So honored to have my work published in this wonderful literary magazine, The AutoEthnographer. These three poem along with a microessay appeared in the Nov. 10 Issue of Bodily Autonomy. #BodilyAutonomy #RoeVWade #USSupremeCourt
I am holding only a piece that is so much greater than I even know.
As he, she, it, they, I are in constant growth and creation until their time in this realm is spent, I will never know it all (as Breath itself creates anew around itself).
Depending on my state, I find this reality either excruciatingly binding or extraordinarily freeing.
Sometimes there is Peace in this knowledge of not knowing.
Seems to me that to not allow the histories of the people of this diverse country to come forward with the necessary narrative fervor that these histories deserve, “we the people” do ourselves deadly injustice. We deepen the wounds of traumas that yet live, view each other with increasing suspicion, drive apart, marginalize, and subjugate the value of others, and descend into a deep frozen state of animosity, ignorance, and fear.
In essence, we become the antithesis of everything this country has claimed it was trying to be-a “more perfect union”- a progressive concept, at best.
We never really got there, but there were moments; there was hope. Now these pockets of hate and ignorance-racism, sexism, xenophobia are putting down roots in the wet ground of fear, fear that calls evil “Godliness”….gods of small things, threatened by replacement, call on ancient Baals with new faces.
(Just a little light momentary pity fit, you know, “how I be” feeling sometimes, and I write, so…)
From the Middle Torture Chambers…
A middle life Yields a muffled cry That no one desires to attend Few, some, around, at times For a minute, dispassionatly, adverbally An adjectivly weak tailspin For no one yearns To hear the enlightenments Of that flattened center space No one cares for perspectives That the verve of exotic margins erase For a middle life predictably draws power That eats the zeal of the day No middle magic weilds enough interest To hold a captive sway Therefore, moderately blessed In-betweens and means may often find That the glory that they seek Will only torture their minds Angst and agony painfully increase While watching long sought dreams Slowly, completely unwind And peter out with a gasping wind As life beckons the middle Ever closer To the end
Pry yourselves from platitudes of piety Flesh and stone dieties betray you Shallow smiles convey That you regard us less For you applaud those who scale monuments In worship of puppet kings In search of absolutions Within the lies they sing Forbid yourself the words You utter otherwise When you wax deeply of your hurts While you ignore the desperate cries And mock brown broken bodies As light drains from their eyes Disallow trite tales And disingenuous turns of phrase That vain would steal my voice While your desires find a way To manifest for your own might Twisting words, shading light Right is wrong Wrong is right… There is no common ground When the blood of my loves stain This stolen hallowed ground As you run to cover the sound Of the beast that yet lives
The Capitol Building, Washington, DC January 6, 2021 No Copyright Infringement Intended
Epiphany 2021
Hands that Pick
Hands that picked cotton for promise
Picked tense times
Places
Uncommon faces
Found Broken Spaces
To Cast Spells and Votes
That Filled and Manifested Hope
Jon Ossoff and Raphael Warnock, Georgia Senators Elect Copyright Infringement Not Intended
So as not to witness the disgrace of her oldest children
The ones told again and again “You can dance now, but you won’t win.”
In this land–small moments of victory, slight stints of happy, fleeting prosperities–
These cannot enrich chronically scantily fed souls…
Oh, where in this world can we go?
Where our honorable ideas ignite, and nimble thoughts take flight, and our sister catches them in the wind, and our brother invites us over to gather us in
To share and work and make miracles from that which formed us: blessed breath, salted water, live light, and deep dark dirt
Not born from broken survival spirits and oppressive hurts
Nor birthed from the desperation to be heard, loved, valued, seen…
Where in the world can we go?
Surely there is no space for us here
Inside of this giant’s fears
When wicked shadows cover doors and floors
And vile betrayers
Peering from the dark
Steal our trust
Call us out
To break our hearts
Hand us over as in ancient days gone by
After those times when some could fly
Back then, we did soar
(Back then,higher…more)
Where in the world can we go?
I believe that I will dive
To the bottom of the enshrining sea
Collect the magic that was meant for my people and for me
Close my eyes
Push my wings through back and bones
Take our potions
And set us all free
Then we will know
Spirit will tell us
Your home will reach up to love you
Wherever you roam
By Regina YC Garcia
Nerd Random
Nerd Randomness…
Why can’t I use “things?” 🤔
My dertimination to specify in terms more precise oft leads me to deadly verbosity.
It is a boulder of my self-made obligation, urgently suggested by grammarians whose rules I’ve placed in on the confinement shelves of my mind. It joins other devices meant to harness me and keep me from being heard.
That’s why I sometimes freakout, shift vernacular, confuse convention, use freeing word tranformation, employ in-fixes, and coin in wild abandon…oh, and cuss…just a little… (that’s different from curse, of course)