LUKAYO.COM

Category: Poetry

  • [Poem] From Tinder to Flame

    From Tinder To Flame
    Chapter 1 of Uriel’s Prophecies

    I meet Uriel in a park across the street
    From a local cafe in Little Italy,
    Their mask bright and glittering with fractal
    Holographic flames, covering half their face
    Short thick curls of their beard peeping
    Out in the gaps of the string looped
    Around ears pierced — the left stretched out
    While the right dangle-flashes a sun disc.
    The dark skin of their brows shimmers with
    Citrine body glitter and watchful jet eyes
    Are limned in russet-gold eyeliner,
    Staring out from underneath a black beanie
    Patched with an image of a yellow sword.
    Perched on a picnic table, scuffed boots
    With spikes, olive jeans ripped at the knees,
    Wrapped in a long leather jacket lined
    In sorrel faux fur.
    They’re looking down, at their phone,
    As I approach, thumb gliding across
    Letters as they text verses in a
    Notepad app, rocking their head to
    A beat only they can hear.

    “Are you an angel–?” I begin
    And they snort-giggle, eyes rolling,
    Still scribble-typing while they answer.
    “Cheesy pick up line. Just cuz we met
    On a dating app doesn’t mean you have
    To go all out. You know, attraction
    To anything, desire itself, is a force
    A movement towards completion.
    Some people think completion is fucking
    But sometimes it’s like Voltron, y’know,
    You need that other robot to make the
    Bigger robot that’ll save the world.”

    I didn’t know, but I wanted to,
    As I swung up beside them,
    Hips touching, we huddled together
    Against the temperamental wind
    Knifing across so-called Ottawa.

    “Whatcha writing about?”

    “The world is ending, always,”
    Uriel announces. “Even as it’s
    Always beginning. We shape it,
    Creations and Prophecies.
    We’re in a plague, y’know,
    And alliances and lines
    Are being drawn, but even the
    Simplest things like from a
    Super market are tainted
    By stuff we can’t even see.
    Do we take on those sins
    Of corporations and sweatshops
    Of government exploitation
    And paramilitary murders
    And the displacement of the
    Stewards of the lands
    And the endless scarring marring
    Pollution of the earth mother
    Every time we buy something?
    Feed into the hungry
    Spider demon that is
    Global capitalism, a squatting
    Ever-hungry wraith hording
    Profits and resources
    In their belly? Ever-shifting
    To keep from being destroyed
    Planting dreams of
    Hierarchy-supremacies
    And Individual-Only Truths.”

    My gloved fingers flex
    In my pockets, as I study
    The crooked grass beneath
    The picnic bench, the
    Sounds of traffic and excitable
    Doggos flooding the silence
    Of Uriel’s tirade.

    “So… um, are you looking for a
    Hookup then, or a partner…?”
    I ask tentatively.
    “Because your profile wasn’t clear…”

    They swing those onyx-bright eyes
    At me, intent. “I’m looking for a prophet.
    Someone to sing ancient warnings
    With, and dance of a future
    Where we are all reconnected again
    Through the gates of the spirit worlds,
    Communally healing the soul wounds
    Of humanity, of this planet. You in?”

    I take their hand firmly with both of mine
    As an answer, and our bodies sway
    In the space between words.

    When we disentangle, it is with
    Awkward muffled mumblings
    And sanitizer rubbed all over
    Fingers and palms and knuckles.
    But the promise of reunion
    Was laid out in the skipping
    Steps on cracked pavement
    That lead us each home.

    Want to have access to more poems earlier or some that have never been released? Become a patron on Patreon for as little as $1/month to support my Elders and healing work among my communities.

