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The concept of “Self” is an incredibly fragile one, resembling a wool-soft slime with a hint of vitality. Just like a newborn, it blinks curiously at the world around and can easily be scared by the terrible things it sees, causing it to retreat back into the safety of the grass. “You” is more fluid but some believe it to be solid. While there are many of “you” in the wild, I struggle to recall their appearance. As for “others”, they can be intimidating beings, perhaps, their existence may be questionable; perhaps their significance is uncertain. I find myself envious of the wild grasses that grow fiercely, rooting themselves deeply into the ground and reaching upwards towards the sky. Yet, I long for the garden, which shelters me from the harshness of the truth and provides me with meticulous care, allowing me to rely on it for comfort. Mama, why do you tell me I'm strong when I feel so fragile? Papa, what does it mean to love someone silently and have a soft heart? Flowers and plants: flexible, like the true heart of people; fragile, like the true heart of people; rough, like the true heart of people. I looked at the people passing by, all kinds of people, but I couldn't see their real appearance. I gaze upon the greenery around me, longing for the true shape of a human. 野外的花园 “我”是一个极其脆弱的东西，非常柔软，像是史莱姆一样的羊毛毡。但又是具有一些生命力的，刚出生的，好奇地眨着眼，看到了可怖的东西，害怕了，就钻回草里去。 “你”是一个流动的东西，有些人说“你”本身是固体，野外有好多“你”，但都记不清样子了。 还有“他们”是可怕的存在，也许“他们”可能并不存在，也许“他们”并不重要。 所以，我羡慕野外的草，野蛮生长，深深扎根，向天空滋长。但我又渴望着花园，为我遮风挡雨，细致入微地照顾，让我依靠。 妈妈啊，为什么我如此脆弱，可你又说我坚强；爸爸啊，沉默的爱到底是什么滋味，柔软的心到底是什么模样。 花花草草：柔韧啊，好像人的真心一样；脆弱啊，好像人的真心一样；粗犷啊，好像人的真心一样。我望着过往的人们，形形色色，看不清真的模样。我看着绿色的地方，想要变成和人一样。

if this is the end, then when did it start? Life is eternal – infinite I am the sun the soil the water the air purify what is unclean and start anew almas eternas en cuerpos derrumbados ¿quien fuiste? ¿jamas, chivo te preguntaron si fuiste feliz? Una vida completa sin reconocimiento de sí mismo. Te pregunto de nuevo, ¿quien fuiste? inhala suspira descansa encuentrame aqui, en el silencio it’s gone quiet it passes in phases sometimes, deafening take a breath lay to rest and when your body succumbs to the passage of time I’ll leave my window open for him Image ID: chivo A black and white closeup image of a goat's eye. Image ID: house A black and white image of a run down suburban home, roof collapsing inwards. Image ID: veil A black and white image of a human silhouette through a rain puddle on a rocky ground.

