I bring my Asian-American, African-American skin and stretch it, knead it; taught by its tautness the poems written beneath. I am on a journey back to my skin, my San Francisco skin after being away for 4 years. I live in North Carolina, the western part of the state after a lifetime in San Francisco.... Continue Reading →
The Podcasting Learning Curve
Communication is imperative. Now is the time for all of us to grasp that we have it in our hands to restore our soil, protect our water, cool the climate and love each other. It is the job of poets and writers and singers and artists and creative people of all kinds to bring that message to popular culture or life on Earth will continue without us. People.
Airport Music On the Way to San Francisco
Yes, I remember you shooting black and brown people in the street. I remember that the city forgot its people, forgot who it was. But in this area of suspended aeronautic animation, I remember the people, the poetry, the music, the fire of Frisco that made me a poet.
Manong in Hendersonville, NC
(Author's note: Manong--A term of respect when addressing an older Filipino man. It means older brother, or elder; one that has lived through the hardships of life) No matter where I go or where I move, a manong will always find me No matter where I'm working or what daydreams creep behind me he is... Continue Reading →
in the dark Morning Bobo’s there. He barks at Deer, Fox, Coyote or Bear. When Sun rises he’ll see Me and wag his tail. We’ll walk together and see our breath in Air.
Familiar food for the Latino/a/x Community in Hendersonville
From Mexico, El Salvador, Guatamala And their nopales tongues sing nopales songs and speak nopales poetry and rituals And from their hands come: Chayote Jalapenis Peras Limon Cebolla Banana Yucca Tomatillos Frijoles Arroz In a place called Hendersonville
Remember Who You Are!
You are amazing, and often forget to count the ways.
alternative to Fungi and Flora had symbiotic interchange when People came. Flowers before pharmacies. They gave us Tradition.
The DMV of Books
In Charles Bukowski’s novel, Post Office, the opening line reads, “It began as a mistake.” I’d come across Post Office while working as a donations clerk and cashier at a very well known thrift store—part of a thrift store chain that stretched its thrift store goodness from coast to coast. Donations poured in daily, everything... Continue Reading →