 Hello and welcome everyone thanks for coming to this month's poem jam. I'm John Smully a librarian with the San Francisco Public Library and while we're waiting for the rest to join us want to take a moment to acknowledge our community and to tell you about a few of our upcoming programs. On behalf of the Public Library we want to welcome you to the unceded ancestral homeland of the Ramita Sholoni, who are the original inhabitants of the San Francisco Peninsula. As the indigenous stewards of this land and in accordance with their traditions, the Ramita Sholoni have never ceded, lost more forgotten their responsibilities as the caretakers of this place. As guests, we who reside in their traditional territory recognize that we benefit from living and working on their traditional homeland. We wish to pay our respects by acknowledging the ancestors, elders and relatives of the Ramita Sholoni community and by affirming their sovereign rights as first equals. On Monday, January 24th, San Francisco's beloved award-winning literary magazine Zizava presents an evening of readings by authors featured in the magazine's latest inter-transnational interest. That issue, rather. And on February 14th, SFPLs on the same page book club will be discussing Jessamine Stanley's new book, Yoke, My Yoga of Self-Acceptance. And on February 22nd, Stanley discusses her work and book with historian Tamika Castan-Miller. On Thursday, February 24th, in the main library's auditorium and also online via Zoom, the author Charlie Jane Anders talks with journalists Peter Hartlaub and Heather Knight about writing writer's bookstores San Francisco and her latest novel, Victory's Greater Than Death. So this ends my announcements of upcoming programs. I'd now like to turn the microphone over to Home Jam's host, the poet Kim Shuck, who will introduce today's program and readers. Welcome, Kim. Thank you, John. And thank you guys for showing up for this. I'm really delighted tonight. I love, I love being able to do this. I love being able to make the reading I want to hear happen. And I enjoy it that people indulge me in that. We've got some really incredibly strong voices here tonight. And we're just going to kick it off. It's always a privilege to read in a lonely territory. I I can't say how grateful I am for the things that this place has allowed me to do and also to the San Francisco Public Library for, again, just indulging me. Our first reader is Lauren Ito, who I met at a really funny poetry reading. We've been fast friends ever since and I have the greatest respect for her work. She's done a lot of incredible things. Look her up. She hosts her own shows. She's completely remarkable. Please welcome Lauren Ito. It's my mic. Thank you so much. And thank you, Kim, who is responsible for me being at any mic. So just thank you for everything as always. I'm just going to get into it. This first poem is called Jose, which translates into fifth generation person of Japanese ancestry. Chasing, tattered tales of kimono silk, the crisp bow of an obi, a language that fell from our mouths as bombs fell like rain over Hiroshima. Whiteness, did we quench your thirst? Our ashes glaze your tea cups, mon-steep in a dashi brood from flakes of crackling skin. Excavating, a kanji inscribed inheritance, my grandfather's size wheeze of internment camp dust, slivers of polished sea glass roll from shore to shore in a sea of tears. This next poem is called Infinite Definitions of Birthright, and it was featured as part of Kim's series with San Francisco Public Library poem of the day. So check out all the incredible poems on there. Infinite definitions of birthright. Is it place or people or textures or graves or lullabies caressing cheek or afterthought or contorted masks and shapes we can't bring ourselves to recognize anymore. I hitchhike towards mirages, count mile markers in, what grows beside the road, who destroys it, how invasive species are named, where resilient blooms atop fault lines keep extinction at bay, and poetry becomes wills only some can inherit. Tucking affirmations beneath toes at each bend, I crown prayers for cocooned comfort in given skin, as if we were destined to belong here. After all, thank you. Grief has been top of mind for me this last year especially. I was telling people in the end of 2021 I really needed to like set multiple things on fire just to fully leave it behind. So these next few poems are in that space of grief and from what was I think a heavier for many folks. Morning stings, a bee on my tongue, a messenger died today, and so did his grandfather and his mother and his world, and grief has no bones to cling to any more than all in that sky. I wonder if the stars can lead us back to where healing knows our names in our tongues and prayers can meet our sorrows with soft palms and a cup of tea to say drink for grief needs warmth and held hands to be released. This next poem is inspired. I did get pretty emotional putting together this set so just really appreciate this space with you all and many poets who I know that are making me feel safe enough to share in again just what it's feeling like a like it in my feels kind of moment in time. Janice Mira Katani incredible poet has a poem titled like why making fish is a political act. And this poem was inspired by by that poem in her work. And it's