 I'll start off with the first one. Wildflower. This seed, impervious to round up bleach vinegar, was buried alone in the spring along the northern Californian coasts near trails of used crack pipes. Homicidal hands suppress laments. New blood simmered under the sun. I grew listening to my mother in tears and her occasional laughs on the bar stool, proud that for the first time, life lived inside her. Every day I laid in fetal position, listening to the growing formation of my bones, each organ learning to function, a throbbing heart and anguish. My pulse complimented my innocence. I knew one day, petals will be contorted, stained by old men, stem and pistol desecrated. Indigenous almond eyes will be pride open to see spirit again. I will often have the choice, fight or surrender to transcend a germinating resentment to live, die, grew inside my veins. I soon felt captive in my mother's womb. I had to escape. She screamed in agony. Swore she was dying, requested her last rights from her priests Sunday morning, and nuns, nurses, witnesses, rose as I arrived. A secret, premature, impatient. I immediately demanded to renegotiate my commitment to life. My screams reverberated across a sterile room. Eventually, I sprouted. In the darkness of shadows, I swayed. Zephyrus winds coddled me, reminding me to feel, stay humbled, wait, relinquish all desires for control. Liberty is not given, lies in the source, the roots, the route of my existence. After soil and sun slowly began draining my imperiousness, I died in a known dictator, was born a slave, and died again. The irradiance rinses my veins. Revitalizes each petal. Today, I live wild. Thank you. I just realized, so you all videotaped this, but do you do any edits? No, so this is just live. So much I do with live TV. I'll be talking to them. It's so funny. I love SF, main public library. I used to come here. So born and raised in San Francisco. And growing up as this outcast, weird poet, such an infant poet, writer's core back in the day used to give free poetry workshop, just create a sense of intimate community and ways of learning how to write. I want to say that was on the third floor. And so 14-year-old Thea would come here. And this institution, this building, quickly became a haven. And a way to explore and talk for the first time. And so that first poem was Wellflower. Next will be, I think, Marigold. OK, off we go. Eyes of the sun stare outside a bus window. A crackhead father dangles his cheap rocks in one hand and clenches a disposable lighter, the only fire he feels in another. Marigold, with torn ruffles, stretches her arms, extends her fingers. She emanates sacral rays of orange and yellow for the loss, resistant spirits who only recognize her in darkness. They see their lantern through the timeless fog, cigarette smoke, shots of tequila. Marigold sees her father. He only embraced her when he was cognizant enough to do so. But his one too many laughs. From the moment she heard his laugh, she yearned for him. But his one too many disappearances led to a final departure, a realization he is not going to witness her and blossom. He was enslaved by his own warped mind and Midwestern penitentiaries. His spirit floats. But the orange sun, Marigold still loves him, tries to guide his spirit to the light the crack vanishes. But he refuses to rest by his altar. Marigold now sees her mother, a single mother, still alive, wobbling down dirty city streets, past forgotten altars, sacrificing her last pennies on Catholic uniforms. Back in knees soar from carrying groceries, rupture relationships, a hernia from carrying strollers up three flights of stairs each day for another fatherless baby. Stubborn blood stands against warbling wind chimes. She is the wild bull inflamed who does not bleed. Her weight marks her endurance, a path she cleaved. Her fat and hair mark her protection. When she fights, she fights to kill. She is the one who reminds Marigold, everything can be healed. Thank you. It's like you're so quiet. I want to almost have a conversation with myself but it's hard to just be normal and read the fucking poem. And I told myself not to swear. And I cursed. So yeah, what do we have here? I guess, and it's so calm, scares me, right? All right, Iris, we'll see how this goes. My eyes tell the tales of my ancestors, silence, raped, brutally beaten, who screamed until they coughed blood. And then those who robbed their souls left the bodies on the side of the road, who remained stuck between dirt and drying pavement, who stole indigenous land, raped women and children, those bloodthirsty, using rosaries to strangle grandmothers, crucifixes to sodomize. You remind me, rather, I remind you, we are one with God, but not how they introduce God to us, too. These indigo veins illuminate the bones of society where children are conditioned to play dead, strive for six-figure salaries and soulless bodies, surrender their spirits to predators, acquiesce to providing sexual favors to preachers, politicians, teachers, in a land where presidency is a mere price tag, a storyline, a redneck tie, an Armani navy blue suit with a $5,000 smile, corporate endorsements, corporations are legalized persons, an alligator briefcase holds an eighth ball hidden from docile fingers and unpaid eyes, while an ex-celebrity icon wannabe two-paid demigod twirls six-figure laughs from millions of followers, following 140 characters of distractions. Still a slave, instead of brown, he now has blue eyes, three. No one can iron the corporeal creases in my eyes. There is nothing to take only the tally of intentions, actions, words, done in a lifetime. For the young conditioned to yearn fame want nothing more than to die rich, life is reduced to a brand, a marketing campaign, watch these corpses grow old, watch them decay for. My dance in the summer honors the elders, lost ancestors, those who survived for your existence. With wind I uncover the little girl of your mother and all mothers before her, and I detect your father too inside you. Rooted from a thin stem, I elongate my neck, bridging the gap between heaven and earth, marking the graves, the journeys of those who cross before this moment. Generations of eyes closed meet those wide, open, tongues flailing, knees to a national anthem, true colors beyond the spectrum of melanin found in skin exposed. My prismatic light engulfs you, colors your tongue. May you speak with unwavering loyalty to speak truth to power. May you reinvent yourself. Thank you. Orchids, fluttery opalescent moth wings orbit my light. Strong