.two beginnings.

my weakest days somehow can always become my strongest

.to get out.

My sister hates loud music. She doesn't need the open air of a highway, or to make art or love or changes to make peace, happiness, or passion. My sister sleeps when the sun goes down and wakes when it's back. She follows the earth but stands still.

My sister is not me. So I love her.

I need music and art and love and highways and breaks from the sun shifts and long journeys to difference. I need faces that I don't know to be beautiful in their own way so I feel alive and well and patient. I need I need.

She doesn't agree with the perfume I choose. But she loves me.

She works with the elderly, and she comes home every day and tells me to be safe and healthy, so she is not alone in old age. Her occupation terrifies her insides, but still she loves being the one for them. Just waiting and hoping that I or he, or anyone will help and hold her when she has no will to be alone at the age of death.

My soul is uneasy, but patient and willing to wait, or jump, or move until it's orbiting a new sun, just to be happy. My bed is as big as hers. We have men who sleep next to us every night, though we probably pick different sides to sleep. I have never wanted to be closest to the door. For I yearn to run to new places, break scenery and moments all day. My body yearns to rest away from the exit at night. I am happy that way.

I wonder if her exit taunts her. So I love her.

(please press 'play' and read on at a maddening pace)

some mornings, i'm late enough for work to catch the tail end of a strike. a labor union, or migrant farmers, or immigrant housekeepers. this has been going on since at least december, when i smoked a cigarette on 9th street and thought a parade in celebration of our president was being conducted. their production isn't captivating enough for me to yield and consider their plight, but the aesthetic pleasure behind their demonstration is...

pleasurable? relieving?


let's go with calming, actually. the security staff at my building e-mails me notices of lockdowns almost biweekly; i never notice them. long gone is the era of card-buring and american-flag-patterned-shirt-wearing-- present is the days of silence and iPetitions. in the center of capitalism and democracy, it seems as if there's always a group of college students protesting something. if it's fiscal responsibility or solidarity or global responsibility is no matter, at least to me, because the action of the 70s is the inaction of the new millennium.

maybe this is only on my mind because of the music i listen to on the train-- but no matter. on the corner of 9th and F in the district, a group of mistreated persons (i struggled to find that noun) walks in a circle with the intent of being heard. i need no acoustic melodies and lyrics of revolution. give me the sound of fist against bucket and the chants of the unjust. i hear them, and although i cannot offer them fair pay or heath insurance or union contracts, i can watch and listen and march against my own enemies.

.hardening humidity mixed with the truth.

We have all lived the past.

Your past certainly isn't mine, but I've lived one too. We all have some stories that are certainly worth retelling, and some worth silently forgetting. Whatever the past was, it has made the present. In working to make the present worth it in the future, souls have to live it, breath it, dance in it, and rebel for it.

My dreams are assigned too often for my future self, and like so many that's where they stay. We can't let this happen any longer.



Our goals are different, our brains are separate, our lips though sometimes a team put together, are speaking different things. Listen if you will...