titled writing my grandfather's obituary a political act. In turned incarcerated concentration camp camp camp Minidoka son say Nike, would you even want an American fly that his service. This country tour and took and stabbed and took and took and took a bloating our bellies with words to soften each blow until our own articulations of body and story and who to hold to account a stained battle of words on page. In turned incarcerated concentration camp camp camp Minidoka son say Nike grandpa. Jack Makoto Jack grandpa survived by us. This one's titled November 17 2021 breath softens stitching its path ascending each exhale a parting gift. A hand embracing hand a painful poem towards peace. And lastly I'll close out by this poem titled arrival as we and it just shout out to all the women in particular who continue to like mirror our power to one another and create spaces in which we can fully embody and celebrate ourselves. Arrival as we thousands of women hum in my blood forced to play God cradled their knives with a gentle hand lifted gazes to the horizon and summoned air tucked it into laugh lines a teacup a birthmark a prayer for generations yet to unfurl knowing breath is never promised always especially these days always always. Remember this inhaling sunrise and bird song we never arrive alone. Thank you so much and thank you especially the Kim. As always you are amazing my love. And I just want to say your writing is responsible for you being at a microphone I just introduced it to you so that you'd know where to find it. So our next reader is Karen Morrison who's also a hero. It's a group of hero ladies here tonight. Okay our is a high school teacher. She helps kids find a way to heal themselves through poetry I know that's not technically your job and that there's probably a job that says it's that but I've watched them with you and I know that's what you do. And you're not the only one who does that either. So, also one of my favorite humans, as one could say about any of the readers tonight as well. Please welcome to this microphone KR Morrison. I'm really excited to be here. A reading made of women. That's my jam. That's my phone jam. I have all new stuff. Well, almost all new stuff tonight or just things I don't typically read along with me. I'll just get going here. The first one's called fire tears. Shove all the murder into one of his white business envelopes that normally holds white business. Give that sour fold a real go. Make sure past tongue lashing stamp griefs blood into the seal certified in our salts. Address it to the guy in the tie the guy who always fails to ask for permission the guy who jumps into conversation by instinct without raised hand. While we watch the world burn at his stakes ignite all the photos and letters from that twin flame who led you to hell. The one who planted seeds of promise with matchsticks in their back pocket. The lever who picked ego instead of higher self excursions waiting within you. Light a purple candle hike to your younger self. That child was sandbags in her stomach. You'll find her under the living room coffee table drawing angels in the glass. That child who hides dirty men's resin on her dear skin. Take her hand take her swimming in the Ganges then guide her to a birch tree to dry. While rocking her to sleep say it's not you baby girl they're all just wounded afraid find a mirror without edges. Ask the ancestors where the lies within you say. When they send you their answers throw the masks into the fire until your bones stop burning. The man who gets the letter with the brief lead calls her arthritis. Let the flames and cover every fraud in your body and cry it into the smoke. Let the elders take it when the sun returns collect the ashes and draw fresh words that have never seen a poem. New verbs that never they have never shaped a love letter. Make sigils that rescue the generations. I wasn't going to read that one but I read it for Lauren because she talked about throwing things in the fire and I was like oh I'll pick that pick that. This one's called. Pirates nest. Inside weekends you and me submerge in waterbeds dressed in red silk sheets. Maple wood guarding our weary heads. A lively living room of rifles on wraps. Saddle exhibits. No teacups or flower bases. Like sleeping bats you nailed dry yellow roses. Like wild dream catchers hiding love tales dead of thirst. Arid red secrets. Saturday night was for house chores. Soundtracked by lowrider Motown. We twirled and sang into hairbrushes. Our breath wrapped around love child. A kind of diary cry between mother and daughter. The ancestor patterns carved into the story of us too. Use newspaper to clean glass. T-shirt straps for what's oak prissy ring. My little ears knew full name usage. Well that was some serious business. With the dining table we dusted off looming goodbyes. Sunday is coming with its submarines in our stomachs. The gunmetal gravity of goodbye. Mornings made still of moon time. I watched you sleep. Our pit bull we called red barren standing guard. Always my guardian beside me. We both absorbed you. Finally at rest. Your gold hair and arrowhead cheekbones below hand carved Harley Davidson wings. I tried to travel into your dreams. Dance into them. Wardrobe in Diana Ross and Dearskin. Stay with me Charlotte Ann. Far away from Sunday. Only pirate