Poetry

cold dreamy steel, sweating in bed, the dreams i have swirling in my head where i’m always the monster, never a god, and without decency, I couldn’t even be… I should have been a murderer, devoid of sadness for ruthless deeds. I should have been a knocker, send that bovine to its knees. The barking … Read morecoded messages

Dear Refugee from Wars of Our Own Making, I love you. I love that you walked, ran, swam, took buses, trains and bicycles to flee a war that we custom made for you. I love that you exist – without your existence, I would have to simply hate war but your sweet innocence defiled fills … Read moreI <3 War

these quiet moments, after the insanity so ordinary, I think things like, “I should get ready for bed, now.” when you wet the bed until into kindergarten, what does it mean to get ready? the kids across the street, with whom I shared being caught with matches, in the alley, shared a bed, 3 of … Read moreGetting Ready For Bed

african wildlife. Hayden is playing. As soon as my fingers hit the keys, my mind stops playing its evil games. when i’m trying to sleep, there’s stories abound. poetry. Now, there’s nothing. not even enough to get angry about. Its better to sleep a lot, if the poetry lies on the edges. it just makes … Read moreWhat are you?

fuck it, the dreamy distance, so enabled, empowered; you, I’ve enshrined the sounds of speech across ears deaf is a peace unknown to the burdened – oh to be blind also: to not endure the inevitable, the squired response upon horseback, black and white, such treats, ignorance. fuck it, the despotic womb, encumbering embarrassment’s entrance, … Read moreprivilege is murdering Anwar Al-Awaki

In the Sanitarium, the voices grate with harsh laughter un-comforted as the hyena’s howls at night. The garbled tongue of indifference to the ears of civilized men, ricocheting off concrete walls, delivers nonsense and shame. To belong to such an affront to conscience is to pull teeth without anesthetics, without pleasantries, without consideration of the … Read moreIn The Sanitarium

we’re all so fucking busy, and I just wanna die. the words don’t visit anymore, strangers knocking on my door begging for what I don’t have – a door – fuck it – i put on some Reggae, some Phenomden. I’m still an immigrant, never felt the slap of the welcome X Pat, the unrighteous … Read moreAbsent Disdain

There was a year or so when I thought I might be dead. I spoke to everyone I met about the whole of it – how it was impossible to prove we were alive and kicking. Voltaire took the easy way out, but I know I might still be dead – Everyone looked at me … Read moreWhen I Was Dead

Everything is a dreamI just need to remember how to fly