The Dogwood Fruit

Before time,
     Before light,
There was nothing
     And everything.

It all came out with a bang.

Seconds in that early world,
     To us would be eons.
A world that was uniform, smooth
     Save for the smallest variation,
That created microscopic valleys and mountains
     That would give birth
To the glorious incandescence that would become--
     Stars and planets,
Space and time, 
     Water and earth,
Life, the universe, and everything.
     That would become the dogwood tree
And the little fruit I hold in my hand--
     The universe telling us its story.

El mundo y we

El mundo es so vast,
And nosotros somos so small.
Yet los vínculos de la humanidad
Es today stronger than ever--
For somos semejanzas
Be greater than
Somos diferencias.

For somos valeres--
El valore de somos ciudadas,
De somos pueblos,
De somos paísos,
Of our world--
Son valores shared
By all of us.
Yo felices ser a part of it.

The Door

There is a door.
A door at the top of a stair.
A stair that is at the bottom of a tower.
A tower that is on top of a hill.
A hill that is on top of a plain.
A plain that is on top of a continent.
A continent that is on top of an ocean.
An ocean that is on a planet.
A planet that is in a solar system.
A solar system that is within a galaxy.
A galaxy that is within a galactic group.
A galactic group that is within a galactic mega-cluster.
A mega-cluster which is part of the fibres that together create the Observable Universe.

And behind that door,
Behind that door is you,
You with the ability to change everything with your actions,
If only you go out that door and try.

They Will

Look out there, upon the masses of people
Scurrying below.
They move with such purpose
And with urgency;
As if what they are doing matters
As if they as one of billions will make a difference
In the vast expanse that we call the Universe.
The funny thing is--
They will.

Insomnia

You are a crippling master.

You demand too much of me.

Every night you make me preform rituals to you.

You demand I position myself this way, and then you command me to reposition that way.

Never are you pleased.

You need the light to be a certain way. It can not be too bright for you, oh Great One.

You demand of me so much--too much.

And when I do not fulfill your demands, you withhold from me a thing most vital--my sleep.

Finally, I'll be fed up, and I will vow to outlast you, and you give me a false hope.

But soon thereafter, you giveth to me what you withheld,

Thus devastating me.

Unsubscribe From the System

Unsubscribe from the System

I am waiting for people to understand that the current government does not work for them.
To figure out that they do not live in a republic, but an oligarchy,
To learn that Big Business and the Koch Brothers own all of the sleazeballs on Capitol Hill who call themselves your representatives.
In reality, they serve themselves, then their sponsors, and then their party.
You are just an afterthought.
Who needs integrity when you have ads and media buyouts?
When the game is rigged so you can only choose from two moderate parties—one left leaning, the other right.
I am waiting for people to understand this,
and I am waiting for people to understand that every vote matters,
and that if they actually voted for the person with integrity and not on party lines,
then real change can be made.

We Inherit the World From Our Ancestors

I am waiting for the world to change for the better.

I am waiting for the governments of the world to battle global climate change,

to reduce carbon emissions and oil consumption,

to turn to the wind and the sun and the sea.

I am waiting for the people of the world—the conservative people—I am waiting for them to
stop being disillusioned,

to accept that we are the problem,

to accept that we must change ourselves to save the world,

to acknowledge that there is not another planet we can go to

to realize that once they die, there are others who have to live with their mess.  

Pacifica

The Pacifica Project is a project that is required to graduate from Seaside High School. Every senior must do a 50+ hour community service project, and then afterward, do a 15 minute presentation at the Seaside Convention Center to the community at-large. My thoughts looking back.

It's over.

It's done.

Now, I have time for some fun.

A date, with a lady in blue.

My pillow, how I long to see you!

Integrals

Trigonometric functions all blur together,
Sine, cosine, tangent, secant--a jumble of radial operations.
Integrate this function times that one.
Make sure the interval is right.
Antiderivite it.
Wait, too soon.
Substitute in a u.
Make it the natural log's derivative first.
Now antiderive.
Plug all the numbers back,
And finally an answer!
Just remember to add a C.
No.
Wait.
Shit.
That's just f(x).

Blood is Blood is Blood

Blood is blood is blood.

It doesn't matter whose blood it is,

Blood is blood is blood.

It doesn't matter if your a man or a woman.

Blood is blood is blood.

It doesn't matter if your gay or straight.

Blood is blood is blood.

It doesn't matter if you don't come from the same country,

Or if you come from the same continent.

Blood is blood is blood.

It doesn't matter if you speak the same language,

Or if you pray to different gods,

Blood is blood is blood.

It doesn't matter if your skin is colored different,

Or if your hair or your eyes.