mom and me in your nest. This one still needs a whole lot of work. I'm working with a lady that's doing a lot of trauma work on my body. Her name is Amelia. She's in Arizona. A curandera lady that I just I owe a lot to. So it's called Amelia. Amelia's hands moved over my body like a Ouija board inviting mine. I need your hands and light with me. She says. Two goblins left my uterus. An army of burned heretics trapped in my throat crawled their way out of me. I'm going to use dynamite to break through my teeth into a thinning veil where spirit told them never mind all those scriptures. Somewhere in my rib cage a demon made parole, tired of being mean, itching to finally cry. And in my stomach in an underworld of tangled crossroads like three ways without exits. The little boy of that very same demon found his way out. I felt all the ghosts go as Amelia breathed her mother sage into me. So I have so far around very rough. This one is called empty base. Who decided that a flower collection reflects a couple's bloom. After refrigeration and ribbon we await their wilt. Their death her distress once scissors slice green flesh for love's message for gender expectation for a woman's burgeoning smile. Save flowers for the funerals. Love thrives in trees. Massive bouquets that earn their bloom by roots they take by generations they honor and the thriving. By the nests they house. Birds they keep free. Wind through which singing leaves find their evening sound. Even cat die beats the blooms we choose. Tough and truthful they flourish in brutal air deserts. They prick trespassers too fickle to inquire before the plunge. Their blades hide water and protect what's green when droughts dismiss the fair weather week along the love journey. I've got three more rough ones, but they're short. The rudiments of healing. The rudiments of healing is its own alphabet. Runes etched in a tired mother's fingerprints. A women's tetris of love letters she never sent. No one else reads her language. No one reads her unlocking. No one reads her. No one reads. The rudiments of healing are the nuts and bolts of snare drums and goddess souls and hearts that beat someplace beyond the rudiments of a human body. I once met such a goddess. Her healing rudiments and embryo forming two more heads that under dark moon she triples into. To her left are the rudiments of maiden larvae. To her right one two pro bones brooding. So triple moon poem for you there. Triple moon goddess. Okay, this one's untitled. All those artists must prepare. Revise. Edit the divine poem. Hijack spirit can manifest the details of your death. For me, that's a whole lot of drafts. When it's my time, I'll transition by a mighty shark battle made of too many great whites. In spirit, I will breathe poems into reckless children. Seance all that unrest. Some little moon girl will conjure a revolution. Light a match, baby impact. Burn it all down. And you, Star-C, build someplace new where you can breathe. Last one. And this is not a new one. I just forgot about it. And I need to, I need to start working with some more. I'll end with this. It's for all of you here with me reading. Ken, thanks for having me. I'll read for you anytime. Suffering pretty. It's called funny how struggles make us prettier. How our eyes open wider when hearts stretch apart. How our lips clumped tougher from kisses left for dead. Fossilized in the heart. Our shoulders, highway south. Down a waste and over hip country harboring words tired of our mouths. Our curves carved by words said in what we failed to say, an abyss of wounds, blood and life unborn loitering in the ink and our journals pen. And what becomes of a woman's fist, if not to clench humanity's sorrow or to punch what's ridiculous. And what becomes of a woman's fist, if not to clench humanity's sorrow or to punch what's ridiculous. The answer resides beneath her breast for a world made prettier after the ugly she bred, aborted and shed. That's all I got tonight. Thanks. I don't think we could have wanted more. That was great. Thank you. Wow. Okay. The hits keep coming guys. Our next reader is Allie Jones, who I know least of these women, but I've got to tell you, I have seen this woman demonstrate a level of patience and grace that floored me. And she's laughing because she knows the story, which I'm not going to tell. But I just, I'm in awe of you, lady. And I love everything you've ever read in my presence. And I can't wait to hear more. So Allie Jones. Oh my goodness. Thank you so much, Kim. And thank you for everyone reading tonight. I'm, I'm super honored to be here. Like K. I said, I'll read wherever you asked me to read Kim. So let me know. Yeah, I'm going to share some pieces and give a little bit of context, but we're going to just roll. This first piece is called a siren rising. I don't know. Siren rising. I don't want to remember my life before mermaids. I was raised by saltwater queens, blessed by magical beings of mythic proportions, daughters of Yemaya and Gambo, those who remind me of the beautiful resilience that lives within us, coiled crowns adorned with calorie. These goddesses maintain the grace of a gazelle with the ever-changing tides. My siren, my mermaid queens, flowing, crashing, rising. My grandma, Genevieve, cayenne pepper royalty, celestial matriarch, soft, yet steady as a metronome in