bones... 

for the first time in a long time i look at my body and i feel: 

beautiful. 

i feel: rich. 

we inherit each other. 

grandma left for us the most sought after treasure of them all. 

family. 

a real, true 

family.

feel free to share.

if you love your family.

if when you look in the mirror

you see what i see.

the color and the shape and the love

the faults and the scars

the choices and the journey

the blood and the character

of your tribe.

rest in peace grandma-ma.

give a squeeze to grandpa for us.

thank you for existing.

7 children.
20 grandchildren.
21 great grand children.
2 great great grand children.

a rib

and when my body is away from yours

my ribs want to break out from under my skin

and hold you

i look down at my weathered belly

it longs for the next season

and i'm afraid not to want it too much

i'm afraid it won't be meant to be

and it's better this way, i know

we should do it right

we should marry

i don't know if i ever really ever saw myself as someone's wife

like really really saw myself

like if i would ever find someone who got me that much

who loved me that much

who i loved that much

trusted that much 

with my heart

my people

my daughter

in our moments

in our true naked moments

it's like i can see forever with you

it's' like you're already inside my skin

and all of our children are swinging from the bars of my rib cage

and you

you nestled inside my skin

i guide you along my spine

you swim in my veins

and sometimes you even climb up, grab a seat, plant yourself behind my eyes

there you catch a glimpse of the world through my lens

you catch a glimpse of yourself

and you finally see what i see

how i see you

i don't know if i ever saw myself as someone's wife

like really really saw myself

but looking at you

in our moments

in our true naked moments

how could i not marry you?

where would you nestle?

where would you live?

where would our children play?

forever is a barren place without us.

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.