aqui comparto algo de mi sean visiones o suenos, poesia, fotos, y las realidades de lo que existe a mi algerededor

algo bonito

awesome idea by solutionaries in Hartford

Pretty cool Wall/window planters and other sweet designs to indoor gardening.

http://solutionaries.net/2014/07/15/exhibit-in-a-day-3-ways-to-grow-food-in-a-window/

me fallas

cada que no entiendes las cosas como me salen.

los celos del hombre no alimentan a nadie

Poem #2

 

El recuerdo con el que cargo es temporal,

el reocure cuando hay tiempo de avanzar

y creo que eso es senal que algo bueno ha salido de los cambios de piel y cicatrices que nunca se

desarollaron- y con el corazon que siempre quize ver en ellas.

En ello he deseado descubrir mas y mas,

y el espejo no siendo cubico,

ha sido los amores que alimentaron eso reflejos,

de mi amor,

y esas ternuras que acariciaron mis lunares,

al infinito del universo.

Las fraces que me decian los fantasmas,

los cual mi imadures no me dejaban identificar, no eran tan reales como los demonios que cargabas contigo,

los que no dejaban endrogarnos es nuestros unicos quimicos que cargaba nuestros cuerpos

y fue corto tiempo

y muy pocos lo momentos cuando compartimos admiracion de nuestros cuerpos.

me imaginaba, que me besabas en partes donde mi pelo suelto nunca me dejo ver

mi propia feminidad, 

la ancestria del dolor

oculto,

lentamente formando nudos del ardor

maternal.

En esos mismos amores demande la paz,

de mi alma,

de mi espiritu

y corte muchas las raices que me ahogaban 

de mi libertad.

Y muchos del tiempo me impidian ver mis lunares,

mi bellos, mis dulzuras,

vulnerablemente

entendi que las batallas de mujer 

se tenian que consevar

con otros que sabian la 

soledad de la mujer.

 

 

 

 

BRAZIL, Trans people of color, TRANSGENDER DAY OF REMEMBRANCE NOV. 20

BRAZIL, TRANSGENDER DAY OF REMEMBRANCE NOV. 20, TRANS LIVES MATTER

This multi coorporate sponsorship world cup in this  very country where marginalized people’s voices and vote, where lives have been taken for the exploitative “nature” of man.  In front of our very lives, lives on tv to be identified.

The signs are everywhere that, taking the power back to cut the consumption that drives these forces to destabalize communities where education is highly limited and the sense of community is just about everywhere.

capitalism tries its hardest to destroy these very systems of resistance and reinforces the idea of patricarchy and domination among media and entertainment. this very capitalism tries to make the attempt to infiltrate our humanity and dignity, no matter how many chains you can never take their resistance and self preservation that our very ancestors have gifted and blessed us with that the people fight with ancient wisdom and strength to the end.

Lifelong journey.

Much love to all,

And much love to Our Mother

http://www.blackgirldangerous.org/2014/06/tired-sisters-getting-killed/

 

http://www.pinknews.co.uk/2014/06/22/us-trans-woman-burned-to-death-in-florida/

 

something that you dont get enough of

human companionship

 

 

Medicine to help a mother heal

She cuddles up the dog with a blanket after guiding him as to where he must lay. She says it is her all, or something like that as she says herself. She is not quite sure what she really meant but one thing she was sure of, that the dog was her saviour to her depression.

She pets the dog on his very bone that is prominent among labradors, petting him again and again, in satisfaction he moans.

She wines about the television not working properly and wants her sister to come fix it, all while she acknowleges the dog again and again, “mi nino..tendra frio..” Only after being cucooned by the dog’s own blanket.

These are one of her many drives to keep going despite the many many years of pain, at sixty five she steps outside taking the afternoon sun, making tamales bi weekly to make some money to buy goods that make her happy. She shops at the swapmeet for second hand goods, sometimes in excess she eats chinese food, “chowmen” as she calls her favorite side. Her mind never stops, always thinking of the next time to do, the next person on her mind she’s worried about, the next person to feed. She once sewed, croched, little doillies that seemed like endless wired nylon thread shaping the sacred flowers of her soul.

Mother’s Hands

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