• Lyrics: play full screen play karaoke
• Oceans of Islands - Sinaloa
• Footprints On Floorboards - Sinaloa
• With Our Ears To The Soil - Sinaloa
• Seek Harbor - Sinaloa
• No Bearing - Sinaloa
• Name Names - Sinaloa
• Legs.limbs.wings - Sinaloa
• Order By Border - Sinaloa
• Tracing Portraits - Sinaloa
• Tread Not Trudge - Sinaloa
• Fathers And Sons - Sinaloa
• Expect Delays - Sinaloa
• Voices Resound - Sinaloa
• Tales Of A First Grade Nothing - Sinaloa
• Night Noise - Sinaloa
• Static - Sinaloa
• Rows Of Tops - Sinaloa
• Echoes - Sinaloa
• Ashes Of Giants - Sinaloa
• People Mover - Sinaloa
• My Hands Hold Fire - Sinaloa
• What We Could Not Move - Sinaloa
• Rich Haven - Sinaloa

can you see yourself along this stream? ripples only
make it messier. there is a poison, one that you can't
touch. was it in you since day one? something you feel
inside and out. your name was known, the shadow that
you cast. it seeps into you, this toxicity. and not for
one year, but many. so it's broken, broken from the
start. is it for us to fix, to put these parts back
together? to not put you in the corner, to not ignore
what went wrong. if you never knew how to swim, would
we throw you in? with you flailing, the tide carrying
you out. would we save you? these are the ones who were
marked, the "nonexistent." we'll be the first to point
the finger, we'll be the first to call you out. to
learn from the unlearned, please ignore our ignorance,
this has become so routine. what will save you? what
will save me?
explanation
in school there have always been people who were
labeled as "trouble." where these labels came from,
it's not certain, but they always seemed to stick.
often times, the image that was cast upon these
individuals stayed with them throughout the course of
school, sometimes leading to self esteem issues within
these people. we are so quick to judge, to place people
into categories, so that we have a better handle on
them and can feel secure about ourselves. as a teacher
now, i still see this happen, with both students and
teachers guilty of doing so. obviously, this is not
unique to just a school setting, but really to any
social situation. we have the tendencies to mark people
and truly this is out of our own insecurities.

The son of the slain man stands over the slain - feeling
his power, like his father's killer before him. His gun
at his side -blood on his boots. Somewhere, his victim's
child becomes him. The daughter of assault must walk,
alone, from the train. The same dark streets, her
father's former place. Only once did she not make it
home. It took one night to lose the race. Drawing over
perceived portraits, exit the sound of wind. Enter
strange silence, like sleep after violence, while
satisfied sleep, too deep to forget, still makes real of
the imagined. The son of the son of the slain man is
slain. His killer was born by blasts from two guns. The
third wife to weep sees pain build in her son. A man
hires six men to kill his great-grandson. The
granddaughter of assault hears laughter. She wonders how
to make that sound. Her voice has been built to be soft
and silent. Horrors, taught to fear, will be found.

we held secrets here. this nest, these four walls. thin
enough to whisper through. tiny ones often construct
through sticks and findings. down this trunk, through
branches, from branch to branch in which we inhabited in
different years. if you trace this back, study the
markings, ones left by all here, if you look deep inside
you can see them. you can feel them day to day. years
pass, this nest deserted. removed or perhaps inhabited by
others and all disperse, scatter like seeds on soil. and
look again - roots withstanding that have seen them come
and go, that entangle and connect from the smallest
buried deep to those sprouting out, hands trace the
history. through storms and stress, growth and giving,
young sapling how we began, how we begin. if you listen

