Friend Collectors

Shadows in a breathless living room flashing

echoes of a muttering television.  The glow

of a laptop fills the kitchen with friend

collectors.  People needing the cracks sealed

in their meaningless lives, lifted with fake smiles

and friendships as false as cosmetic breasts.  Past

bullies with rolling eyes, commanding mouses

on familiar faces. Friend requests popping through

the monitor like a gunshot of splintered memories. 

Emotionally deleted members left to sweep up flake

filled promises like cookie crumbs on the tile of My-

space.  The scent of fizzling aerosol disguises the

stench of their Twittered false hoods. Then with a sudden

empowering press of denial, I erase them from my face-

book.

by Gina Duran-Salazar

Compeling Signs

A storm of yellow signs struck Foothill Boulevard, attached to menacing
faces and determined eyes.  Cross voices shouting “Yes on 8,” sent a chill
marching across my skin.  A trembling fear made my heart fall, from irony
of a nearing Halloween and sheet less figures haunting the busy streets
of Rancho Cucamonga.  Signs like freedom of speech, made me wonder
where my voice went.  Signs of freedom of religion and bruised comments
like “Read a bible,”  made me wonder why they felt God stopped loving me.
I wondered how it was for people who fought for interracial marriage.
Did it swarm their emotions and sting their hearts like a mob of angry wasps?
I wondered how it was for people who fought for civil rights.
Did it press against their ego like a stomping boot and compel their strength?
I wondered how it was for people who fought against religious persecution.
Did it drown their beliefs and suffocate their relationship with humanity?  
I wondered, or perhaps there was no need to wonder at all as we protest
“No on 8,” fighting towards equality for all yesterday, tomorrow and today.

 

By Gina Duran-Salazar

(Revision) February Sunrise

Chills of an early February morning breeze
numbs pale toes on a white sand beach;
with soft light seeping through a fading night,
while warm water creeps up the Golf Coast.

Numb pale toes on a white sand beach
on Anna Maria Island as the sun peeks in.
Warm water creeps up the Golf Coast
welcoming a current of family affections

On Anna Maria Island as the sun peeks in.
Golden generosities radiate warmth,
welcoming a current of family affections
amongst the songs of seagulls in gleeful flight.

Golden generosities radiate warmth,
rising with the harmonic laughter of children;
wakeful as the songs of seagulls in gleeful flight
excited to feel the stream of a fresh day’s air.  

Chills of an early February morning breeze
with soft light seeping through a fading night,
rising with the harmonic laughter of children
excited to feel the stream of a fresh day’s air. 

My Mother’s Changing Kitchen

My mother’s kitchen is bold and full of life,
much like herself, the emerald green leaves
of her plants grow wild. The walls change
colors with her moods during the passing
months. The selections of cuisine cook
in the oven alternating from spicy to bland
as her ever evolving interests die out
with her dispositions. The front door opens
as my sister Tawni breezes in with her romping
Bully and twinkle toed Chihuahua ready
to venture the world and pull my mother
away from her many redecorating schemes.

The Waking Thunder

I felt the world rejected me,

awakening me with all that shouting,

monstrous booms, rumbling and rolling,

falling bodies on the roof top.

My eyes popped open, bold curse words on a page,

bright sparks of blue and purple flashing between

me and my sleep, my mind doing the 100 yard dash

breathing heavily rushing to win first place.

All night disturbed by nature’s fury, my Chihuahua quivering,

just as exasperated as me, bright even without electricity.

All night I jumped up from bed, like a tsunami

roused by the shifting plates, the ocean wrestling the earth,

gravity pulling it down again. The next afternoon 

I collapsed deep into my sheets, sinking far into my mattress

accepting the grumbles as a melody.