  • Poem: Lessons in Unprofitability

    This is what I learned

    you start off full of excitement and hope
    finally! something that you believe in!
    finally! something that can help people!
    finally! something… just

    but underneath it all is weeping relief that says
    “finally, I’m gonna be saved”

    This is what I learned

    next, you think it’s about your resume
    not enough volunteer experience?
    not the right kind of schooling?
    is your lived experience enough?
    are you enough?

    but it was never about you
    it was about what they could become
    if they swallowed you whole

    This is what I learned

    you begin to believe, then
    that it must be about family
    it’s not like working corporate
    it’s not like working government
    it’s not at all for profit so
    they want to take care of you
    they want you to belong

    but no matter how much they say
    they can be the kind of family you never had
    the kind of family that you deserve
    they end up being exactly the kind of family
    you ran away from, the kind that threatened you
    with raised voice, burning gaze, clenched first,
    behind-the-back whispers

    This is what I learned

    you begin to lose sense of what’s right
    are you not righteous enough?
    are you not left enough?
    what is your rightful place?
    are you being left behind?

    but it was never about you knowing
    they never told you your rights from the beginning
    what you should be paid or owed or worth to them
    what they’re not allowed to do to you
    that they’re not supposed to make you into part
    of a fresh crop of martyrs for a movement
    they believe they own

    This is what I learned

    after the first time they lie to you, hurt you
    you must save every email,
    screenshot every text exchange,
    record every meeting

    This is what I learned

    build a support network outside of the org
    so if HR does nothing –if there’s no HR at all–
    your support can start planning an exit for you

    This is what I learned

    keep insisting that you only check emails
    and messages during work hours–
    do. not. pick. up.
    don’t let their ghost follow you home

    This is what I learned

    grieve. rage. grieve.
    you loved them.
    you trusted them.

    This is what I learned

    you go back to school,
    or corporate, or government,
    but the heartbreak follows

    This is what I learned

    even if you win the lawsuit,
    the human rights claim,
    the social media campaign–
    you still feel loss

    This is what I learned

    even if you never work again,
    even if you work for yourself,
    even if you go back or try another one,
    you are never the same again

    This is what I learned

    just because it’s called “non-profit”
    doesn’t mean they won’t put the money
    above your life

    This is what I learned

    just because it’s an “industrial complex”
    doesn’t mean it’s not also a simple scam

    This is what I learned

    just because they’re a “charity”
    doesn’t mean they’re your salvation

    —

    Note: My microphone is not working right now, so I’ll be releasing a better audio version in about a month. But I thought it would be nice to offer a poem up in the middle of Patron-only articles.

  • Throwback Thursday: Charity (2011)

    https://youtu.be/sMyBEQNyVCY

    Image Description: A photo of the a bronze statue of a Filipina woman, the bust of her head larger than the background depicting the Philippine Revolution. The words at the top read: “Tandang Sora Memorial Shrine at Himlayang Pilipino, Quezon City, Philippines”. The title reads “Charity”. The website addresses are “Lukayo.com” and “www.patreon.com/lukayo”.

    Content Warning: About the prison and military industrial complex, mentions torture, and alludes to sexual assault.

    Dedicated to my she-roes: b. binaohan, Beatriz Colmo, Charity, Dino, Sass Rogando Sasot, and all transpinay and pinay writers and organizers for justice and freedom. This poem is for you.

    The heat clings to me as if I had just wooed it with
    Well-placed words and its favourite drink
    Making it hard to think, it’s so hot that the sweat on my thighs
    Evaporates faster than the breaths in my sighs
    But I’m not thinking about that because I’m here
    Looking into her eyes

    Ignoring her ragged clothes scrubbed clean with diligence
    And the men outside with their guns and vigilance
    The dirt floor and grey cracked walls,
    The people pressed up like animals in concrete stalls
    The strip searches and razor-wire fear
    But I’m not thinking about that because I’m here

    Looking into her eyes
    And listening to every word that drops from her lips
    Because this is the least that’s owed to her
    Because this is the least that I can give

