I don’t know

If there is one thing

I can thank

For getting me through life

I can thank all the people who

Stood beside me

And wiped my tears

The people who held my hand

And gave me pep talks in the bathroom

I can thank the people for being my heroes

But I can also thank the things

I can thank the books

That let me get lost

And escape from reality

When it gets too much

Too heavy

The books that I know so well

I can quote word for word

And trace the title in my sleep

The books that I can disappear in

Leave the real world

And enter

I could thank the books for being my hero

I could thank the music

That floods my ears

And fills my heart with a sense of relief

And peace

The lyrics that I can resonate with

So deeply

The melody that floats in my head

The beat that I can match my breathing too

The music that graces my ears

And soothes my mind

I could thank the music

For being my hero

I can thank the moments

The memories

That sent sparks of joy

Up into my soul

Fireworks of happiness

The memories that fill my camera roll

And my dreams at night

The little moments

Of butterflies

And sunny skies

Of laughter

And freedom

The moments and memories

That remind me that there is good

In a world where it doesn’t always feel like it

I could thank the moments and memories

For being my hero

I could thank my dreams

For bringing me into another world

Full of pastel colors

And shining stars

The dreams that fill my thoughts at night

Instead of nightmares

And follow me into the day

As I sit through boring classes

I could thank my my dreams

For being my hero

I don’t know the one thing

That makes life as special as it is

Maybe it is just life

The life I get to lead

With people who wipe my tears

And laugh with me until my ribs hurt

With the books that unlock a doorway into another world

And are filled with stories that bring me hope

The life I get to lead

With music that has a beat and a melody that can ground me

And lyrics that pull at my heart

With memories and moments

That I get to remember forever

And cause fireworks in my soul

The life I get to live

With dreams that float through my head at night

And show me possibilities

So thank you

Thank you to the life I lead

And the things I call my heroes

There was a man who worked on the corner of Bellevue and St. James six days a week, who only came out at dusk to have a smoke. I usually saw him from a distance, across from the park. He was weary, very weary. He always took off his dirtied blue apron and wiped it on his soaked brow. He always stared down at the steps he was sitting on as he took long drags on his cigarette. His guests would mutter among themselves as he squatted outside. But he never cared. It was his establishment, his house. 

Today was like any Friday, except that this particular sunset was casting an exceptionally fiery hue upon everything. Besides that, the street hummed with the normal sounds of evening commuters going home, or for the young people, going out. It was going to be a busy evening, he said to himself. He squinted at the park beyond the bustling street and gazed numbly at the fat red sun drowning under the park's horizon. 

The man took out a scarred leather notebook and a stick of crisp charcoal. He cut to a clean page, and began sketching, of what I did not know exactly. I always saw him drawing. I think it was only natural for him to have this ritual; he did it to alleviate his mind from the repetitiveness of his labor; he drew so he could stay in control. From his perspective on the steps I could only imagine the world being nothing but the same every day. Perhaps he was looking for, or imagining, a change in his monotone world, something different each day to sketch, something that contrasted with kitchen work and orders. Or perhaps I was overthinking it. 

The red sun was gone, and the white street lights flickered on. The man blew the excess charcoal off the pages and snapped shut the old leather covers of his notebook. He stood up and ground what remained of his cigarette underneath his heel. The sky was starting to turn purple. He straightened his apron, checked the street, and breathed one final breath of the fresh outdoor air. He opened the door, and resigned himself back into his old domain. 

Once upon a time,

A woman won a lottery.

But she did not keep

The tens of thousands of dollars.

Where did they go, then? 

They couldn’t have disappeared,

Couldn’t have been thrown down,

Couldn’t have been thrust,

Every single dollar,

Into the lake.

She loved a young man once,

One that loved her back.

They loved each other,

Stuck flowers in each other’s hair

Joked like little children

Ran around, laughing

Went on walks until the sun set

Wore matching clothes

Made light of every little thing, just for each other

They grew old together, 

With wizened faces

Crinkled eyes

And deep smile lines

On one cold night, 

The man noticed she was shivering,

So he put his blanket on her,

Even though he was cold too.

He soon caught a cold,

And his health was ailing.

One day

They were walking

To the grocery store

And the old man tripped 

On a stone,

On the bridge over a lake

The old woman tried to help him

But she was too frail,

And he was too heavy.

He was lost,

Straight before her eyes

And she couldn’t believe it.

She had a heart attack,

And was sent to the hospital.

When she was healed, 

She mourned for her husband

And spent days at home,

Doing nothing,

Downcast,

Sullen,

Depressed.

The old woman 

Downed cups of wine,

Started to gamble,

And lost game after game

Until she won the lottery.

But she did not keep the money,

She rushed to the bridge, 

And threw the money in the lake

So that her husband could spend it

And be well fed.

She knew 

That when she died,

She would be placed into the lake, alongside her husband

Where they could spend their days together,

With happiness

And fortune.

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.