There is a green light,
refusing to take shape.
He speaks to me in laughs
and leaves messages in the sunsets.
He nods, as if there is something
he knows that I'll never know.
And he laughs
and laughs
and laughs.
Without a word, it is understood
that I’m the fawn,
slipping on the ice with tangled legs,
and he watches with a silent smile—
a smile I can’t see, but I feel.
the same smile stitched on
with thread spun by
the infinite secrets of the universe.
A smile that tells me
a fawn finds her footing
before night falls.

So I can’t trust the Times, Fox News, or the Post.
Too left or too right, just parasites hungry for hosts.
From you, fellow tax-paying citizen, I take note.
I listen to you — that angry defense of your vote.
Are you going to tell me what I am able to trust?
Before this land of the free is left to ruins and rust?
Silence speaks volumes,
like the encyclopedia I loved, circa ‘94—
devoured for hours on my living floor.
(Sidenote: That encyclopedia included several pages on
the Holocaust. But then, I suppose,
the Encyclopedia Britannica shouldn’t be trusted either?)
So what must I trust if I can’t share the news
without being challenged because of my views?
You say I can’t trust the posted or printed, so instead,
I'll trust something much louder in my heart and my head.  
I'll trust that empowered white supremacy in a place
where "all men are created equal," is something I refuse to embrace.
I'll trust that our freedom of speech is not our freedom to hate.
Black, brown, yellow, white— that’s not up for debate.
I'll trust that hope will swallow such hate in the blink of an eye—
choke the breath from its lungs and drop a beat to its cry.

And then I'll trust that history will one day forget
that we've failed to keep its pages from repeating just yet.

Come find me under tiger striped skies.
I’ll be the one sitting in front of a piano painted
a shade of faded limes with yellowed keys;
I’ll be the one who finally learned how to read notes
just as well as words.
Between compositions, I’ll wait for you.
I’ll run my fingers through these tall grasses
that live to freely dance against golden sunsets—
that never bury themselves behind unreachable horizons.
I’ll count each blade as a stroke of bewilderment
induced by a world who can’t accept that it is,
in fact, part of something so much bigger than itself.
Come find me, and I’ll teach you
how to speak the music that can be touched—
the music that dances on the tongue—
the music that will make you love again.

Twenty-eight has toes
butted up against a pitch black promise.
It tastes like mint tea and sucralose,
semi-sweet wine, and runny egg yolks.
It's colonies of bats, strung still in a cave,
bursting into flight whenever provoked.
Twenty-eight has a thousand eyes
looking in every direction
and nimble fingers holding a pocket watch
ticking only in double time.
It understands death
but still can't help but take its days for granted.
Twenty-eight pays rent
but would rather sleep on the beach tonight.
It practices the alchemy that can change
base metal regrets into precious gold vision.
It beats and breathes on the assumption
that it has tomorrows to spend.
Twenty-eight walks a tightrope woven
with expectations and balances only
by the weight of its dreams.
It trudges through thickets and thorns
if only to tell the stories behind its scars.
Terrifyingly beautiful,
that twenty-eight.

America, when will you step outside of yourself?
When will you realize that one-size does not fit all?
I’d say we’ve outgrown our government,
but freedom of speech is not freedom of consequence.
America, the air is too thin up in your tall towers.
Is it time to dismantle?
I’d be happy living in rubble if everyone felt valued.
America, what do I tell your children
when they ask why we’re going to war?
They will ask, as will the fear in their eyes.
America, I have another question,
have you ever been grabbed by the *****?
America, do you think the world
will be able to see past your new orange glow?
Will they see your citizens pining for progress?
Will they laugh or will they cower
at the sight of us tearing each other apart?
America, you are no longer a melting ***.
You are a child holding a sectioned dinner plate,
and the thought of trying something new
fills you with abhorrence.
America, the world is naturally colorful.
The world might see this, but you do not.
America, a locked door and a loaded gun won’t keep
a nuclear missile from stopping by to visit.
You must know that.
America, how will you end?
Will I be there to watch?

America, are you listening?

Enveloped tightly in a space
that once provided enough
but never promised a lifetime.
She twists and unfurls
beneath its surface,
ignorant of even her own colors,
her shape, her scent, her purpose.
And when she breaks open,
it is not without fear of wilting.
It is not without fateful wonder.
Still, she blooms,
catching the sun
just as the universe intended.

I wonder what song
was playing in your head
when you suddenly realized
that you were dead.
Shim-sham', shakin' your way
right back into the universe.
And I’m trying, just trying
to follow your breadcrumbs.