the kitchen with a laugh that could brighten any dim room. Unafraid of what is to come because her certainty is founded in love. Her setbacks create the beginning of her greatest comebacks, flowing through the roughest currents and remaining strong, crashing, rising. Mother Teresa, calming like rosemary and gentlest gardenia earth warrior who taught me to respect and protect the earth, to value all forms of life, holding space for her softness and her offspring unconditionally magical, conjuring potions that transform the flu into a slight sniffle or inventing the perfect bedtime story she grew in the midst of adversity, never allowing fear to stop her pursuit, crashing against every judgment or expectation with determination, flowing, crashing, rising. My siren, my mermaid queens, cousins who always remind me that I could do anything. Sisters that challenged me to seek softness and time as a pain and trauma to look at myself in a mirror untarnished by self-loathing. My aquatic angels who kept me on my feet my aquatic angels who kept me sane when all I thought I could ever be was crazy loving with our hearts wide open guided by our gut feelings and our star signs rêveur, croyons, amours et guerriers dreamers, believers, lovers and warriors rising above black holes of doubt insecurities and fear flowing, crashing, rising. Woo! Woo! So that piece is really an honor of all of like I said, my mermaid queens that there are these women in my life who are mermaids because they make it in the deepest waters in spaces that you wouldn't expect people to survive and they end up overcoming and thriving and doing so many things and have taught me so much. And so I always think it's really an honor and an honor of those women black women who have held space for me to be exactly who I am. And so this next piece super like Lauren we're in the same energy of like okay we're calling in some folks we're calling into my ancestors but like I welcome the emotion of it all. This next piece is for my grandma and it's called Genevieve I'm grateful for my grandma Genevieve a daughter of Louisiana sharecroppers no middle name several last names five daughters one in heaven lost in a trance ready to dance best cook in our family she was young, wild and free before it was a thing to beat dedicated to her family laughing uncontrollably I'm grateful for my grandma Genevieve dedicated to her family laughing uncontrollably cleaning houses every day 40 years just to make a way for us no limits to her love she drew energy from above so below we were able to grow flow go she taught me to appreciate everything never about cars and bling garden plots and recipes she taught me how to love feel and heal there will never be another quite like my mother's mother there will never be enough words don't do they long to describe her magnanimous presence the essence of love and light we will be alright even on the darkest days she found a way I was the only one I was the only one she found a way I was there the day her life changed all her plans we arranged on the bedroom floor la plupart de ma gue elle est elle est toujours la plupart de ma gue my goodness that piece is very special to me I wrote it seven days before my grandma passed away I don't know and then I read it at her service it was like wow this is where I was and what came and so yeah it's always really sweet and close to me and just to bring her into space with me because I would not be me without who she is in West as you notice there's some French in my pieces this next one is going to dabble I don't do a lot of like interpreting back and forth but hopefully it's still just an experience el arco gris de mi corazón no necesito una razón sin duda y miedo yo soy lo que espero como agua soy tranquila y poderosa lo que pienso viene aquí mis sueños pasan en frente de mi con un voz más fuerte que algún grito gracias y amor a mis corazones aquí en la tierra y en el cielo the rainbow of my heart weighs the gratitude a journey within and without releasing every single fear and doubt not allowing my anxious energy to disrupt my flow this is the art of letting go of who I've had to be or been my soul as being set free letting me know this is my home free to play and laugh and roam rejoicing at the colors converging from light to dark once I know I create the situation I defy every spatial limitation sending love and light to all the dark places feeling my heart with familiar faces I am bountiful I am beautiful I have more than enough I am more than enough as it is written so it shall be I know you may all will watch over me she is the mother of the water the strongest currents will not surpass me flowing with every obstacle in my path I know that pain and struggle will not last sin duda y miedo yo se lo que espero ok I'm going to give you all like two more so this next piece is again in honor of of ancestors in honor of the grief I feel like we've kind of all come together and like holding space for that and I think that it's okay for us to hold space for that indelibid when a sparrow cries a soul flies silently into the greenest pastures covered by warm rays beaming coming birds stand still in observance in reverence for the stars who no longer burn with the light that never fades generational grief in my bones hope that phrase dismembered memory unspoken knowing in my hair