    And when she’s finished speaking
    My silence hangs like a stone around my neck
    Heavy with all the things that you wouldn’t expect
    Like my aunt’s medical career
    My grandfather’s typing skills
    My parents taking me and my brother away from these coconut tree covered hills
    From these smoking volcanoes and smoky-mirrored unlicensed vans
    From these ocean-drenched beaches and smog-stained cities I call my homeland
    Growing up in a country where we can talk trash about our politicians on Twitter
    Form unions, have anarchist book fairs, and march in the streets when we feel bitter
    Have lengthy discussions about the state of the world in air-conditioned classrooms
    Not worry about the tab when doctors finally see us about a mild cold or grave wound
    My silence is filled with every decision that lead me here

    Where I’m looking into her eyes
    Where I’m the visitor and she’s the inmate
    And my presence is just a mere consolation prize
    For what we both really want:
    Her freedom

    Before this moment, I thought I knew what a hero was supposed to be
    Some nerdy white guy with another personality and random luck
    That made him big and green or spider-keen, or faster than a flying machine
    They were the ones that kept the world clean from tyranny and villainy
    Taking all the bad guys away from civilized society
    And putting them here
    And I’m looking into her eyes
    And I’m listening to the words that drop from her lips
    Like her name: Charity
    Charity Dino.

    Charity Dino was a schoolteacher who loved to read
    But when she saw corporations displacing families, she saw the need
    To gather up the people, form a union, start a protest
    Isn’t that what they do in democracies? Isn’t that what they do in the West?
    And on a stretch of road one November morning came rolling
    An unmarked van that grabbed her off her feet
    Shoved a bag over her head and tied her up like a piece of meat
    Brought her to a cell that would be her home for two weeks
    They used her body and her sex, threatened her family and friends
    To get her to confess to something she didn’t even comprehend
    “You’re a communist! A terrorist! Sign the paper, and we’ll stop.”
    How can you confess to something you were not?
    So they threw her in prison charged with carrying explosives
    Though she never held a weapon, never hurt a person, and they know this
    What they didn’t know was that Charity had with her community and truth
    Not just Sonny and Billy, her colleagues who were tortured too
    But dozens of activists who made the call throughout the world
    That here in this island country, let these voices be heard
    And then came visitors, letters, food rations and supplies
    Charity wrote and read every day, she began to organize from the inside

    And the higher-ups grew nervous, posted military around this little jail
    Threatened to kill her with a hired gun, but all to no avail
    So a man in a uniform with metals on his chest
    Came down to see her and said “We can erase this entire mess.
    Die in prison a monster, or join the army a hero– this is your choice.”
    But Charity wasn’t listening to his words, it was his voice
    “You’re the one who kidnapped and tortured me,” she said with recognition.
    And he shrugged his shoulders, “So? What’s your decision?”
    “I’m not thinking about that because I’m here,” she said.
    “Looking into your eyes.
    And this is what I realize.
    I’d rather die in prison serving the people
    Then join and serve the likes of you.
    Now get out. I’ve got some organizing to do.”

    So what’s a hero? What’s a terrorist?
    What exactly are prisons for?
    Are the villains in these holding cells
    Or in offices behind closed doors?
    How many more like Charity, and the Talisay 3,
    From Burma to Cuba, from Egypt to Haiti
    From China to the United States, from Zimbabwe to Iran
    From Venezuela to Cambodia to Azerbaijan
    Must be kidnapped and killed, or tortured and imprisoned
    Until the rest of us finally make our own decision?
    But I’m not thinking about that because I’m here.

    Looking into her eyes.
    And she doesn’t ask me to speak, doesn’t ask me to decide.
    But I choose to offer her my privilege, my poetry, my potential to do more
    Because this is the least that is owed to her.
    Because that’s what heroes are for.

    Note: Arrested, tortured, and incarcerated in November 2009, Charity Dino, Billy Batrina and Sony Rolegio spent more than 3 years as political prisoners in my homeland, the Philippines, all because they wanted to start a peasant union. Over that period many activists came to visit them, fundraise for legal aid, and spread the word. One of those activists was me, who wrote this small poem and used it to fundraise money in the Filipino community in Ottawa, as well as to raise awareness and put pressure on the government by petitions written by Canadian labour unions and churches. On the morning of December 26, 2013, all charges were dismissed because of lack of evidence, and Billy, Sony, and Charity were finally free to go home. Never stop writing and organizing– we can become accomplices in each other’s struggle and make a difference.