it billows and sways, almost engulfing us capturing
anything in its course. even holding on tight won't
save us this time. we can't be saved, we won't be
saved. clouds above, follow like a moth to a flame.
like terrible monsters with mouths and hands hoping to
swallow us whole. and we can hide but it's still there.
we lock ourselves in down below, still it hunts us and
haunts us. this is our own creation, right here in
front of us a very hell of our own…and you whisper, "it
never ends." we can't sleep this one away. it's our own
doing, with no end to these dark clouds; so
unforgiving, unrelenting, with no end in sight. you
write it all down frantically with hopes that we'll be
found. not to be lost forever, not to ever stray this
way, not to follow this course again.
explanation
we make mistakes throughout our lives, as individuals
and as communities. over time, you'd hope to learn from
them, to not make the same mistakes on a consistent
basis. some choices have greater effects than others,
and one can only hope that these events sort themselves
out over time, through work and communication.
individually, i know that i have made mistakes, some
that i still look back and wince at. i learn from them,
but still they don't always make me feel good about the
situation. on a larger scale, you look at the world and
how we treat (and interact with) each other, as one
nation to another nation, and it is truly terrifying.
it makes you wonder, no matter how many books record
our history, if we will ever truly learn from our
mistakes. does it ever end? will we ever learn? will
the smaller voices, the true people, ever rise up and

when this vessel reaches shore, it will be empty. it
calls to no one. adheres to nothing. alone among these
waters no direction, no course. let the sinking begin,
let it swallow it whole.
explanation
the overall feeling of when things have reached, what
seem to be, rock bottom, or are spinning out of control.
when you feel like you have no control over the
situations that are in front of you. i guess these are
the times that truly test us, allow us to learn, but also

can you see yourself along this stream? ripples only
make it messier. there is a poison, one that you can't
touch. was it in you since day one? something you feel
inside and out. your name was known, the shadow that
you cast. it seeps into you, this toxicity. and not for
one year, but many. so it's broken, broken from the
start. is it for us to fix, to put these parts back
together? to not put you in the corner, to not ignore
what went wrong. if you never knew how to swim, would
we throw you in? with you flailing, the tide carrying
you out. would we save you? these are the ones who were
marked, the "nonexistent." we'll be the first to point
the finger, we'll be the first to call you out. to
learn from the unlearned, please ignore our ignorance,
this has become so routine. what will save you? what
will save me?
explanation
in school there have always been people who were
labeled as "trouble." where these labels came from,
it's not certain, but they always seemed to stick.
often times, the image that was cast upon these
individuals stayed with them throughout the course of
school, sometimes leading to self esteem issues within
these people. we are so quick to judge, to place people
into categories, so that we have a better handle on
them and can feel secure about ourselves. as a teacher
now, i still see this happen, with both students and
teachers guilty of doing so. obviously, this is not
unique to just a school setting, but really to any
social situation. we have the tendencies to mark people

standing on shaky ground, bed and clothes that barely
fit. see my ankles and wrists, awake with cold feet. when
this bed is too short, our legs have grown too long and
weary. now we breathe in december's air and go silent,
like in a dream. all comes rushing back, all we used to
fear. the things we said we'd do and undo but never did,
just like we knew. it's been us for so long, for so many
years. and we've all grown so very much, legs to limbs to
wings. we grow and outgrow, dance and take steps. it
becomes us slowly. never to return that place in quite
the same way.
explanation
i've never been great with change. i get used to the way
things are and then over time, what once was is no longer
and it takes me a little while to adjust. it's obviously
a part of life, and an important one at that. sometimes
these changes can be scary, or take you by surprise.
however, we need to take these steps to better ourselves,
and at the same time we need those around us to take
these steps. change can, unfortunately, bring criticism
when often times they should be celebrated. i know i have
been guilty of this myself. i can only hope to help those
around me, as i know they would help me, to help better

i know you want to think optimistically, but when there
is nothing in the glass it's not half anything, its
fucking empty. we try to build an order, only in some
chosen borders. we try to build an order, we'll produce
shells of mortar. we try to build an order, people go in
rigid quarters. we try to build an order, a machine a
people sorter. we try to build an order, a woman -
nothing for her. we try to build an order, a black man
working - nothing more. where do we live, what borders
are ours. how do we live, alone or under powers. never
could we stop, if shots were fired. turning would be
treason. i am not a liar. just hope that i'm alive when i

