Edition Copyright Š 2014 The Citizens of the Matrix Press Copyright Š 2014 by Michael Ray De Los Angeles All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, including information storage and retrieval or photocopying except for short excerpts quoted in critical articles, and photo journals, without the written permission of the author. Published by The Citizens of the Matrix Press www.MichaelRayDeLosAngeles.org/ Intellectual Property Michael Ray De Los Angeles
Cover design by MRDLAM, edited and arranged by Michael Ray De Los Angeles
Contents Recipe For Liberation
3
Label Me
4
To (The Global) Market
5
Chia Seed
6
Gentrification Doesn’t Live Here Anymore
7
Mother’s Garden
8
Flower Bomb
9
Sandy Tears
10
Mon Sac Re Cur
11
Mon Amor, Wish You Were Here.
13
Diaspora De L’angélique
14
Recipe For Liberation. In a large bowl Take one cup of idealism Add a handful of dreams (start with just a few, you can always add more later, And they are always in season). Mix well with two heaping spoonfuls of perseverance (Careful, a little will go a long way). Sprinkle with integrity and let the mixture rise. Add wisdom, education, & experience to taste
Pour mixture into 9' inch glass pie pan.
Set oven to 396 Degrees Fahrenheit/202 degrees Celsius And bake for 45 minutes, let cool and then serve.
3
To (The Global) Market "We shall go to the pyre we shall burn, But we shall not retreat from our convictions" -Nikolay I. VavilovI went to town to buy a peach, My dollar in my hand. I heard a ship land on the shore T'was fresh from port Japan I drove to town, and then to port So I could greet the ship. My hopes were high as high could be; I'd soon have apple chips. I crossed a line, was s for time, And so I bought some grapes; At dinner time I need some thyme To compliment my dates. The price I'm told is fair and cheap For produce of this brand, And so I sighed with great delight, Despite them being bland. I crossed a line, yes just in time, And I did buy some grapes; Peaches pears and apples too No money did I waste. It was not long, not long ago, These fruit were in far off lands. Now here they are these apples crisp These apples in my hand. My tires spun upon the road, With apples in my hand; A token from the eastern shores These apples from Japan. I settled in, yes back at home, And much to my delight I picked a garden fresh and ripe With no consequences in sight.
5
6
Gentrification Doesn’t Live Here Anymore I am a fluttering leaf Riding the gas powered breeze of a leaf blower.
Pieces of my existence crumble as I collide With pigeon feathers; With crumpled wristbands from queer dive bars; With half empty Pabst Blue beer cans.
I see pieces of my past, mi pasado, Fly past me towards the gutter— Where I too am heading.
Out of sight in the gutter, My existence will not be questioned; And it will be as though I never landed On a south of Sunset driveway.
7
Mother’s Garden I picked these flowers with you in mind, Wrapped them up in silver twine; Plucked them from their golden chord, And thus they wither more and more.
Within each petal I saw a thought, A holy message written and wrought; Cast down from angels both bought, and sold-Then packaged in China by 12 year olds.
I picked these flowers with you in mind For they reflect the beauty of thy eyes; Wide and open as Arizona morning skies, And blue as Bisbee azurite mines.
I picked these flower with you in mind I picked them not knowing that you would mind.
8
FLOWER BOMB. She hunches over, sweating profusely in the desert sun, pouring water into empty tear gas canisters. Her garden is on the cusp of blooming, And the empty tear gas canisters, that were once home to cloudy fear now hold flowers; now hold hope; now hold strength.
Stronger than a million lily petals, She is the reason why we are at war-Her spirit will not be shattered into lethargy. Her flowers provide hope and strength in times of uncertainty.
I have seen goddesses before, But she, she and her garden have turned destruction into dreams. This Queen Marimba incarnate, This peaceful desert warrior Has shown me what resilience looks like.
She stands over a empty tear gas canister, Pouring water into the top, Small plants are now peaking out. The canisters no long boom, only bloom.
9
Sandy Tears It is 2pm and I am at Venice Beach, California; The Sun warms my skin, soothing my soul; And the ocean breeze is Oooooh Sooooo cool-Etta James cool; Linton Kwasi Johnson Cool; Dalai Lama & Amma Amritanandamayi cool. Tha-thump, tha-thump thump-Arms fly open, as naked back and feet Deeply root themselves into heated sand. I know, yes I know, The day, the hour, the minute, the second, that I was last here on this sandy shore. We said embrace whole heartedly, near the womyn who plays the ukulele, And the guy with the "laziest dog in the world." Your eyes were wet, Mine a modern California landscape-- dry. It is 4:20 in the afternoon, The ocean breeze is now ripe with the scent of burnt flowers, Incense and muscle beach sweat. My heart beat sings in harmony with ocean waves, our ebb in slow in sync with Gulls flying overhead. Ukulele strings whisper-sing with the choral ocean breeze: "Don't worry, about a thing, 'Cause every little thing is going to be alright," But my head, home plethora of mirror neurons refused to listen. My head refused to open the floodgates, Even though my heart assured me That the windows to my soul would be a masterpiece, If only I would let them shine. Truth be told, I am afraid. Afraid of that masterpiece; And scared to emote anything beyond a ":" "'" "("‌
10
After all, in this era of errors, hash tags and broken apples-who would be able to read my Emotional state without an emoji attached. Truth be told, even a single contextual tear Would deteriorate my man-box's existence, The core of my being and identity, And in the culture of 150 characters or less, My emotional state, just will not fit into the screen. At sunset, as camera phones made their way from pockets, bags and purses; As the evening sky made its entrance from the east; As the sand cooled beneath my feet; A masterpiece was create birthed thrice, And tears flowed from all three eyes.
11
Mon Sac Re Cur E v e r y Moment without your Breath upon mi chest Is eternal-- timeless-But I can feel Your Love with Each & every Beat of mein <3 . Yesterday you left. Today has arrived, And I am still alone.
I wander on the outskirts of the universe, Wondering where you are now.
12
Diaspora De L’angélique We came from Arizona, from Mexico, from Los Angeles; Our names forgotten, Our past rewritten Our hearts barely beating. We moved, then settled, Somewhere between mediocrity and apathy; erasing our warrior ancestry. Spilt blood, saturated in captured in oil, And celebrated with hallow planks of burning redwood desire, Remind us that here too are the remnants of genocide. I ask, “Who still has the strength to smile?” I have crossed rivers, bridges and borders from La Mirada to the Avenues; I have slept while gunshots wept And helicopters screamed ownership of Padre Sky’s Face. And yes, I jumped fences, through barbed wired only to find more twisted metal in my pathway... Now I walk barefoot, Having released the lawless shackles of yesterday. Looking back, I see the trail of tears, sweat and blood my ancestors left. Looking forward, I see the seeds of their efforts Beginning to push through the dirt. We came, from Arizona, from Mexico, from Los Angeles, our names forgotten our past rewritten But our hearts still beating.
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