Blood is blood is blood.

It doesn't matter if you eat meat or not,

Or if you like rock or jazz.

Blood is blood is blood.

It doesn't matter what your differences are with others, 

Shedding blood is an act of violence,

It is unnatural.

It is wrong.

What is natural though is love.

Compassion, caring for others. 

That is natural.

That is good.

Love is hugging friend,

It is kissing a lover,

Sleeping with them.

Love is holding a suckling babe close,

Feeding it, keeping it safe.

Love is how you treat your mother and sister and brother. 

It is how you treat your neighbors and teachers and pets.

Love is natural.

It is what we all do and express.

Violence is not natural.

It is a crime, and no matter what justification you may have,

Blood is blood is blood.

Casting Off Our Consumer Chains

We should turn up a large surface of life,
Not dig mines into geological strata.
Have not we learned from the epochs of history,
That the lines of humanity, near the bosoms of business,
Care not for anything but their bottom line?

The world underneath our own,
Is filled with the glowing hues of life,
Life that these businesses fail to recognize.
Thus we must communicate no longer by words,
But through a medium they will understand--action.

The sooner that we grapple with business,
The sooner that we can cast off our consumer chains.

The Funky-Punky Haired Girl

Funky hair and vibe,
She goes from place to place,
From person to person,
Getting what she wants.
Owning the air around her,
And the ground below her.

She is kind,
She is quirky.
She is a good friend.

Every Day

Every day I wake up at five thirty AM,
To a half dozen blaring alarms.
I'm lucky if I get six hours of rest.
Even when I do though, it seems like I didn't sleep at all.

Every day I drag myself out of my inviting, heavenly bed,
Running through the frigid morning air of my home,
To jump into the scalding water of the shower.
I enjoy it though,
As the temperature variation helps to wake me up.

Every day I hop out of the shower,
Returning to slightly warmer air as I scurry back to my room,
Pulling on underwear and socks,
Before diving back under the blankets of my bed.

Every day I lay in bed in a post shower bliss,
I rest my eyes, and try not to fall back asleep,
And I surf the web,
Catching myself up on what happened while I dreaming.

Every day I have to get dressed,
Forcing me to leave my bed again,
Rushing to throw together an outfit,
As I waited until the last minute.

Every day I have a large cup of coffee.
Usually, it is without anything else.
I prefer darker roasts, French or Italian.
I take the rest of the pot in a thermos.

Every day I leave my house and walk to school,
Taking a seven block stroll,
Four feet away from cars,
Steel cages whizzing by at fifty-five.

Every day I get to school by seven twenty AM.
Finding the building mostly empty.
It is a quite, somber time,
That I use to read or write.

Every day at eight AM I go to my classes,
I study English and history,
Mathematics and music.
And somewhere in there I have a lunch.

Every day after school I have some sort of activity.
Some days I am rehearsing for a play.
Some days, I am working on a student government project.
Some days, I am working on scholarships.

Every day I go home to work on homework.
I walk directly from the front door to the coffee pot,
And then, mug in hand, to my desk.
To peck away at paper after paper.

Every day I eat dinner,
And do my chores,
And chat with my family.
And watch videos.

Every day I go back to my room,
Stripping off my clothes,
Falling into my bed,
Embraced by fatigue and darkness.

Recharging before I do it all over again.

I'm Thinking About

I'm thinking about the future.
I'm thinking about the paper I have to turn in in a few minutes. About the one that I have yet to write.
I'm thinking about the book that I have to read. I'm thinking about the test I have to take in calculus. About substitution and integrals and derivatives. About x and y and z.
I'm thinking about Vietnam and the counter-culture. About how many kids LBJ killed each day.
I'm thinking about all of the songs that I will be singing for the upcoming choir competition. About how bad I am at sight reading. About my insecurities, my fear of failure, of making a mistake.
I'm thinking about the dance that Ii'm helping put on. About the male beauty pageant I'm running.
I'm thinking about the play that I just got the script for. About how I don't have my lines down. About how it has to open in three weeks.
I'm thinking about college, about what dorm I will be in.
I'm thinking about scholarships. About which ones I'll win. About how much debt I'll have.
I'm thinking about my writing blog. About what will go up today.
I'm thinking about both of my family's cars being broken.
I'm thinking about the main water pipe to our house needing to be replaced.
I'm thinking about my family. About my brother and sister whose academics I worry about. About the health of my parents, both mental and physical. About my grandparents, slowly withering away.
I'm thinking about the hunger gnawing at my stomach. About the fatigue and the lack of sleep assaulting my eyes and my mind.
I'm thinking about what others think of me. About my looking "stupid" or not. About looking "cool" or not.
I'm thinking about the girl I have a crush on.
I'm thinking about today and tomorrow and the day after that.

