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.


Re: Miniature

For years, it has been in space, away and far,
traveling the same path until it could name each star.
It doesn’t know its birthday or why it’s here.
It doesn’t know how these voices got into its ear.
All it knows is that it first awoke feeling much bigger than it feels now.
When it was born, it felt as if all the stars were taking a bow,
and the spinning globes across the sky were there to welcome its presence.
And it used to dream of escaping this circle it’s been traveling since,
and roam every rock and crater of this heaven it calls home.
Time, however, proved that Earth would not pick up the phone.

It could not move on its own, it could not turn or budge or fall.
Not a single star knew its dreams, or that it could dream at all.
The only thing the stars see is its designed path.
So, now, it is silent and small and wrecked from age’s wrath.
Earth plans to keep it in trek for years to come, and never thought to ask,
but it, indeed, does feel, these days, that it is not up to the task.
Its body was once so big that it carried all of Earth’s hope inside of it.
Now, it wants to quit.
It has begun to think this immorality that the Earth prized it with is a curse.
All it wants now is a hearse.
It wonders if the only way to escape this same ethereal scene
is to reduce its soul down to nothing, to wipe the slate clean.
It wonders if it must become smaller than it has ever felt before
in order to finally travel the surface of the home it cannot explore.

Blue Lipstick for American Girls

I bought dark blue lipstick yesterday for you.
I bought an album for you too.
I’m wasting all my money on you.
We were lying on your bed and you were talking all night
and I was listening and kissing you with my laughs.
Just my laughs.
My eyelids were lead, but I forced them open for hours for you.
David Bowie? Chocolate? Anything for you.
I want to spend all my time on you –
Fresh-eyed, but not yet old enough to be naive.
I want to be a French man for you –
to take you to the Louvre, take you at the Louvre,
and buy you souvenirs to bring back
to American girls like you.
I’m spending all my money on the absence of you.


anxiety state under the compulsion of analysis,
it’s an honor to be included.
sexual mechanisms
prove my holiness,
constantly monitored;
objective of his journey.
stories of humiliation, backlash blues.
the hearing of voices swelling in the clearing of
positive deeds of wrong-doing.
what are men celebrating?
The relative impotence of my husband

money got such a power
self-satisfaction in a worldly sense
protective procedure that lessens the fear
true Religion – where is their God?
sieve of Satan rouse the frenzy
age of peace and security
enchantment pride, terror Ideal
I saw headlines
they understood-skeptical
the sensible sun, scales of justice
lobster is delicious, raise my bottle in a toast

long, long trip – Scrap of Life
I’d kill myself, doctor
to be sound alone
swallowed up in the sand, not long to run.

you’re on hold.

note: this is a political subconscious technique poem, consisting of lines drawn from the Quran and the Bible, and works by James Joyce, Susan Howe, Katie Rain Hill, and Malcolm X.

Reason and Heart

Truth was once a silent neutrality
in the war between my soul and my intellect.
Both parties raged so eloquently that it seemed
I could not speak a word against either.
The foundations of the modern world seemed to rip the two apart,
the soul being undermined by the intellect’s theories,
while the intellect was hushed by the soul’s conviction.
But in my time of weakness, wisdom spoke for me.
Wisdom looked upon both and chided their war,
scolded the childish thinking that clouded my path towards truth.
It is a fool that thinks one could win over the other, that
intellect or heart could cancel the other out,
and nevertheless end up in the house of truth.
The Creator of the scientific world and the Creator of the passionate man
are one and the same.
Therefore, I, in the Creator’s image, house both reason and heart.
I could not speak against either because I am truly not at war with reason or heart.
Within my blessed room in the house of truth,
my intelligence and my soul are not at odds;
they form a natural alliance, a spiritual coup,
attaining wisdom from the God who created both.
It seemed I could not speak against either, for the reason of my faith.
My faith and my wisdom come not from opposites sides of this vessel,
but from acceptance of the unity of their Creator.





Sea Storm: extended version

violently rocking in the ocean,
alone and helpless in this abandoned ship.
a whale circling me,
taunting my shaken heart with its size, but
it’s not the whale I fear.
the large beast
submerged under me, threatening, even
with its momentary absences,
to capsize my body,
shred me to tiny pieces of a hated picture,
rip me apart like spaces in a paragraph,
my words and thoughts disconnected and
sent desperately into the seas.
That’s not what I fear, not this whale that swims under me.
I fear the ocean that my thoughts are sent into when the whale tosses me overboard,
the whale’s home, my guest-house that is becoming more and more familiar.
the whale can cease to torment me
when it tires, and it will.
but the waves of that eternal ocean cannot and will not ever cease.
The storms are white and rapid,
crashing against the sides of my ship,
weathered and torn from the storm,
over and over,
stealing my prayers with its currents,
so that my cries may never reach the heavens,
and replacing them with more and more fear.
I don’t fear the whale,
the living and breathing tool that the ocean uses
for evocation of its horror.
no, my shaken and broken breath belongs to the bed of water I am sailing upon.
racing heart, beating sails, I belong to it.
and after my body has taken the beating,
after the horror film has played its end,
the water will calm its waves down so that I may feel nothing,
not even the pain that its whale kept me alive with.
I will become a trapped, circling animal in its enclosure,
slapping myself across ships and quaking hearts.

Sea Storm

It is not the whale that I fear.
That large beast bellows empty threats,
submerged directly under me,
but it is not what I fear.
Instead, I fear the whale’s home.
The whale is mortal, but the sea is not.
That beast’s tortures may cease, but the sea’s
waves are eternally present, eternally threatening.
The storms are white and rapid; they hit the sides of my
small and sea-worn ship over and over.
It steals the prayers I cry out with its currents,
washing aboard no answers, but fear.
It is not the whale, the evocation of the ocean’s horror,
that truly causes me harm.
The water retains my anxious and broken lungs,
until it spits me out onto a sweet saving shoreline,
promising to return again if ever it wanted me.