It was late in the nebulous night when The Herakles was stopped in the middle of its charted course through the near unending inky black galaxy. The old ship was a reconstructed and repurposed model from back when a trip into space was a rare and honorable mission, something a person trained years for the privilege of. But that was a very, very long time ago. Nowadays, you could get a trip through the terrible cold of the galaxy for nothing but the scraps in your pocket and a promise of your silence. So long as you were of a sturdy nature and didn’t mind quietly taking part in illegal government dealings. On this particular trip there happened to be only two passengers. There was Hector, a rough piece of work who was called in to clean up loose ends, which he’d do without so much as a flinch. Though, he’d take any job that paid well enough to keep him fed. Then there was Oren, who only appeared on record eleven years ago when he came out of the woodwork with a cure for a deadly virus that had been ravaging the lower levels of the planet. He couldn’t have known that the disease was sent with the purpose of quelling the murmurs of revolution. Still, he had found himself in too deep, and so here he was all these years later looking for a way out. To say the two didn’t like each other would have been a severe understatement. Since they met there had been a constant undercurrent of choking, despairing, malevolent suspicion in every interaction they had. Each was committed to thinking the other was only an opportunity away from stabbing them in the back. If Hector was too harsh and rash, then Oren was too cold and calculated. Regardless, they fit together like a glove and fought even better. Playing an intricate game where they would ignore one another while also keeping a careful eye on the other’s every move, they tried to pry as much information out of one while keeping their own secrets close. They were reaching the conclusion of their boiling pot relationship, almost at one another’s throats, when the ship gave a painful lurch and slammed them to the floor, and then, with a terrible screech, the lights went out. When the two awoke a droning siren was burning a spot in the back of their heads, and everything was cast in a dark red warning light. “God damn it,” groaned Hector as he rubbed the goose egg that was already forming on his forehead. “What did you do?” Oren ignored Hector, stumbling into the control room in a state of near panic. What he saw spelled their doom. Alert after alert filled the screen, every one a problem that neither were capable of fixing. Once the alerts were cleared away though, their real death knell could be seen. The Herakles was remodeled with no windows, as they had proved to be an unnecessary danger in carting untrained people across the galaxy. Because of this there was only one way to see what was outside: the screen on the control console. When Hector made it into the room, Oren was already storming out, leaving the other man to stare despondently at the screen as the gravity of the situation set in. It was a while before Hector went to find Oren. The ship's sirens had faded into the background at last and the red lights were now normal to the eye. Periodically, the ship would rock and creak as it was squeezed in the grip of a creature far larger than itself. When Hector found him, Oren was sitting on the floor next to the exit door, arms on his knees and his head resting against the wall. The air between them was sour. Nonetheless, Hector sat on the opposite side of the door. "I don't want to die with you." Oren scoffed, refusing to look at him. "It's not my deepest desire either, trust me." The ship let out an unpleasant rumble making them both shiver. “I had thought it would be fine, when we were fighting? I was fine that we were going to kill each other. But now we’re going to be killed by a creature that I will never know a thing about, and I’ve decided I don’t want to die with a stranger.” Oren pressed his hands hard over his eyes and wished that he was anywhere else. After a moment though, he dropped them and turned his head towards Hector, eyes downcast. “I was an orphan. That’s why there’s no record of me. I was abandoned on the streets at only a few hours old. Was bounced from place to place until I could start to fend for myself.” Hector blinked. Then blinked again. "Why're you telling me this?" “So that you can die in the middle of nowhere with a man you know.” As if it were as simple as that. But an understanding has been offered now, maybe it was more meaningful for all that they had fought each other, and they can at least die with someone who knew them. “I never had much money growing up. My momma, she could only work so much, and so she did what she could to get food on the table. But one year, she lost her job, and nobody would hire her. So I went out looking, and being the strong kid that I was, I found work quick enough. Momma never wanted to hear about it, she disapproved of course, but it kept food on the table.” They went on like that, trading stories, misgivings, highs and lows. Trading their very lives. As they shared their stories, something more began to grow between them. As they talked the creaking and shifting of the ship got more intense. Sometimes there would be a long period of groaning from the ship before a large section caved in with a sharp noise. A particularly rough jolt drew the two out of memories of the past and back to the present danger. “I should thank you.” “For what?” “For letting me die with a friend.” It wasn’t a question, but when Oren looked up Hector’s eyes shone with a glimmer of hope. Oren chuckled, “I don’t need your thanks Hector. I should like to die with you too.” In that moment the two understood each other better than they had ever been understood before. What had begun to grow had taken shape in their conversation and perhaps one day it could become something more than either of them would have ever thought. But as they accepted their fate, The Herakles began to shift and shriek. On the control screen the creature could be seen as it pulled itself apart from the wreck of the ship. For it had only come to feast upon their dramatic conclusion, and it had no interest in what had now become a beginning.