    If you liked this content, please become a patron, where all funds raised goes directly to healing work in my communities. Link to original article here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/26731218

  • Fresh Friday: Bitoon

    Before the word “trauma” was taken from the Greeks
    By the English and brought to
    Luzon and Bisayan shores
    via American false promises of salvation
    My people knew it already
    In the stories of creation
    I knew it already
    In the rhythm of my family’s name

    When I listen to these social workers
    and doctors and psychiatrists
    Speak on their theories of wounding
    I sense they cannot begin to imagine
    The layers of what being called “Estrella” means.
    This colonizing Spanish word,
    with my English-Canadian tongue,
    I tell people it is the Bikol Bitoon (BEE-TOE-OHN)
    with a hard-headed snap
    “I am Lukayo Bitoon– it means Trickster Star”.

    But what it means is more than just a “star”
    What it means is light and heat, loss and rage,
    So much emptiness in vast spaces
    So much grief in mistakes that can never be undone
    So much power and grace reaching through time
    What it means is trauma
    And so much more than trauma

    Bitoon was the youngest grandchild of Languit and Tubigan
    Torn asunder into millions upon millions
    Of glittering fragments
    Torn asunder from misplaced rage,
    From a betrayal she had never been a part of
    To know Bitoon, to even see a fraction of her,
    Above us, shining through what seems like impossible distances,
    Is to know trauma and what happens after

    Astrology and astronomy have become my love languages
    My prayers to my oldest ancestors
    My conversations with Bitoon as I lay my head on her lap
    The constellation of her hair twinkling around me
    Where skeptics see scams and scientists see expanding points
    Where warmongers see resources to weaponize
    And fortunetellers see portents to monetize

    I see my family
    And she does not tell me all wounds will heal perfectly
    She does not tell me that which is broken apart can
    come back together in the end
    (She is infinitely growing after all)
    She simply exists as a testament to what she has become
    And is becoming
    As she holds all my pain and joys in the glow of her light

    If you liked what you read, click on the link below and become a monthly patron to gain access to archived poetry, workshop materials, and more. By becoming a patron, you support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders and healers that mentor me.

  • Throwback Thursday: Face It (2011)

    Image Description: On a pink wall there is a mirror with a pink frame. In the mirror there are partial reflections of a door way, green plants, and their shadows. The text on top of the image reads: “face it” and “lukayo.com” and “www.patreon.com/lukayo”.

    Content Warning: abuse, substance abuse, self-harm

    it
    is like
    trying to construct my future
    out of the photos of someone else’s past
    fooling me into thinking the pieces fit
    just because they’re in rectangular blocks
    as if I can really build something here
    outside of the playground of
    rusty abandoned expectations
    and the raw failings of the strangers who raised me
    as long as none of the pictures carry
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    staring into a mirror engraved with the lines
    of his left eye, my features distorted by
    the shape of his pupil
    sclera background and iris-bright
    believing that there’s a ghost of me
    living in his head for keepsake
    cuddling his corpus callosum
    and tickling his medulla oblangata
    till all his thoughts are watermarked with
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    screaming
    in an abandoned park mountaintop at midnight
    face-in-pillow empty nest heartbreak
    1st therapy session
    1st rock concert
    1st triple orgasm
    while phantom ex-lovers demand Scott-Pilgrim-like duels
    and current lovers become disruptor shields
    and a makeshift secret treehouse
    build around the weathered bark of
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    her kisses know all the passwords
    her ears trace confessions in my throat-pulsing moans
    her fingers caressing these weary cheekbones
    and button up nose and whip eye lashes
    and cracked slam-spitting lips
    till I grasp after her touch
    by getting reacquainted with
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    the persistent penny in my pocket
    reminding me to save
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    breathing through the
    bruises of disrespect and the
    hollows of self-neglect
    trying to recognize
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    finally feeling safe enough
    to peel off the designer brand new skin,
    armoured make-up, too cool for you look
    and reveal dreams that live on
    my
    own
    face

    it
    on
    my
    own

    face it

    …

    darling

    I am so sorry
    that I left you behind
    that I gave you away
    that I told you to trust them
    and believe them and obey

