maybe the reason why
I can only write at night
is because that’s when we
were truly us
you first held me in your arms
and nervously kissed my lips
in the faint light of the stars
and now that you’re gone
the light of the stars
illuminates my will
to fill the hole you left
with anything I can
like words of my affection
for the boy that is no longer mine

They say life is beautiful,
Not lately, not today.
Because when I get to school,
Its no longer a shock
To see the flag low and blue
About another loss.

We've desensitized ourselves ,
Death no longer bothers us,
Unless it affects us.
We ignore the starving,
Unless we can get praise.
The Mass of Humans,
Are no longer good,
No longer beautiful,
No longer human...

It was just a wall
they were just kids
writing “freedom”
but those words delivered an invitation
to test what that meant
It was a tipping point
in the struggle to understand
the breathing pattern
of liberation
and freedom

they soon understood that first comes an exhalation
jubilee
the ecstasy of that introductory spark
Maybe soon there will be fireworks--
inhale.
one
long
inhale
swallowing the spark whole
I wonder if they understood when
they pulled off their fingernails
when they tore flesh
when they burned cigarettes
on their skin
when they drove them into the cold and blackness


This inhale has not been released
creating a vacuum
of fear
explosions writing
2 years of war
more than 70,000 dead
1,000 children
80,000 displaced

if you looked up
just once
you would see
Sleeping Beauty
the little girl, so restful she seemed
if you don’t ask how she died
if you looked at her hands, her hair, her face
and refused to look away
If you lengthened your drifting attention span
you would see her
and us

children,
in the cold and blackness
Learning to breathe again after watching our best friend being shot
or cousin tortured
this repetition doesn’t make anything easier
this infinity of sorrow
doesn’t shrink the farther you venture on
and as you watch this supposed infinity
through a screen
do not cease to be in content
with its vastness


I know what infinity feels like
and it is heavy
the bruises on my back
are noble
and I do believe my own children will one day tell of them
with pride on their tongues
but I cannot balance this weight
on backbone alone
they have burned my flesh
they have charred my heart
but I know the difference between
machine guns
and open palms clawing at the stars
they can come at me a million times
but someone will take my place
and hundreds will take theirs
because their smoke can only clear
but our flame has been born within us
We are candles in the sky
no matter how hard you blow
you cannot win
our flame will
not
die.

It wasn’t always this way
She was lovely once…
A beauty to make a brothers
Chest ache… And
Breath come short...

Before
Too  many dreams deferred
Deadened a too free spirit
Too many pains
Damaged a too big heart
Too many losses and not enough gains
Too much liver killing corn whiskey
And soul stealing violent man
Made it now easy
For her to enfold herself
In the tragedy of the day

Anguished runny jaundiced eyes
Sunken under fake lashes that
Look too heavy for the job
Her late idea of beautification
Trying to work with what shes got
Only to accentuate the misery
In the much worn brown face where
Cheap foundation
Does a backwards slide
Into tale-telling lines that
Scream louder a narrative
Of brokenness

And she sits… alone
Always
On that stool
In a dark and dingy
Numbing place
Leaned on one elbow
Slightly to the left
Blond wig perched on her head
Like a church lady’s pillbox hat
Only this ain’t no church
And she ain’t no lady
Not no more…

But it wasn’t always this way
She was lovely once...

Lately I've been thinking I'm invincible
and wondering if I'll spoil our romance by trying to make it last forever,
as most women do, they say,
but we both know I've never listened to 'them'.
I have this teacher that's been crying and yanking out dandelions in her yard
because what else is she supposed to do
but she tells me I'm a little more likely to develop a psychological disorder.
I think we're all psychos, really,
all depressed and anxious, at least,
and sometimes my ceiling never stops spinning,
but I think I'll be alright.

This girl
With more formal
creative writing
Experience
and
Education
gave me a few lessons tonight

One, don’t be so self indulgent
So this poem is already a joke

Two, don’t be too abstract
Well, Moon and the Stars to that!

Three, simplicity is always key
Well – this should be easy