Trapped in a cult

like father, like son.

Bowing down to prejudice,

is this really what won?

The day after the election

all my eyes could pour

were endless tears,

crying hope for no war.

On the floor of bathroom,

face buried in wet palms,

dreading the cheers,

the chants and the songs

that people would sing,

ignoring the blood

of their fellow Americans,

but not theirs, so why run

from the felon in office,

later found in the files.

Ignoring the questions,

telling reporters to smile.

But he should really destroy

the immigrant disguise,

reveal his billion-dollar strategies,

catch his subjects by surprise.

Idiotic enough to believe,

even crazier to stay.

Shrinking their heads to fit red hats

that should be thrown away

into the garbage that contains

the common sense of the president,

you would think he'd know it's gone,

but I guess he hasn't realized it yet.

Discrimination and deception,

the two main parts of his plan,

but I thought no one was illegal

on stolen land.

Now these all could be misconceptions

but since that's not correct,

all I can ask is

is it 2028 yet?

Pledge your life to liberty and justice,

raise your hand and take an oath to serve and protect,

who are you protecting though?

I watch the news and see agents hurting the innocent,

children,

our people.

Pleading self defense at a trial that will never happen because you're just another weapon the government wants to protect,

tell the reporters you were in danger,

were you?

or are you the danger.

Is it life or death for the ICE agents when the people protest against you?

Or is it life or death for them?

the people are sacrificing their lives to make a difference,

using their voices as weapons against the government,

but we are being silenced with firearms.

Renee had a family,

Alex saved lives,

and you took theirs.

You get to go home to your family tonight,

have a nice dinner with your government salary,

but when you turn the TV on and watch the news I hope they haunt you.

Sincerely,

We The People.

The beetle flies into 

the lamppost until it 

falls dead on to 

the harsh concrete below

But you want it pretty

But you want it poetic

But you want it meaningful

But you want it bearable

The shiny, green Junebug

drawn to sweet, golden

death, flies into the

captured sun until it

is taken by the

Indigo skies, by the

pinprick stars and the

moon-bright, westward winds

The gemstone-like bug

like my sweet icarus

flew too close to

the endless liquid fire

And so the 6-legged

angel falls, falls, falls

into solid seas of

man-made rock and

it is not remembered.

It is not remembered

as anything but an

insect, a dirty bug

And I made it 

pretty and poetic and 

meaningful and maybe he

will be remembered now

Because a beetle flew

into a lamppost until

it fell dead into

the cold world below

lights flash / bodies bend / like the minds behind the bathroom stalls / polished tile instead of varnished gym floor / soles (souls) unfit for dancing attempt to replicate that short they stumbled upon last night / dial of pressure cranked to red / while she focused on the back of his head / meanwhile: feeble silver light reached a pale hand / through shuttered windows / I lay there in bed / without worries of a text I didn’t send

love, you say, 

is as tenderly golden as 

buttercups in may, 

as apollo's flaxen hair. 

and you wish for a lover.

fated together

as achilles was with

his patroclus,

and psyche was with

her eros.

you are certain,

their lips will

taste of stars and light

and everything beautiful.

you are certain,

one day, 

when your eyes meet theirs,

everything

will be

right.

The weeping willow shimmers, the water droplets gleaming in her sunlit hair.

A dryad floats above her, in the air.

They unify, becoming one.

In Summer, the Willow cries with joy, enjoying the sun.

The dryad smiles, whispering to no one.

In Autumn, the Willow changes, becoming like fire.
The dryad too, both much admired.

In Winter, the dryad dreams, sorrowful and cold.

The tree itself is sobbing as it grows old.

Come spring, they are alight with flowers,

Like brides before wedding showers.

And when the willow dies,

The dryad keens,

For none was as cherished

As the dear willow queen.

I reside in a foreign land, 
An unfamiliar place 
Where I left all familiarity behind. 

I keep running, 
But my past moves faster 
Than I ever could. 

No matter how far I go, 
Across every sea, 
Through every nation, 
It follows. 

Faithful and unforgiving, 
Like a shadow 
Even on its brightest day. 

Dear Anthony Bourdain 

somewhere between the time you died and the time you lived 

i found a part of myself in the words you spoke 

this morning as i walked ever so slowly 

i caught myself thinking about you 

how you would describe the current state of the world. 

turned into some analogy from long ago that only 

i would know or so it somehow feels. 

since you’ve been gone i’ve managed to find the 

spectacular in the mundane life i live, 

and deep down i truly think that would’ve made you proud. 

i grew up in the city you once loved so dearly, 

i’ve walked the same streets as you 

and i’ve marveled at the ever clear blue sky–

sometimes at night when i walk the streets of our city 

i wonder if you’ve become part of the stars in the night sky 

watching over the world you once cherished and held close. 

throughout the years we as a society tend to forget those who have left, 

i hope somehow we will never forget you–

and the life you led, and the people you’ve inspired and changed–

for all that is to come– i hope we remember you for a long long time.