The son of the slain man stands over the slain - feeling his power, like his father's killer before him.
His gun at his side -blood on his boots.
Somewhere, his victim's child becomes him.
The daughter of assault must walk, alone, from the train.
The same dark streets, her father's former place.
Only once did she not make it home.
It took one night to lose the race.
Drawing over perceived portraits, exit the sound of wind.
Enter strange silence, like sleep after violence, while satisfied sleep, too deep to forget, still makes real of the imagined.
The son of the son of the slain man is slain.
His killer was born by blasts from two guns.
The third wife to weep sees pain build in her son.
A man hires six men to kill his great-grandson.
The granddaughter of assault hears laughter.
She wonders how to make that sound.
Her voice has been built to be soft and silent.

there is a story in each room, door to door. battered
and torn, still doesn't erase what was here. from
street to street, we walked in arms, from lizardi to
congress, finger to finger. these seeds will grow into
fields, into a beauty that always lived here. hope
within these walls, within a people who know, know no
boundaries. swim these waters, tread with head held
high. share your sorrows and struggles. hearts that
have been sunken deep, this is where it lives and
breathes. these waters ripple in each soul who enters,
stir like new beginnings, with a hope so strong.
explanation
in the summer of 2006 i had the opportunity to help
lead a group of teenagers down to new orleans,
louisiana to help in the aftermath of hurricane
katrina. to truly explain the experience would be
impossible. from helping to gut houses, to meeting the
people who lived in the area and were planning on
moving back, was an eye opening experience. almost a
year later from the storm, and from the lay of the land
you would have thought it had just happened. most of
the areas were ghost towns. we'd enter abandoned houses
with clothes and furniture strewn across each room,
walls covered with mold and watermarks that were close
to the ceiling. upon entering each house i couldn't
help but think how we were trespassing through
someone's belongings. to have everything that was once
so personal to someone, emptied throughout the house,
destroyed. remnants of a life that took place within
each room. yet, all we could do was make piles to be
sorted or eventually trashed. however, when we met the
people who lived in these houses, they had a way to
them, a sincerity, strength and hope that they would
continue to move on, that this disaster would not stop
them. it really put things in perspective, to hear
stories and see the people of new orleans (and all
areas effected by katrina) push forward and reclaim

speak softly, in my ear. lay awake in bed. thinner,
thinner. age seven, and this is what troubles the mind.
mommy's solution, this child's new year's resolution.
thinner, thinner still. young enough to be innocent,
young enough not to understand, and get it all at the
same time. speak softly in my ear, lay awake in bed.
thinner, thinner. age seven, and this is what troubles
the mind. seven years, and seven pounds. baby talk and
all. thinner, thinner still. at the age of seven your
feeling seventeen. thinner, thinner.

this isn't working. nothing moves anymore. when it rusts
over and becomes immobile. will we keep working it over?
unrecognizable at this point. but the masses have become
attached. blindly they believe all that it stands for.
what does it stand for? and will they keep us down? and
will we keep us down?

from sender to sender, i guess they've all forgotten.
from sender to sender, we don't sing the same songs.
we'll look back at all of this, in the shadow of a
building, with silence saying all we ever could. to
feel new soil under our feet and see where we traveled
(from point a to b) and all the places in between.
sometimes we don't sing the same songs. this may never
reach your ears. you never saw the intent. you never
could see the end. years of listening from sender to
sender, i guess they've all forgotten. do you see
beyond your own space?
explanation
in high school i was fortunate enough to stumble upon a
wonderful youth organization called the andover youth
services (ays). the program gave, and continues to
give, a voice to the youth of our town. furthermore, it
continues to inspire me today. beginning with one
person and a small group of high school students in
1994, it has now grown to a full time staff of 5 who
serve roughly 2000 people ranging from elementary
school to high school. all the while, they have
continued to strive in bringing a youth center to the
town. yet, there have been many people who have refused
to give support to ays and the goals they strive for,
to empower the youth. each person who works at ays has
amazing passion to create, serve and contribute
constantly. it seems few and far between that you find
a group of people who continually work so hard, with a
perpetual desire and drive to better themselves and the
community, both large and small. these are truly
inspiring people. this is for bill, glenn, suzie, tony

