Writings

An Island 

An assumption of meaning or understanding, we are searching for epiphanies that defy our humanity.

Solace in our inevitable fate, within our hands a depiction of meaning is formed.

Sculpting these memoirs of utopia, 

if only for a moment we could grasp another’s life.

Shadowed by dreams of our honey-eyed paradise.

Collective ideals weave this bond of freedom and promise

Only to be hit by the reality of growing up

For we are the isle of lost boys, left to our own accord, radical and absolute

Isolated from bordered bodies, meeting only through adjacent waters. 

We face each other in chatter that dances around meaning 

Embraced only with glazed eyes

a release that swears for a better tomorrow. 

Can you hear that horrible scream? It is what most would call silence. 

Hush as we sleep gliding through dreams of our most lonesome journey

Stranded, headed towards a room of compromised potential. 

Begging for a hand to place us where we must be. 

Slowly, at a gradual pace we fall, softening into one another 

Blinded with arms stretched we open towards a light,

Look around us, there is a harmony we have built, Our own staggered genius

Santa Clara

The highest peak shone every pocket of land. Where valleys merged with cities,
Histories carved into the hillsides,
and birds flew no higher than I,

This is how my people saw the world, he said.

Pointing to every town canyon and patch of grass Chimayo, Dulce, Socorro.
not stopping to forget a single name.
He described boarders by shades of green and brown, Where mountains met and rivers cut.

At a time this whole land was underwater,
and what we see now is the relics of the deep. The currents as sculptors forming curves o edge. Now we protect what water is left.

As the land dries it takes with it what it grows, forest fires scorch the earth and rivers sink, but from ashes come life, urging us to wait Wait for the next rotation, the change of new.

So watch, watch from here and see it grow
How the clouds never form the same shape twice. where every shadow dances in the light
and nothing is the same from up above.

Home

I come from the foothills of the Taos Pueblo mountains. Raised on the land, I would be taught by the very soil I had come from. It is a strong held belief that we as people come from our mountains sacred blue lake. This is the tie that strongly connects us to that place of home. It would take many years for me to understand the importance of everything I had learned while growing up. Struggling to place myself in a society that was cast out by the modern world. My people have all struggled in this way, holding tightly to traditions that serve as guidance. To not fall in line with ideals of skepticism as we are so easily associated with false spirituality and depictions of tomahawks and dream catchers. It is a world that systematizes ignorance and encourages one to obey to those standards. I struggle greater with the dysphoria I see within my people, as they search for the greater meaning at the bottom of a bottle. Sadly a trope that would stick with many of us. There is true beauty in this land, but a sickness that has been deeply rooted since change of tides, when the new world came in a blasting instance, leaving us lost and disconnected. Few have overcome this blast, while others like myself leave in search for a cure. 

Reclamation Project

A single act of reclamation burns as embers in a dying fire

Where hope finds home in the individual soul 

Those who carry the last seeds of crops now gone. 

Tell tales of that which was greater long ago. 

For a single pit can grow forest once more. 

And matter spoke to those that listened

I search for meanings planted in humanity

Scattered in fragments of land

Where soil become abstracted identity 

Confused with ties to deeds threaded with greed 

Though origin bare no owner

Mens minerals torn from mountains

As golden veins replaced with those of crimson

Lineage vanished entombed inland eternal

Whispering in (languages lost) 

Shifting those embers as land dried bare

Waiting for the next blaze. 

Come fly With Me

Come fly with me, into my lulled restless dream, a fools paradise.

Where fact and fiction meet in adjacent rooms.

Come aboard my plane, as we glide through this world of my own making. Sitting on the wings of endless sky’s shone across these golden lands.  Shapeless swallows fill these hills shepherding us into a deepening pull.

Come find me at the end of a bible black corridor. Where one can peer into a crystal land, a thawing white and deafening silence. Where the days pale white cracks like glass beneath.

Come away with me, from the pitter patter, jabber, yanking, babble and endless shackles of the day. Escape the due and dripping dread in hunched halls.

Come ascend my reflective tides, Where choices not untaken split the world. Giving rise to each sole reality. For the lack of choice, is a choice within itself. 

It begins and ends in a room which is faintly like my own, and glides through dreams that are scarcely recognizable. For as long as I stay still, everything is possible. 

Those who are lost

I couldn’t remember his face

Peering into each layer of my mind, My perception remains incomplete

I trace each sense that tethers his actuality to mine 

Handsome bluish green eyes 

Narrowed into shadow as mornings white light pierced the day 

We dream in the trodden path of our senses 

For those who are born blind dream only in sound 

If our eyes lock in our dreams is it false? 

Does it not hold integrity, when reality forces reason, and times artifice turns shape 

His words, A brief confirmation of existence, That he lives within his own perception 

Though I am left feeling his touch

Owens Valley

Leaving the night before I drove the long eight hours from Berkeley to Owens Valley. 

Passing through sequoias and forests heavy with the stick of snow. 

I had never been east of the Sierra mountains, yet I felt to need to check the map 

I found familiarity in the way the mountains curved, 

As if I were the softened snow flowing into the warm valley air. 

The next morning I met with Sage, a Paiute hoop dancer from the Valley. 

We loaded into his truck as he told stories of how his lands have changed

He described the absence of water, A place that once flowed with life

Now the dust storms reclaimed the air with a parched rage. 

The Highway lay thick and heavy with grey cracked tarmac,

As the road danced through a heat haze only to taunt the memory of running water.

He pointed towards a tribal casino, where construction had just taken place

There at the edge was a pile of rocks shattered to make way for parking.

His faced turned grim as he recalled how there once stood a stone 

It was to be turned over at the end of time. To give his people direction in the afterlife.

Now instead we build casinos over relics searching for a facade of riches. 

As the day progressed a saw the love he held for this land, 

He lead me to the barren Owen Lake bed, that which mimicked a grave site. 

As I collected the fragmented soil he began to sing, 

A voice that rang with hope as It filled the land.

A land not yet forgotten, filled with the life of its people waiting for the next dew.