My last day began with rain, a drumming beat on the dirt,
showering songs to announce descent to earth.
Rain taunting my feet, I am on the sidewalk,
sheltered by a makeshift roof and lying trees.
The cars beyond me toss tears
off themselves, wheels swerve and then steady.
Then a bell chimes, crisp and bird-like, first slow and steady secrets,
then a playful tune to celebrate the rain’s arrival.
The rain, the bells-
one does not cancel the other out, but rather coincide with the other.
A perfect harmony that the human heart will but watch.
Sweet, sweet cinnamon in a soy satin river,
frothy and smooth- it warms my lips before finding solace
in my esophagus. The rain is cold, the coffee is hot,
my breath belongs to the rain.
I am an alien, unwelcome to the rain’s domain?
The rain is a vein to the plants, to the trees
but it is cold to me-
I hide from it but splash in it, pretend it falls just for me,
I ignore the cries of the tree and hope the rain won’t ignore me.
I cannot stop the rain, but the rain will always stop me.

I sit here and write these words and hear those bells and taste the cinnamon dew
and I am

My insatiable human lips will never feel the peace of grass drinking its morning brew,
but I do find myself here, feeling all the shades of blue the sky has ever been,
and I ask the rain?
but I wonder
does it want me to look or to look away?
Does the rain want me to notice
or to let it be?
Does it think me a monster, does it think an alien of me?
the rain wants not, asks not, begs not,
and in that, I could never be the rain.
Now I am inside, hidden,
like a child in the womb, momentarily blind
and deaf to pain.
The trickle of raindrops is now a
heavy, consistent, foreboding heat of voices-human voices that sound like mine and that don’t sound like mine,
all invading the stream the rain gave birth to.
In here, I cannot breathe, I cannot think-
I am being coerced into suffocation, coerced into emotions but devoid of them?
The rain is the eye and the shelter is the mouth,
always talking but never seeing.
a fire that desperately wants to touch the rain-
we are put out by our own choice.
But the pleasure of the drowning human voice!
The longing moans of our anguish, the desperation in our cries!
Every single word and every single wall we build to keep the rain out
is saying please break in, love me like I scream to the rain,
love me like I’m scared to.

But the rock never cries to the rain
and in that, I can never be the rock-
like veins bursting out from the skin I am human and always will be,
I wish the rain was desperate like me and I wish the rain would beg for me.



My name is Jack and this is my throne of leaves and lobsters.
I scratched and clawed and bit and stretched my way here.

I’m having my coffee now, ma’am, I asked you not to bother me.
You feel like a slave. I hear you, I hear you.
Sometimes I feel like a slave too.
Like when I see the Russian mountains outside my window mock at my borrowed power.-
I try at immortality every time my queen undresses.

I really don’t have the time to hear your questions.
You feel like a slave, you’ve said this to me before.
Yes, I know how you feel because I am a slave too.
I feel chains around my ankles when I toss and turn on the grass
And it laughs at my nature, it laughs at my biology.
But I’ll tell you something. My queen never laughs at me.
I never feel like a slave in our bed. (I am not Jack).

This coffee is bitter now, get me sugar please just a little.
Lips and throat and stomach and blood (mine is the same as yours).
We feel like slaves because we are slaves.
My name is Jack (but it hasn’t always been).
Do you understand ma’am-
I am my queen’s Jack; my body is hers. my body, my body.
My borrowed divinity seems powerless in our unfertilized wombs.
Immortal only in pleasure, you and me, sister -  
we are slaves to these mountains.

A Refraction of Light

A refraction of light
to create the sovereign judge –
no objective measure.
courts of equity –
means of peace are good,
making good on what is endeavored.

what does it take?

well, the most men and women I’ve ever seen.
so many cry out far at the same time.
we don’t own a conversation,
there is never a new one.

we are all the best things, the worst of the best,
you, I, womb, food bank – a refraction of the light to
change from the heat of the
I am that which I


I loved it so.

and I’m sure it is good to have the answer, to read
this article and read it all over again
and again
but then I scream- oh help us, we beg
and I hear us and we hear us now; we cannot close the tab
and I don’t know why but we will help, will always help because
all of us
know, already knew.


The House

The lounge chair in the entrance was imported from Turkey.
The spotless floor is marble, the playful mixing of
white and black, joining together and then pulling apart again.
The living room invites you to watch, but not join.
The game is already set and full.
Ripples, smoothed away in the blood red fabric of a rug,
placed  to make these borders into a model home,
so easily skewed off grid by clumsy feet.
Guests can have such clumsy feet.
A polished raven black banister outlining lacquered cream stairs,
leading to dim-lit bedrooms, where the charade of wealth ends.

Up there, home means fighting and sleeping and crying
and kissing and staying home sick for days.
Bowls of fake fruit and silver leaves won’t be found,
rather, half empty bottles and jeans with holes in the knees,
            tossed to the floor, that even the lowest of guests will never see.
No silk curtains, tied aside with ribbons to impose a scene,
but stained silk sheets, crumpled and lazily half-drawn for the use of
            a daughter that is only home at night and a cat, 
who’s favorite time is the night.
A fur coat from Nice hangs in the hallway downstairs that no one
dares to wear,
but up in these bedrooms, worn-out and ragged
      jackets and sweaters, thrown into closets and to the ends of beds,
are used the next day or to comfort and clothe in the chill of midnight.