i stand with my sisters --
hijab-wearing, undocumented
black, brown, beautiful, brilliant;
women who love women;
women who have the right
to answer to their names,
instead of a “sugar” or “honey” or “baby”
yelled by a stranger on a street corner;
terrific trans women;
women, who must have the right
to decide what should happen
to their own
bodies

i stand with my brothers --
men who love men
and men who are afraid to say that they do;
Muslim men, Latino men,
feminist men, trans men;
and those who are neither men or women,
non-binary friends of all shapes and sizes
and colors and creeds;
every person who has never felt
like they belonged

and i stand with my people --
the people of America.
we know deep in our hearts
that hate is not the answer;
and so we march on
and fight on
and force our voices out into the universe
and it is not futile,
it is not for nothing,
it will never be for nothing.

for those who believe
to love is the most important thing we'll ever do:
i stand with you.

I sure could use
a poem about me*

said no one
ever

i brush my teeth;
gargle and spit it
towards the sky

if i close my left eye
and squint with the right
i can see our astrology
signs align

i feel you next to me,
nudging against my tumor,
relaxed i submerge myself
in Arabic

there is no pain here,
no past hurts to haunt
the rest of my days
on this earth

and so i bring you
in closer, more closer
than i have ever brought
anyone

and with that,
comes the almighty
fear of God

i pray that we love
each other like
we loved one another
centuries ago...

never mind the
bullocks.

don't worry about it
the days will go on
without you;

you'll leave this planet,
pretty much like
you left the other
ones before it

your obituary has been
written with writ, your eulogy
eloquently spoken

family and friends
finding and sharing
their favorite moments

your outline in chalk,
your shape in sand,
your legend in stone

all of you, in
all of us, part of
nothing,

and spread out
like birdseeds,--

and once you're
gone for good,

your favorite barista you used
to talk to on every Sunday morning
will wonder where you went;

because it's been 2 months
since you've come by
for a grande iced ***** chai.

what's a minor
setback to a major
league failure?

wallow in despair,
a weeping willow
desperate on never
making things right

sinking further
into the bowls of the
earth, begging
every seed to bloom
and burst

but what of love
for the self? like
ancient books
buried deep
in the shelves

never to be read,

blue as the sky
when it bled;

the mind petrified and
dried out,
pregnant with dread

what is preparation
to the being desperate
for death?

you don't know,
but you speak like you do

and that, my friend

is the end.

What's important?

I failed to see that today.

Instead of enjoying myself,

I turned a form of entertainment
into need for validation.

My relationship comes first;

to keep that closeness, and
and love fulfilled above all.

What brings us together
shouldn't tear us apart.

It's just a game.

After work
I come home from a
half hour bike ride;
I don't count
the miles,

why bother?

As I place my bike
against the bookshelf
I have yet to organize

I overhear people
in the kitchen;
loud like the engines
of trains on a sunny
day in Arkansas

They're talking
about *****,
the tips
of *****

nuts;

blurry waves
of cosmic notes
against the sheets
of empty space

This is what we do
with noise when
our brains
fill to the brim
with symbols,
concepts, ideas
and worries

Do we have
real control over
our tongues?

How they click
and cluck; lash
like bullwhips
against the back
our teeth

As though
they are in a hurry
to get our mouths
to turn the
thoughts into

daggers;

sling them wherever
and hope they
hit a target;

any target will do