    I am so sorry
    that I told you love was sacrifice and pain
    that you were worthless if you
    couldn’t make them stay

    I am so sorry
    I starved you of touch, food, and rest
    because I thought you weren’t good enough yet

    I am so sorry
    that when you were crying
    I drowned you with beer and
    other people’s fists to keep you quiet

    I am so sorry
    I only wrote you lines fit
    for a bit part tragic villain

    I am so sorry
    I told you no one would ever be willing
    to love
    that
    kind of
    face

    it was wrong

    face it

    I was wrong

    I couldn’t see what was right in front of
    my
    own
    face

    it

    is the promise

    that from now on

    no more shaming
    no more denying
    no more punishing
    no more lying
    no more running
    from this reflection that cannot be erased

    this is the promise

    to love on my own

    this is the promise

    to love face-to-face

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/throwback-face-23322261

  • Throwback Thursday: Sticks & Stones

    Image Description: A black-and-white ink drawing of two dark-skinned hands holding each other. The hands are framed in a diamond/square, where each side of the diamond/square is made of different things. On the bottom, the left side is made of a long stick and the right side is made out of stones, rocks, and pebbles. On the top, the left side is made out of a sword (specifically a tabak/machete from Bicol, Luzon, Philippines), and the right side is made out of a robotic arm. The font has the title “STICKS & STONES” twice, following the borders of the diamond/square. Lukayo’s signature in English and basahan/baybayin is inside the frame, near the side made out of stones.

    Content Warning: sui* ideation, bullying, violence

    Sticks & Stones (Original 2008, Updated 2018)

    [sung in the original “sticks and stones” rhyme]
    Sticks and stones may break my bones
    And words can cut and hurt me
    But if I know I’m not alone
    Then my strength won’t desert me
    [/end song]

    She is sitting in a bathroom stall, holding her insides in
    Cradling her guts in her arms, waiting for the slaughter to begin
    She knows it’s too late
    They’ve got her surrounded
    There’s nothing left to do
    But let the crowd in
    And take her
    Down

    He’s standing by the door, getting ready to gear up
    He puts each armor plate in place, helmet down, fear tucked
    Deep inside metal and machine
    They can’t touch him here
    Covered up, unseen
    To face them
    Down

    How did she get to this place? She wonders.
    It began with a swarm, of dead flesh and stark hunger
    Ambushed, slammed, pushed—she started fighting
    Drew her sword, steel flashing bright lightning
    Cut them to pieces but still they kept coming
    And now she’s grown tired, tired of running

    How did he get to this place? He wonders.
    In a suit of mecha, marching down the street like thunder
    They launch missiles at him, but they bounce off his shields
    Damage done to the outer core, so he adjusts his data fields
    The enemy gathers their forces, amassing might and clout
    He has to come out sometime, and so they’ll wait him out

    All alone she kneels, the blade pressed to her skin
    Cuz she’d rather die with dignity than let any of them win
    She’d rather let her blood run out and cut off her own head
    Than let them make her just like them– unrelenting, cold, undead

    And the tanks, the jet fighters, the bombs and the blasts
    Hound him through city rubble, shields failing at last
    In one final attempt, he seeks refuge in the forbidden
    Hoping they won’t follow, hoping he’ll stay hidden

    And she comes out, a warrior, ready for a final sacrifice
    And he climbs out of his robot suit, confused and wide-eyed

    She says: “What the hell are you doing in the girl’s washroom?”

    He says: “Why are you standing there holding a knife to your wrist?”

    And they look at each other and see the bruises, the blisters,
    His broken glasses, the trash in his hair, the scrapes on her fists

    And they look at each other, and slowly, so tentative
    She reaches out her hand, and he looks at it, contemplative

    She whispers, “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you, I know how to fight.”
    But he shakes his head while he squeezes her hand tight.