speak softly, in my ear. lay awake in bed. thinner,
thinner. age seven, and this is what troubles the mind.
mommy's solution, this child's new year's resolution.
thinner, thinner still. young enough to be innocent,
young enough not to understand, and get it all at the
same time. speak softly in my ear, lay awake in bed.
thinner, thinner. age seven, and this is what troubles
the mind. seven years, and seven pounds. baby talk and
all. thinner, thinner still. at the age of seven your

listen. beads of sweat glisten on the brow, before the
bow, of the speaker under great lights. one white in the
applause does indeed pause to njoy what i so desparately
want to destroy. i want those hands to stop before
contact brings joy to the specific ears of their prolific
boy. those ears that filter cries of the abused into
unused folders of night noise. well beyond the folding
chairs holding stares of idle admiration tands the army
of an unheard nation. they don't applaud. i don't
applaud. no cheers from my peers for the speaker who is
showing that we are weaker and weaker and without the
power to create doubt in the masses of the power of the
speaker who has garnered the cheers of the masses and the
fears of my peers. of america the government i am not a
resident, yet i do live in the land and stand with the
people. the speaker is the president, speaking and not
listening. sweat glistening, espcaping pores. the night
noise is getting too loud to ignore. the night noise is
getting too loud to ignore. power don't listen, but
through filters hear so yell and yell loud, enough to

shut your eyes and check your pulse. are you still awake?
are you still alive? thought to have fallen asleep 18
months ago. the blood is still flowing but not at the
rate it once was. new ideas are developed and dismissed
because they express something that is not universally
thought. here is your dollar, here is my dollar. these
are the same dollars that our father and his father have
passed to the top to give them power. the buck stops here
and i gave it to you. inspire new thought and a way of
life, different from the american way. build a home on
possibility not to be caught in the shuffle or live in a

we shout at those who can hear, but whisper in the
direction of the deaf. we are oracles and truth seers,
but we don't get up from our desks. we don't want to
follow where anyone goes. we are oceans of islands with
no shore. we shoot up into trees at eagles and crows,
but can't see through the branches anymore. we forget
our friends, even more - our foes, but we type until
our fingers are sore. we maim our face, to spite our
nose, and stop working when it makes us sore. we try to
topple columns by forming rows, and yell in ways so
easy to ignore. we're revolutionary, but just spinning.
explanation
it seems to me that a higher and higher percentage of
human interactions are faceless, anonymous, and largely
without consequence. they are conveyed through a
computer, a text message, or some other device of
convenience, and they happen very much in isolation.
there is also a vast universe of online spaces, and it
seems that many people respond to that vastness by
desperately trying to be noticed, to be distinct
amongst the countless masses, but not necessarily being
desperate to connect with anyone else in a meaningful
way. people are forgetting what it is to look another
person in the eye. the most important, and most
trivial, topics are debated vehemently (often
expertly), but because the trivial seamlessly neighbors
the important, very little gets beyond debate. very
little turns to action. a generation of people see very
clearly the problems of their day, but largely in
isolation, and the real mimics the tone of the