North Dakota winds remind me to stay humbled. Jolted awake, silence. The stillness of joy, absence of incarnation, cessation of all desires await remembrance. Although my eyes saw the first sunrise, my heart remembers the harvest. Seeds root themselves in fecund soil. Seeds grow in silence. Orchids, equanimous and upright, open their fuchsia arms with their subtle grin they hum, strong souls, rebloom. Never doubt your propensity to radiate boundless light. When you see a moth, spirit is near you. Stand tall, erect, illuminate your decipherment of what is true. You are worthy of love. You are more than locked bedroom doors, screaming into pillows, signed executive orders, confederate lies sputtering you don't belong here. Your blood fertilizes this land, our land we give birth to. You are more than crying on cold bathroom tile floors, policy governing uterine, treacherous red tie speeches, military missiles, drones, bullets erupting arteries, bombs bulldozing your home. You are more than clenched fists. Spray can die pigs, tear gas defiling your lungs, shattered bank windows, masked faces, rifles, black combat boots, splitting faces on asphalt. More than borders, more than skin, you are whole. Complete, complete like impermeable heat. Feel spirits long lasting embrace the embryonic rhythm of life. My God, you are immortal, but in your mind, serpents hiss, you are hopeless, helpless, nothing more than the incest. Believe you are nothing, believe you are powerless, wallowing in an empty river bed with a worn noose tied around your neck, but remember strong souls. Your tears shackles created by someone else's fears, flood your cavern with inflameable oily water. Purify, keep your lungs and heart open, relax your spine, stretch your groin. Today's march was yesterday's frontline. Tomorrow is another struggle. Thank you. Tall legs, you wear memories. A time capsule for escape. Belly bloated with acid, esophagus, tobacco resin. People see their reflection on your teeth, yet your voice only widens the lips for presentation. Arms stretch in old niner's jacket. Chin drops, pulse in stomach. With the giant's pride, heels of high tops, dog martins, all you want to do is sleep for days. Pawn each exhale in a new city. Delicate veins, heavy eyelids rupture. Your mind chases a spotlight. Bloodshot eyes fold foil. Crusty veins, purest pavement. Lost leeches scramble for blood. A breeze of needles caresses your skin, combs your hair under a fading sun. Kitchen burns, maubro cigarette butts, black tar fingers oily. Fadeless black denim, the Beatles' white album. The milky sap of poppies lurks over your shoulder. So seductive, deceptively dainty, liquefies the streets on silver spoons. Gentrified apartment complexes dissolve, disintegrate, crumble into dust. Everything goes black and you're right back in the nest, the safety, the requiem you rest in, the darkness you call home in, the faces you conjure, the silence of ears ringing. There is no resuscitation for time lost. Thank you. Is a few more? Till 6.30? Okay. All right, cool. Okay. All right, Trillium. You remember me. Remember me. Dine has taught me to live. Today I feel more than I ever promised to feel. No one will grow in my place. No one will see, hear, feel anything in that place. The lingering smoke of my voice will be all that remains. Know this now. I exist, not from opposition, from deference, from the resistance to what is. The fight to overcome you turns my blood into butter for profit, for division, for hate, for against uprooting the path to where am I walking towards, tired of living according to what am I against? Where am I walking towards? This blood is strong, movement, more than the protests could ever be, more than the vandalism that marks our streets. On 24th, you see Queer's Hate Techies painted on cement. The shit talk of writers on walls goes for blocks. Visitors with an aversion to transplants, the fat has worn off. Muscles eat themselves. Even the ones who carve initials and trees deface the landscape of ocean beach with demands and graffitied hate speech are not even from here themselves. Those who are still here stand in the wind tunnels of division. I am still here. No extinction can erase my presence. The trillium seeds remain protected in emet hills. Sown your trees and trails where queer lovers take late night walks and kiss by tangled rat tails. You remember me. Thank you. You know, I have so many variations, not so many. I have some variations of one poem and I'm like, man, this is an older version, but off we went. I'm still good to read it. Sometimes it's like, oh, what works, what didn't. End to go. No, I'll close with Pratia. Okay. The original, flesh, bone, blood, flour boiling from kinship, source of civilization, of elegance, of etiquette. Families derived from her spine, nations grow from her womb and undisputed tongue. She knows every language, every intonation, every pause given to silence. Her screams rattle spirits and bodies. Her cries expel the wicked. She spits white phlegm into the fire. She is the mother who knows her children have been wounded. Households infiltrated. She roars, moves, emanates thunder from soil. She black, brown, emanates life in spite of extinction. She survives, endures, thrives. No one, nothing can kill her behind brick, rope, cement, steel, leather, barbed wire, arboir, Pratia gets ready to rupture, open. Break the law killing our people. They scream, I can't breathe from where ghosts play checkers with pistols, where ancestors use bare hands to kill, where the thought, kill yourself is convincing. Pratia, with Africa near the apex of her stem, pedals of no separation. Pratia extends her arms, opens wide. Cowry shells and purple gums guard the children's quest for freedom. Her aposematic skin wards off bullets, uniforms, judges, politicians, plea bargains, sterilizing the nation, no resistance, Pratia transcends, blossoms in the trenches of struggle, abolishes all slavery, ankles untied, afro, her halo, each follicle a soul, marches to the front line, ignites into a crimson funeral pyre, burning the hands of narcotic dealers, government giving guns, glass pipes given to our children, rocks, disguised as medicine, chains disguised as jewelry, textbooks in schools erasing our stories, assassinations. Pratia heals the walking wounded, men's the punctured soul, she survives, unfolds, dances with the flames, chanting, black and breathing, black and breathing, black and breathing, black and breathing, black and breathing, black and breathing, black and breathing. Thank you.