    “I know what’s outside, and what’s waiting for us
    It’s not like the movies or anime or the comic books
    Sometimes the grown-ups don’t come, sometimes we’re left on our own
    Sometimes there are too many zombies and robotic drones
    And I know we’re just kids and we’ve done nothing wrong
    We just look different and sing and dance to different songs
    But sometimes you have to stop running,
    Sometimes you have to stop fighting
    And hold your head high
    Sometimes you have to be the example,
    by ignoring their lies

    Cuz sticks and stones may break my bones
    And words can cut and hurt me
    But if I know I’m not alone
    Then my strength won’t desert me.”

    And with that, they walked hand in hand, outside.

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem or get a larger version of the art piece? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21682579

  • Throwback Thursday: The Civilizer

    Original 2008; Revised 2018

    Hello.

    Have you ever felt that your life was savage, barbaric, less than ideal?

    Tired of living close with the earth?

    Bored of your rich, oral traditions?

    Suddenly doubting the validity of the herbal knowledge that’s served your community for hundreds of years?

    Fed up with the symbiotic relationship of humans, animals, and the land, which maintain a balanced ecosystem?

    Irritated with your animistic views and the cultural heritage that’s an intrinsic part of your self-worth?

    Ever had that deep down feeling that somehow, on some intrinsic level, you weren’t actually human?

    Well, suffer no more!

    Introducing…

    The Civilizer!

    The Civilizer comes with Freedom, Democracy, Equality, Individualism, the Pursuit of Happiness, and a Judeo-Christian set of morals and ethics—all completely free!

    Benefits include:

    A fair and democratic system that can only be used by the rich and incorporated!

    Worldwide technologically advanced media to disseminate one-sided perspectives rife with cultural stereotypes!

    An allopathic medicinal society that is mostly driven by offering cures instead of actually curing you!

    Education that privileges productivity over knowledge!

    Material success symbolized by items you don’t actually need!

    And best of all, whiteness, heterosexuality, one form of masculinity, one form of relationship arrangement, one form of body type, and one form of monotheism as the Golden Standard we should all try to achieve!

    All of this and more is scientifically proven to come from The Civilizer!

    Don’t just stare like a fence-sitting bisexual!

    If you call now, we have a very special offer where we take all of the terrible parts of you that make you inhuman, as well as your natural resources and cheap labour, and replace it with the Civilizer’s benefits—but now with 50% more democracy and 200% more freedom!

    If you call within the next ten minutes, we’ll throw in guilt and self-hatred as you strive towards Civilizer ideals but can’t quite break free from your inferior indigenous roots!

    This is a limited time offer only!

    Order the Civilizer now!

    Dominators are standing by.

    Some side effects may include slavery, misogyny, homophobia, violent revolution, patriarchy, racism, imperialism, colonialism, cultural genocide, segregation, stereotyping, diaspora, exploitation, sweatshops, free trade agreements, debt, obesity, starvation, war, and more.

    The Civilizer refuses to be held responsible for any and all side effects that may ensue.

    The Civilizer! Cleaning up the world one nation at a time!

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21547819

  • Fresh Friday: By Tooth and Claw

    For Luka

    When Bear came to me in a dream,
    I felt alone in the world and
    abandoned by Creator
    Her form seemed like a hulking threat
    A silent judgement
    Yet she waited till I approached
    Night after night
    year after year
    She was my strength and my balm
    To my tears and aches
    my joys and hopes
    Until I could finally hear the meaning
    In her soft and patient gaze
    Which was this

    By tooth and claw, I make this vow
    From heart to heart, for here and now
    As long as we both serve Creation
    And our people through soul’s vocation
    Let our paths be joined together
    For time with you is sacred treasure