we say so much more shouting wild vision blurred the simulations tilting the matrix shifting artifacts shrill of sacrifice cloudy countenance regret creeps out of your eardrum steady and resounding white noise tingles straight to the temporal lobe I hope you sing and dance okay this last one I just want to say is very much a connection to black women who put themselves on like the front lines of things but are not always held or supported like in their own and how we really have to cultivate space for our own mental emotional spiritual well-being and that's okay for us to do that and so this piece is in honor of that and the story of the black woman on a mission with a vision precision in the darkest cave covered by branches isolated by shame no matter where we go the darkest storms up rooted black bodies we continue to hide how we feel inside not equal not well beating beating emotions and strength from this black vessel gasping for air craving help someone to care anyone see that you're not invincible sold and conditioned hanging on by a noose with no room to break loose from the labels you didn't ask for martyr complex struggling to catch your breath under waters of expectation they can't relate associate nuclear fractures familial disasters armed with silence surrounded by never ending violence haven't we had enough faking like we're fine struggling and pride lynchings ruled as suicide told to hide our wounds inside self-inflicted crimes the deepest roots admiral abolitionist writer wells of information filter books on a crusade for justice fighting to resist before a balled up fist truth of liberation asphyxiation we are the seeds of strange fruit lemon trees in the summer breeze hemorrhaging from the root under leaves of ignorance our minds assassinated our souls kidnapped our bodies raped there is no escape from the scars this skin when can we begin to heal to feel to just be free in the cage where birds wish to sing Harriet Ida Philly Nina shapeshifting trauma into triumph gardenia's bloom across the street cope or heal ultimately it's all about how you deal the deepest roots hold the darkest storms thank you I did warn you all that it was going to be spectacular her next reader is Kimi Sugiyoka who I feel like from the moment that we met there's been this really magical connection between the two of us and whenever we talk about San Francisco and things we've done over the years we find new connections so you know with great joy and anticipation please welcome Kimi Sugiyoka thank you Kim I feel the same way I feel like in a magical realm with you and in fact with all these other women thank you all we really appreciate what you have to say I think I'm sitting on poems okay pandemic requiem the sky remembers solace when the wind enters our estuaries of anguish pillaging sunset and sunrise the voices of the world echo prayers for reprieve the catch on barbed wire bordering then and now in umbilical remembrance the steel wool of sorrow scours each breath cleansing our palates for another taste of death where banal bangles and bobbles similar and blaspheme in vestibules of shame we keep trying to scrub clean making entreaties to unforgiving gods we wallow in a muddle of shades and shadows like Hanzel and Gretel like deadless and Icarus like Urashima Taro try to remember a whim done try to remember a whim toyed with on a summer's day when time was a tree of ripe figs and each moment blossomed with flavor and languor thank you so this is a piece from a manuscript I'm trying to finish it's like a 14 piece home called ceremony part six magnolia, madrone, manzanita I have a thousand leaves who would have wed a tree if a tree was to be wed coyote comfort is all a paw, a claw, a tail to tell of motion, of monument of the whispering blaze in a trace of ash stippling the distance between two bees is an infinite number of obstacles but hearts were made to break and nature determined to heal unbeknownst to the muse the realm of justice has nothing to do with virtue raven, fawn, metalinguist culling flame from verbiage an undiluted tribute to swan, sailor, street dweller raging in his rag believe me when I tell you my stories do not lie I only congeal passion from suffering to extract desire oh insufferable moon you would command me to sing but my voice catches on splintered bones of verse and shattered ballads I must find my song nestled in the beaks of birds in their wind born bodies they teach me melody sympathy how to fly fearlessly through the flames of disillusion towards a simple subtle sanity where I am nourished by a rush of wings thank you um I decided because of all the poems I'm hearing tonight that I want to read a poem from my first book the language of birds so it is old I rarely read it but it's definitely for and about women midwifery enter girl child pebble and bass filled stream enter boy child playing with breath and faulty continent she fleeces her cave with flocks Spanish moss she lies down listens watches him call melody from wind and crow wrestle enter woman caterpillar climbing leaf after leaf him with satchel with bouquet and pacemaker turning amber she turns gray turns black he carries her from sunlight down shafts, mines, rattler pits she bides time carries his child licks her cubs leaps from precipice to kitchen counter waits for his offerings