City of Writers: A Weekly Newsletter
He wouldn't want me to cry. Any of us. My daddy died today. Nothing Can If I were in a better state of mind, I would tell you Prepare You That your life will fracture at the moment For the Inevitable You realize that your father is dead, a cold husk Season of Grief Of a man who gave you his DNA. til it happens to you.
This chaos that maneuvers the electrical impulses in the confines of my simian brain Overanticipate things I cannot hope to control So I spend my days, wondering where my time went because it so happens that I have found a burst of unrecognizable energy to get things done - today of all days though it comes at a cost of time / space / that multiversal feeling that smacks of guilt - knowing that you should be doing something else you could be, but you don't. guilliean wearing a hello kitty headband Guilliean Pacheco POET
I decided to shake up the limitations of NaPoWriMo and share some of the first poems I ever wrote in between the fresh original material that I'll be generating this month. What a lovely throwback to the poet I used to be. She was a little mixed up about her feelings and working to find her place in the world. I hope that she's happy with how I've tried so hard to make her proud over the years. I wish I could go back in time and tell her the journey that waits for her as a writer and poet.…
And the child born on the Sabbath day / is bonny and blithe, good and gay. I was born on a gloomy Sunday morning in Oakland, California. you'd think with the grace of being born on a sunday, that the scaries that plague that sacred day would temper themselves for me. the anticipation of a new week keeps me awake / bright-eyed / bushy-tailed / anxious / restless / intuitive about what I need to start / and god forbid / finish / living for the weekend / four-day work weeks are optimal / but y'all not ready for that…
my cheeks blush / from my cherry crush i love vegas in the springtime. that's a lie though. i hate it. a desert chill to wreck my bones. the sunlight crisping up my skin, feet planted firmly on the ground. fans on, windows open. the pollen. OH. the pollen. SO. the pollen. DEAD LY. i may become a poet yet. but the jury continues to deliberate. i like this format. the visual poetry. builds a pretty grave for these scattered words. poetry cannot be taught. it can be shaped. molded. whittled. put together. these patient words are manageable. there is…
It's the first day of the rest of my life, and I wonder where I will go from here. It's a simple question, asking to partake in a bond phenomenon that can only take place in print. I didn't forget you. You're always here, aren't you? Inquiring / genuflecting / cleaving. There are no effortless responses to these questions that you can't ask me. Media trained flash in the pan but I'll never understand how it feels to be broken by the weight of your perception of me.