    Bear taught me what it was to love
    Not in the way that is splashed
    On screens and poured out on
    Pages meant to profit
    But like a stream that exists for itself
    Yet feeds the woods around it
    She taught me what it was to serve
    Not in the way the two-leggeds have
    Stolen their Mother
    And traded each other
    for gold and greed
    But like a tree whose fruit feeds a four-legged
    And the four-legged whose life nurtures the tree
    Night after night
    Year after year
    I learned from her
    Until I could finally return
    Her soft and patient gaze
    With my own
    That told her

    By tooth and claw, I make this vow
    From heart to heart, for here and now
    As long as we both serve Creation
    And our people through soul’s vocation
    Let our paths be joined together
    For time with you is sacred treasure

    So when you came to me, my love
    I was not unprepared
    Though at first I thought of loving you
    Like what is splashed on screens
    And poured out on pages
    Though at first I thought of serving you
    To steal your embrace
    For my own greed
    Yet you waited through my approaches
    Night after night
    Year after year
    Until I could finally hear
    The Wolf’s howl in your eyes
    Which told me

    By tooth and claw, I make this vow
    From heart to heart, for here and now
    As long as we both serve Creation
    And our people through soul’s vocation
    Let our paths be joined together
    For time with you is sacred treasure

    So when I come to you now, my love
    Even when you feel alone in the world and
    abandoned by Creator
    Even when my form seems like a hulking threat
    A silent judgment
    I will wait until you approach
    Night after night
    Year after year
    I can be a strength and a balm
    To your tears and aches
    Your joys and hopes
    Until you finally hear the meaning
    In my soft and patient gaze
    Which is this

    By tooth and claw, I make this vow
    From heart to heart, for here and now
    As long as we both serve Creation
    And our people through soul’s vocation
    Let our paths be joined together
    For time with you is sacred treasure

    As we come into this dream of love and service
    I thank the Wolf in you for receiving it
    I thank the Bear in me for giving it
    I thank Creator for never abandoning us
    By giving us community and each other

    Wanna hear this poem and prayer? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Check out the link below and become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/fresh-friday-by-21285072

  • Throwback Thursday: Scars

    Image Description: A black-and-white ink drawing of an eye with dark sclera emerging out of a wound with three stitches on either side. The word “SCARS” is superimposed on top and faded, with Lukayo’s signature in English and basahan/baybayin under the “R” and “S” of the word “SCARS”.

    Content Warning: allusions to death, sexual assault, self-harm, and bloodplay.

    Scars (Original 2008, Updated 2018)

    We push our boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like trophies
    And only lovers & doctors
    mothers & morticians
    Traced by hand and stethoscope and lips
    See these bodies go out with more than they came in with
    Bodies full of scars till we become subway system maps
    Each tendril of hard, healed flesh an underground tourist trap
    Staring down long dark tunnels of memory
    Hopping on that train of thought & theory
    Speeding all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like loathing
    A monster in human-skin-clothing
    Awkward in my kilt and ironed-out-white-blouse
    Because every boy was going to be my redemption
    Every boy my ticket out, every boy
    Had a height and a depth like a mountain
    So full they almost supernova’d right there
    In the locker-lined hallways
    And smoke-laced, booze-stained parties
    Their explosions forcing inside me all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like armor
    Because what doesn’t kill us only breaks us stronger
    And she is crying as I hold her close in the candle light
    Bedroom door locked as tight as her fingers around that knife
    And I’m wrestling with her pain, I’m pleading “baby, please let go”
    And one night she’ll toss the blade across the room in a fever
    Another night she’ll kiss me hard and ask me to do it with her
    Players in an Anne Rice-ian fairy tale fantasy
    Not satisfied with hickies of violets and daisies
    We had to go all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like forest fires
    Evidence against the two-faced and the liars
    While we rage against family dramas or corporate spires
    Fueled and sparked by our half-healed criss-crosses
    To keep fighting, keep fighting against our losses
    Because every wound made must be given time to close
    Every fissure in our fleshly fabric is as much a lesson as a blow
    To our pride, to our hubris, to our ego, to our core
    And if that’s not the point of dying,
    then what the fuck are we living for?
    We have to go all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, skin sprouting scars
    Until we burst open and finally
    reach that sky full of stars