wood, deer, liver, deer liver mountain goat her torn linings shredded countenance she sprinkles in soups forages she lies down tired wind climbs canyon walls whistles her to sleep enter man with blue suit askew he throws coat and newspaper calls her to the kitchen chides her for sleeping wants feeding preparing the you she listens to his surgical disasters rubs salt marjoram takes a long time with the salad and rice ladle slips hits a mist tumor he throws his shoes one after another finds inside furlough's hips she rides southbound trains carries sand in her shoes scribbles scripture recipes for acid and alkaline her hair wound and bright winter ribbons her babe tucked in the crook of her arm she withstands the gavels of winking judges denies herself red and jam denies her quarter corsage her garter her glass of sherry her nine sundry lives she scavenges dumpsters prowls boulevards for tricks decides which baby to feed which to turn away she speaks pious you will be converted to a worthy man or horish I will take you anyway can find my price to demand or motherly find a good woman I could take up the handwork I began but never a wife never a wife to thread you any other way she who names me is being born harrowing news of old wives tales mistress seamstress princess waitress school mom midwife she is coming between my breasts pushing husbands and urchins aside I wedge circumference between my knees I'm rock face crater mesa skyscraper wing it in name only she is coming who must have melon at daybreak who savers morsels of jam she of chime and orange peel her two fine strong daughters her clock wound to interior pulse she addresses the future in present tense shuttles yarn into dream in one motion She of I who know her wet or wrung out to dry in the sun. She of ochre, peach, brine, and periwinkle. She of helmet and scythe who scours skillets and shakes gourds. She of warty countenance, Salo skinned embrace, furrowed navel. She is coming who rants with breasts exposed. Her hymen no longer probe. She sails for Greece, Denmark, Japan. She takes northbound trains, despite the crooked spines of husbands and sons, climbs but does not name mountains, weds the snow goose, treads a threadbare wedding carpet, azalea, camellia, her trousseau. She is India inked from jars and wells spilled onto your vellum, your gabardine trousers, fine Panama hat. She is patriot and rebel. Her name invisibly carved beside mine. She carried your duties, your long-tongued name to her grave. My blossom, my fruit, I am fireborne and labor weary. I cannot reclaim your practiced eye, but my womb is an infinite basket where I bear the she he of I, a scallop and locket, naked and humming over and over again. Thank you. Thank you for listening to that. I think I'll just maybe do one more to finish. And this is called Temporal Beatitudes. Howling is the one true song that eludes the fear of night and dogs. Whaling is the one true utterance of a divine sun that grapples with dribs and drabs of futility. Umbridge skywalks between the branches of things that fall, things that grow, things that repeat and remember. Ever so lightly, ever so tightly, the rains are pulled and dropped. Sudden freedom, sudden fear of freedom, sudden sight, sudden retreat, a blessing and a privilege, the white light of summer sings arias to fall. We become moments. We become prayers. We become radiant and vital as thieves on the threshold of forgiveness. A traitor and a saint living in the same shell, blessing and cursing, tyranny and innocence. Oh, that the lake could drown these festering thoughts that the bindings fray and break and all words stretch into birdsong. We could go where the sand becomes soil and remember planting. Remember the taste of corn melting between teeth and tongue, the taste of safety and home where a mountain lullabies itself to sleep and marries the willow and the hemlock, so all that is feral and fetal and indigent might finally bellow in sweet relief. We may come and go with and without purpose, but the whole is a fragmented universe. We carry like a dime in our pockets. Thank you all for listening. Thank you, Kim, for having me. Thank you for your words, son. That was really good. So all of these women are amazing. And the next one is to, E.K. Keith and I are sort of more like litter mates in a funny way. Wee. You know, definitely eat out of the same food bowl. And get ourselves into some fun trouble. And, well, I'm just gonna say, E.K. Keith, please read some poems so that I don't go off on what our relationship is too deeply. Thank you, Kim, for that sweetheart introduction. Well, hi, everybody. This is just a really lovely way to spend an evening in the living room and at the library at the same time. And I'm feeling pretty inspired. I like to start off with kind of a little invocation. Love, a stone dropping deeper and deeper and deeper into a bottomless ocean. Swim with me. So I am reading some poems tonight that are pretty raw. And the reason why is that upon attempting to prepare for y'all this evening, I discovered that everything that I wrote last year was like really dire. So I have the great good fortune to be a teacher librarian at a public high school in San Francisco during a global pandemic because it gives me an opportunity every day to exercise some creativity and some compassion and to like just try something