I'm just sitting here, thinking.

The Fastest Trip to Seattle and Back

One car,
Two car,
On the mechanic's floor.

Bad breaks,
Ball joints,
Broken parts galore!

Dashed hopes,
Bad moods,
Anger is abound.

Sad girl,
Mad girl,
Hear her anger sound.

Must wait,
Three days,
To make it right.

Sadly,
Wedding,
In Seattle tonight.

The Mechanic's Shop

I sit impatiently in the uncomfortable black chair.
A TV drones in the corner,
Glorifying mediocrity.
Band and hisses and pops come from the next room, where men in overalls slaved away on cars.

I was already running late to the joining of two of my friends in holy matrimony,
When my Explorer's ball joint decided to fail.
So now I sit in an uncomfortable black chair,
Drinking liquid dirt masqueraded as coffee,
And eating over-salted popcorn.
Here I sit.
Here I wait.
I wait to see,
If I can watch,
Two of my friends become a family.

Two Days, Two Bombings

15 April 2013:

Bombing at the Boston Marathon.

Many hurt, several dead.

A national tragedy.

A headline story.

16 April 2013

Drone strike at an Iraqi wedding.

Hundreds dead, 

Many women and children.

A terrorist was killed though.

A single ticker line at the bottom the screen.

Bomb Terrorists Wherever They Be Found

In a hot, dry part of the world,
A village of a hundred and two,
Packed into mud-crafted homes.
In the central market square,
Men trade livestock,
Women exchange clothes and fruits.
Children play ball games in the streets,
Running in circles, laughing and playing.
Everything is perfect here, tranquil.

Then, a booming is heard.
A concussive wave shakes the village.
Children scream in pain and fear,
As American bombs rain down,
Engulfing the terrorists in an unearthly inferno.

The Woes of Falling for a Friend

We sit together and I look at her.
Her medium length amber-orange hair,
Illuminated by the rising sun,
Her head blocking it like the moon during an eclipse.

Her face is one of legends,
One that could rival that of Paris' wife.
Upon it there is a plethora of brown-orange freckles
As magnificent and numerous as the stars in the sky.
Her eyes are two great wells of blue,
Portals into her mind and soul.

She catches my gaze and asks me if something is wrong.
Her nose moves up just a bit as she says this.
I don't know why,
But that scrunch is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

I can't tell her the truth though.
I can't tell her about how I love the little accents she gives words.
I can't tell her about how dumb she makes me feel by comparison.
I can't tell her about how much I love her refusal to wear skirts and dresses,
Even though she wears them well.
I can't tell her about how my heart beats just a little bit faster when she says my name.

But I can tell her about how much I appreciate her friendship.
I can tell her how much her kindness means to me.
I can tell her that I was just staring off into space.
A white lie, but better than spoiling a friendship.

This is a painful existence--
Caring for someone and not being able to express it.
Even more painful though is moving on.
Giving up.
It is incredibly difficult,
But in the end the wounds of the heart heal,
And the friendship remains, better than ever before.

The Meander of Smoke

An old man with a cancer stick,
Burning tobacco and other additives,
Creating a putrid black smoke,
Smoke that enters him,
Invading his lungs and poisoning him.
Rending great scars.
It also attacks those around him,
An overwhelming olfactory barrage.

A circle of friends in a thicket,
Sitting on dried stumps of trees.
In the hands of one is a pipe,
A pipe of blown-glass,
Filled with a strong indica blend.
They burn the grass,
And share in its inhalation,
Allowing the tendrils of the plant to wrap themselves around their brains,
Squeezing them much like a boa constrictor does a mouse--
Bringing great joy.

A coal-colored storm cloud over a coastal pine forest.
The Wrath of Zeus rains down upon the tall Douglas Firs.
The jolt of electricity sparks on contact,
Like a hammer striking steel on a blacksmith's anvil.
The torrential winds topple the gentle giant,
Spreading the greedy fire,
A disease that poisons the entire forest.
Smoke rises from the razed wood,
Spreading out onto the sea like a typical coastal fog.

A dozen or so friends huddled about a campfire,
The only light around, like a candle in the darkness.
From all directions there can be heard chirps and hoots.
The gurgling of a nearby creek.
They all grin ear to ear,
Extending skewers with hot dogs and marshmallows over the blaze.
The smoke of the fire shifts with the wind,
Following some of the teens trying to escape it.
But the smoke is not bad.
It may irritate the eyes, but it stimulates the nose.
It smells of smoked salmon,
And sweet, sweet sap,
And of the friendship and the companionship and the intimacy of the night.