I often find myself feeling envy for the trees Their roots reach down, deep down into the earth — Grounding them to one place forever I crave that security despite not knowing the comfort I am not rotten into anything Do not mistake this for loneliness, birds flock from tree to building to tree Good things can come my way, and they do, But they may leave as quickly as they come Yet the trees don’t care The pine, the oak, the redwood — None of them mourn when the bluejay takes flights, when the nest empties Each branch remains strong, no leaves wilt I envy the power to not wilt when facing loss When I feel the envy creeping into my heart, My veins bursting with the heat that accompanies, I also remind myself that this tree is far older than I Perhaps it was once an anxious sapling Maybe when it stood a meek 5 feet and 8 inches, It worried that it’s roots weren’t deep enough, that it wasn’t strong enough But it had time I have time This tree grew slowly through years of patience I hope that my emotions grow with me, That the hot acid of envy stops inhabiting my brain And it becomes replaced with the slow syrup of understanding Slow and filling, I wish for my heart to pump me full I feel strong I feel grounded I feel stable I feel like the tree I envied for so long

Pinching lightly Against my head Your head pulses Against you I lay softly With you I fall Clenching you tightly Against your chest My heart pulses Lightning travels Up my spine To my fingers My veins run cold My tendons twist and pull I grasp tighter I lay on my cirrus cloud As you twirl on your cumulus Hands cracked with cold I am frigid and bitter Hands of velvety lavender You are the sun Hand in hand I melt in this tranquility

When I was younger I lived in an area Where the cicadas sang loudly and vibrantly The trees seemed to vibrate and buzz during the summer, And I missed that in the cold months It felt like the trees were more alive than usual The trees could talk and sing and dance just like me I had friends in those trees I remember the first time i saw a cicada up close It had landed in my hair and my mother told me That my hair probably looked like a tree, Brown with it’s natural streaks and highlights I gently removed it from my hair And when i met its eyes mere inches away from my own I screamed It took a while for me to trust cicadas after that The trees no longer seemed to dance, they seemed to quiver They didn’t sing songs of the summer, they screamed I understood the cicadas, then Sick of themselves, sick of their own skin They crawled out What a reason to celebrate What a reason to sing To be able to crawl out of your skin and leave it behind I could not fault them for their joy For I would be singing until my lungs were tired And my throat was raw And I could not project my notes any longer I too, would sing with the cicadas

I wonder about your shoes Did you save for them Bit a fingernail, clicked purchase Were they a present from your mom Practical, wink wink Sticks lying on your back And burning on your skin like pins all the way down Here’s the foundation of the building I can feel it even on the third floor I can feel it through every beam and all the tributaries That flow with capillaries Round my bones with six shackles It’s always folding six times Creasing the paper with growing intensity and spilling out Oh to be in it Oh to not linger on the cusp I think I’m eyeing you from the stoop But I can’t be sure Sure, I like the curve and the muscle but What’s in it for me? A bit of attention from an otherwise indifferent source? I’ll draw on you For comfort When there is only scaffolding propped up My pen can only circle down. I’ve learned new rhythms That only trickle down economics finds Reliably sourced.

3:00 pm: Still no signs of resurrection It has been so long since you last departed. Another hard battle fought and won A professed evil defeated at the hands of guileless Good’s grace. And yet, despite your parasitic nature, I need you still to do the tasks I cannot. You, with your dark and twisty ways, who could all at once, shatter the world and moments after it's breaking, pick up the pieces and form it even finer. A weaver of Beautiful Decay, you are. You spin words I can no longer live without.

Sometimes I wake up and I’m empty, ribcage hollow, And I take a pill and I think I should be able to hear the capsule clattering down, a xylophonic melody, Feeling—viscerally—the uselessness of armored bone with nothing to protect. Maybe it’s a cage instead, a prison for the void in my chest. The reaching hungry absence following me as I crawl through daily mundanities, into perpetuity, A rolling, roiling cacophony like an hourglass eternally spinning. It is tiring to be afraid of the dark when the dark is always sitting, heavily, within you.