new. Every day. And it's been like that now for two years. So it's pretty wild. I'm really excited to be back in school with the kids and I'm teaching a class this year and running a poetry club. And so the poems I've picked for you are out of my writing notebook that I use to write with the kids. And look, I'm selectively social. One of my kids gave me that sticker. And so here we go. This is all stuff that has been written with young people. And I hope you like them. This is a sort of a meditation on the past, like kind of escaping from the present by fantasizing about fun times in the past. I'm not the last person in line. My cousin is behind me. Soon, some people will line up for the Texas Cyclone, the best roller coaster in Texas. It's been almost an hour and we're not close to the front, but it's worth it. All the summer sweat that collects on my face will dry while I'm on the ride. It's a scary breeze that comes after we click, click, click, up the big hill then, whee! Gravity speeds us down, up, over, around and we scream and laugh until we slow down, pulling into the shack where we get out and others get in. And just like that, we run around back in line again. I'm tentatively calling this, yes, I'm from Houston. Don't tell my secrets. I love demolition. So many times I've gotten up, left the house late at night to watch wrecking balls swing and smash, swing and smash. I've seen skyscrapers detonated so they fall straight down and no matter what, there's dust, a violent puff. I probably shouldn't have breathed all that in, but I did and next time I'll bring a mask now that I know about masks. And that's how Houston changes, rearranges, new buildings, streets re-rooted, old names changed. When I drive on a visit, I try not to look at what's missing and just go, feel my way over the everlasting potholes around never ending construction, bright yellow bulldozers, cranes, chain link fences around construction sites, and the nights are still warm, humid as a kiss. So yeah, school, it's stressful. Stress spikes out like a mohawk and a mosh pit, jumping with the beats of the bass guitar and drums thumping faster than hearts in love or hate, or feeling nothing in the dark, but bodies slamming a rough dance. And then to wrap up the class that I'm teaching, it's actually titled Writing for Publication. And this was our big publication for last year. And yeah, so my students were excited to do this and I was excited to put a poem in here. And it's called Brilliant. I ate chips and salsa for breakfast because I was too tired to go to the store. So there's a tiny taste of roasted chilies keeping me from being hungry too soon. The roar of fans and filters defines my day by its absence when I leave the library, walk into the halls where the voices of a thousand freaked out teenagers greet me and we talk because touch is still too perilous for casual handshakes and high fives and awkward side hugs. This mask isn't as fresh as it was when I put it on after salsa, after toothpaste, after coffee. The sun filters through the skylights to cheer the sterile glare of the light fixtures in our windowless library where I watch my writing class convince themselves of their own brilliance as we make windows into the worlds of our minds. Thank you, Kim for asking me to be here. I will also always say yes. And I'm so glad to see all spaces. Thank you all for your beautiful words and the inspiration for the evening. And I really appreciate the Public Library for zooming us all together. And I see John's here. He's great. And we have people in the room that's so awesome. But thank you, Kim. This is just beautiful. Thank you, babe. Yeah, John's here. He was hiding for a while. I'm gonna read one poem. I wanna say I've just started another one of my, what Jenny Davis calls my poetry actions. And this particular series is addressing itself to transcend non-binary youth because I think it's really easy for them to feel surrounded. So I'm writing a series specifically directed at those youth. Spin, how can you watch yourself healing over and over and think yourself weak? Not everyone has to invent or excavate words for self, word at the base of the throat, the timber of voice, word from tattered paper mache, sarcophagus, slash consumed and literally buried, rediscovered, word from self, from self, you are surrounded but not alone. I press my cheek against the stone and sing an old song, an old song that someone else once carefully reassembled. So that series is gonna be on my Facebook page. So thank you all for being here. I love that people say that they'll read wherever I, whenever I ask that I love that. And I love all of your work and I love all of you and I'm really grateful for what I'm allowed to do in my life. I do not take it lightly. Thank you all for being with me tonight with us together this whole thing and more to come. Be well. Thanks everyone for coming and we do this second Thursday of each month. So next month it's going to be a tiny poverty stalla and in celebration of her book, her new book. And also generally she brings people with her and I don't know who those people are going to be but I'm sure they'll be great because they always have been in the past. So we'll see ya. Take care everybody. Thank you so much. Thank you folks in YouTube land. See you next time. Happy New Year's all.