these months have been unforgiving, to watch her slowly
lose pace. and i sleep standing up, or not at all. but
these feelings can't amount to the struggle i see in that
room. but within it, i see a smile and i'm not sure where
that courage comes from. and if i wrote a last "goodbye"
i'd be calling it all quits, giving it all up. i know the
smells and sounds, all a little too well. so i struggle
to watch this day in and out. but long ago we built this
fire and it still glows. we fan the flames and it fills
me up. neither rain nor snow deadens it. with closed eyes
i wonder the pain, my heart fills, cries and holds her.
explanation
this is really written from the stand point of my father
and the way i imagine he may have felt and thought as he
watched my mother slowly lose her battle with cancer. as
a young child i know it was hard for me, but i was also
sheltered a bit from what was really happening. for him,
to watch the love of his life succumb to a horrible
disease at such a young age, i can only try to imagine
how very hard it was, how indescribable it must have
been, and how these feelings must still resonate within

sounds, wavering in their youth, end a silence that
followed fury. for the first time in months, the sun
rose, and battered the waking earth with light. it rained
warmth on frozen ground, and uncovered the ruins of
night. no more would giants bend the earth. water melted,
and again began to move – washing over the buried bones
of giants. gathering, from the fallen, what could be
used, the water held promise. no more would giants bend
the earth. the hands of industry had to give up their
grip, when the bodies weakened with their own girth. the
fires that engulfed the earth were, now, only ash and
silt. the giants that set them were destroyed by what
they built. water then carried the distilled remnants of
what gave them breath, but left buried what gave them
greed and guilt. for the first time, in months, the sun
rose, and battered the waking earth with light. it rained
warmth on frozen ground, and uncovered the ruins of
night. no more would giants bend the earth.
explanation
this is an addendum, or postscript, to 'the earth is on
fire'. this takes place after the imagined apocalypse,
and life has not ended – although the species that was
the architect of destruction is gone. moreover, the
biological imprint of the deceased (lacking the desperate
drive to grow for growth's sake) carries life on into a

lost control of my body. behind in the conversations i
have. two steps ahead of my two steps back. a routine
unbroken. sliding through the mindless task. lack of
sleep or longing for the love i keep. to give up all i do
would be so easy. to drop it all and be with you and all
the others i love and see real meaning in keeping that

If i love one breath too much, and hold it too close, i will die in its depth.
if i hate new air in my lungs, and push it out enough, that, too, will bring death.
if i go too far, the road will become my home.
if i stay too long, the weeds will arrest my bones.
so, i breathe in and out.
when i stray, my heart holds my home.
i resign myself to my doubts.
i accept debts, while happy to loan.
if my hand holds fire, i better put it to use.
if my enemy has water, there is no time for a truce.
my body would burn before it trickled down, and there are things to burn with the fire i found: the actors body, and the schools he founded; the tower prisons, and the ropes we're bound in.
then, retire to the mountains alone, to look down on the fields.

with tiny fingers we reach up and up, sometimes it takes
the likes of us all. and maybe it's my fault if it
doesn't work this time. maybe it was never meant to be
fine. eyes closed, we drive through streets we know so
well. i mouth all the words i'd love for you to tell.
with hopes and wishes, on tired knees, at the foot of
this bed. my mind plays back and forth all you ever said.
and it speaks to us in ways we never knew, at this point
i'm grasping on to what's left, knowing it's through.
this proves to be the hardest, even when it takes the
likes of us all. maybe we did the best that we could.
explanation
some people say that if you work hard enough anything is
possible, and while i know and believe that effort is
needed to make something work, there are certainly times
when things just weren't meant to be. there is a point
when you need to step back and reconsider the situation
and realize that even all of your effort is not going to
make a change. i'm not trying to be pessimistic, but i
think it is important to know that there are times when
reality needs to surface and take precedent to help make

He sang freedom.
over and over.
like with tourette's syndrome.
incapable of stopping until the word itself sounded right.
correct.
with the will of the important people carried out through the most important structures, like richie, i feel like a motherless child.
in four years i won't be adopted.
nor four more, nor four more years with the olive branch, toting the myth of participation and the magic of media.
like richie i feel like a motherless child.