It is that I should learn so much of a soul backwards, snow rising off the mountain trembling air sprung and singing, singing, shoulders unshrugged before sitting, before eating, unspilling salt into wounds. doing a disappearing act, which the undoing of does the acting and the doing at once, doing the undoing the doing undoing does. undrunk on a thursday morning, this morning, throeing morning, I watch the sky split itself horizontally like it is unspeaking— unlike you, I am still so unfamiliar with my own nature. undrawn curtains revealing the seat filled unlookers, each eye unbabbling breathless broken bough wow body and yes, this is a lamb’s body, unsheared between my hip bones, holding steady still unsure we need a cliff on stage left. Christmas gets even with me like Mary, no, the other Mary, a third Mary, unbiblical chords flung down like ribbon, like stones, making a chalice of my little skull. Eve gets even with me and I start spooning the blood back in Because it’s mine it’s mine.

candle wax dribbles Finish the last box of multiplication as the sound of howling gets louder. A man’s muffled screams and a dog’s passing bark. Look up to see the flicker dancing with the shivers up my spine, and the last pair of eyes escorted by dreams. Another night of being the last one awake. Note to self for the morning: tell Papi about the screams. 3am coffee My stomach scolds me as I replay the image of tomatoes rolling down the sidewalk at the bus stop. Glossy crimson cousins, mocking me with their freedom. Sister won’t stop crying, I squeeze her hand tighter. Stop. Focus on the chapter. Just one more hour. One more sentence. One more chance to say goodbye: after all, Mexico in ‘94 loves to show you the door while the last hope of your people is assassinated in the kitchen. Tom Cruise poster Putting my tears on a diet, because God knows I’ve been gluttonous. Incident culprit: the guy from salads grabbed your ass and laughed, laughed even harder when you smacked him with the broom. In Los Yunaites, we don’t cry over silly troubles such as these, too much to be grateful for, too much work to do. Brother downs another six pack and offers a bump to the bald one passed out by the door. Distraction: count the pores on Tom’s nose, and wishing he were the color of your past lovers, coffee with just a splash of milk. brick phone ringing Como chingas guey! No jodes!! Couldn’t he be serious for once? A deserved collapse, the couch feels like clouds today. The sun is beginning to set but I just took my first breath of the day. He made it. Swam across countries to recall Papi shoving us into the river, quite the effective method for teaching a kid to swim. This gentle current will always carry us back to where we need to be. Let’s just hope it isn’t made of booze this time, currents pulling him out to sea. In prison, he got his children’s names tattooed across his chest. stale body of Christ On my knees, in these pews, is when safety blankets me. Early-morning memories of when I still had her here to gossip to, to cry to. The Holy Infant tells me Papi is okay and La Virgin reminds me to bow down. Not to her, but to him, the American husband that brings me out of hiding. I still shake when driving past cop cars, do they see the cactus written on my forehead? My skin the color of their 7-Eleven bean burrito? children’s neti pot I put some lipstick on the cat to make her smile and she kisses the brown of my belly button, Brotherrrr, come ooooout! A few years back, the in-laws would complain that she’s stuck up. But how can a baby be stuck up? Today, she asks me why her Mexican cousins can’t come visit. She fixed the doll house just for them. All I can do is apologize, lie that they’re preparing quinceñeras, and give her tiny tortilla circles I cut using the lid of a jar. Here, your dolls are getting hungry. standing desk Click checkout on the ergonomic keyboard. Cat purring nearby and another waits to pounce on the printer. The doctor said the arthritis is most likely hereditary or from my youth making cards and knitting for pennies, the feet pain from exclusivity to hand-me-down shoes. I take one more sip of coffee, imagining the stray grains in my cup are the ashes of ancestors. Descend the carpeted stairs, mindful of the knees, rinse the mug with a clink into the dishwasher. Check the time, 4:30pm, just enough time for a walk. A secret wish lingers for enchilada requests or dirty dishes, the chatter of growing pains.

Floor loom weaving Two panels each measuring 22" x 36" Cotton warp, glow in the dark thread, various synthetic weft yarns Text is from "Don't Worry About the Government" by the Talking Heads The first image is of two woven panels in varying shades of metallic blue and navy. The left section reads “It’s over there, it’s over there.” The right section reads “Don’t you worry about me.” The second and third images show the weavings in the dark, with glowing yarn emphasizing the woven pattern.