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21260746

  • Fresh Friday: A Litany of Things That Were Never Yours For The Taking

    Content Warning: Sexual assault, franchise colonialism, settler colonialism, anti-Black racism, cisgenderism/transphobia, misogyny, femmephobia

    Image description: A photograph taken by Lukayo Estrella of the Mayon Volcano, with coconut trees and lush jungle in the foreground. The text over the photograph reads: “A Litany of Things That Were Never Yours For the Taking” and “patreon.com/lukayo“.

    A Litany of Things That Were Never Yours For The Taking by Lukayo Estrella

    My lips, my ass, my chest, my genitals, my skin
    Were never yours for the taking

    My skirt, my tights, my lipstick, my eyeliner, my outfit
    Were never yours for the taking

    My community of femmes and tender-hearted skin-showers
    Were never yours for the taking

    My land of volcanos and coconuts and underground metals
    Were never yours for the taking

    This land of beaver and white pine and tobacco and underground oil
    Were never yours for the taking

    This body and spirit you called your “island princess” and your “Asian school girl” and your “Pocahontas”
    Were never yours for the taking

    This body and spirit you said should be grateful a gay man would touch to prove I was a “real boy”
    Were never yours for the taking

    This body and spirit you said didn’t matter what gender as long as you could have me underneath you
    Were never yours for the taking

    Our language, our culture, our spirituality, our tattoos and art, the things you can profit from while my people starve
    Were never yours for the taking

    The Black bodies, and culture, and spirituality and art, the things you can profit from while Black people starve
    Were never yours for the taking

    I end this litany with a prayer and a curse
    Like my great grandmother Lola Colo would have done
    Village healer who prayed to angels from Latin bibles
    And called the ancestors to our rice-laden tables
    My father says I have her face

    So here is my prayer:

    Dearest Gugurang and Bathala
    Dearest Creator
    Dearest Ancestors
    Whose presence is always at my back
    Even when the weight of oppression is unbearable
    Even when the slurs and the sneers cut my flesh
    Even when they use my skin colour as an excuse to rape me
    Even when they use my clothes as an excuse to rape me
    Even when they use my genitals as an excuse to rape me
    Even when they use my disability as an excuse to rape me
    Even when they use my sexuality as an excuse to rape me
    Even when they use their superiority as an excuse to rape us and the earth

    Give me strength

    From the hundreds of years of repelling colonization from our shores and our hearts
    That I can share with those indigenous to these lands who have been repelling
    Colonization from their shores and hearts
    That I can share with those who have been stolen and enslaved and fighting for freedom

    Give me strength

    From the many babae and bakla and tibo and asog, the feminine and nonbinary
    That runs in my bloodlines and burns in my magma-hot chest
    Whose bodies died on the front line and were fed to crocodiles
    Whose curses still linger on their lips to be heard in my ears

    Give me strength

    From every body and spirit who shared space with me
    And believed me and supported me and uplifted me
    And told me I never, ever, fucking deserved this

    Give me strength

    To keep screaming to the fucking heavens
    And curling my small brown fists
    And existing, silent, and immovable
    To prove
    That there are some things, some people, some spirits in this world
    That cannot be taken
    That will keep fighting and loving and breathing
    For a world of offerings and consent

    And here is my curse:

    To all you conquistadors
    Still out there, thinking that
    Bodies and land are just here for the taking

    Lintian!
    May your heart be struck by lightning
    So that the flames of compassion consume you
    Until your life is devoted to giving back
    Until your every word is a prayer of healing and reparations
    Until your every deed is a litany of community transformation
    Until you make sure there are no longer any other conquistadors left
    Who believe there is anything that is theirs just for the taking

    Wanna hear the whole poem and have a larger version of this photo that I took? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Check out the link below and become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me,

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21116998

The site will be down Friday, June 12th from 8pm until Midnight EST for webhost transfer and maintenance.

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