you made my blood clot,
so slowly and gently,
coagulating beneath your faint touch.

on flaxen sheets of rough cotton
I watched your plants
rolling their limbs out your open window.
they sprawled themselves, unravelling,
yearning for the gentle kiss
of the suns rays.
an almost ****** photosynthesis.
and for you I would sprawl myself out too,
and with the same eagerness
absorb every scent of yours into my flesh,
and drink desperately from your soul
like a cacti in its first summer shower
since '89.

and your final gasp,
with me, but a sponge
for your every metaphoric suppuration,
and literal secretion.
and you were transfixed there,
spurting auras of sin and love.
a final burst of ecstasy,
you soon became my anticoagulant.

you seeped into my bloodstream,
reversing this gentle coagulation.

three pregnant women visited me in my sleep. they were standing near my bed, with different objects in each of their hands. the first one, young and vivid, with golden hair and blue eyes that could only compare to the summer sky, raised her hand and spoke to me. she said, as she handed me whatever she was holding: "this compass is the sum of all the places you've been and you will never see it turn itself to reveal the faces of the people you've met there". a golden compass fell into my chest as I opened my eyes, scared. then, she grabbed my hand and made me touch her belly. quickly, she stepped aside and the second woman got closer to me. her skin showed marks, not scars, but like, those marks you get in your face when you wake up and you've been sleeping in a wrong position and your pillow gets drawn all over your face. her hair was short and her eyes were green. she spoke to me and told me: "whatever I have here, it's not meant for you to use, this is a gift for whoever you are not today, and probably will never be". she opened her hands upon me and a tiny mirror fell upon me. she then grabbed my hand and made me touch her belly. I could feel her belly button popping out and it was kinda gross. she silently stepped aside but the third one never moved. she leaned her head to one side. her hair was beautiful. it was full of curls that looked like autumn leaves twisting in the wind. but she just stood there, looking at me, and cried. I started crying too, as she opened her hand and dropped a tiny silver figure of a cat. I tried to get up but my chest seemed to weight a ton. I suddenly got swallowed into what I like to think was another dream I can't remember, but I couldn't feel sadness anymore. and though I couldn't say a single word, I know by heart those were the mothers I could've had. I was there, in different versions and different meanings of the same one I am now, but I couldn't see that. the third one was crying. not because she was sad, but because she knew. after twenty four years I've finally realized it is not me who matters, and it is not what hurts me that actually hurts, but it is who I am not. and all of the things that aren't there.

Sitting inside a cloud of shisha--
with subtle hints of strawberry shimmying
through the midnight moonlight,
the incandescent embers
radiate from their core
forming ancient runic shapes
reminding me of a time beyond the concept of before....

when elders spoke with ashes in their words
traveling to worlds within looking through
the windows to each other's souls
where the rhythm of a heartbeat
and the melody of breathing cacophonously echos
through our gray matter canyons.
A time when millennia passed by in milliseconds
as everyone danced like a flame grinding on a candle wick
wailing with ecstasy--
every bead of sweat slithering from head to feet
arousing like a maddening kundalini explosion--
a honey-like nectar glowing throughout our body
pouring out of us brilliantly brighter than any white-hot sun!

I think
this might be a reason for my fascination
when it comes to inhaling fire--
despite my earth-natured tendencies
I'm still hypnotized by the first gift to mankind;
light.

The unorthodox are the true prophets
for their ways are those of the future,
so in the now, most kings get their head cut off.

But as death is the greatest prophet,
for it never fails to come true,
their martyrdom proves their ways truer than the footsteps of their fathers,
so in the face of adversities;
never be afraid to be a lonely Jesus on the Cross.

I had a scary dream once
But it’s a dream that makes sense now.
In that dream,
The government set up a “program”
Where when you reached the age of 50 you were “terminated”-
In that dream, I was trying to hide my “loved” ones
As the government soldiers came to get them.

Every day after school, I go to Barnes&Nobles; to study
And read up on books I can’t afford to buy. And every day around
4:15 PM, these two old retired couple come in to read
And eat. The same routine every time; the wife points out where
They’re gonna sit (9 times out of 10 it’s the same table as yesterday).
The husband then goes to order their small size drinks and two cookies.
When he comes back, he grabs a stack of magazines and they just flip em’-
Sit there with a dull look on their faces and read for hours.
Amazed, I ask myself silently each time when I see them,
“so this is what life amounts to?”

I now see the government’s point.

Five minute street artists
and insomnia mongers.
****** drunk blondes
and finger snapping phat booties.

Street geniuses
bred by Machiavellian philosophies
cypher dreams over tokes
of marijuana smoke.

Color worshipping narcotic traffickers,  
and bread winners
parole corners
sporting fitted caps and twisting fingers.

Senile war veterans
beg for change in cardboard boxes
from the American dreams
they afforded.

Hard workers with every ethnicity
molded into each pore of their face,
rub shoulders with tourists at traffic stops
barely escaping tires crushing their feet.

Sartorial geniuses with no pants
switch hips in knock-off stellos heels,
selling the origin of the world on avenues
next to Arab Halal food.

Cooperate ties and blue collars chafe ***** on subways.
nodding in and out of Daily News articles  
while oxygen blessed by asparagus ****
pump through their noses.

Summa *** laude number runners dictate economies
From sky-crapper offices,
And powered rain swallows their concrete each winter,
With no apologies.

Dedicated to stillborn fetuses, 99 cent Malt Liquor and Existentialism
1.
Nymphomaniac tree huggers
And overweight bisexual vegetarians
Swallowing phentermine poison to stay fit.

2.
Funky fresh *******  
throwing pigs at St. Augustine’s pear tree
and frolicking abortions over Moloch’s philoprogenitiveness,

3.
While sipping barbecue sauce dipped in Lipton tea,
dancing around adhesive bonfires
reciting memories of holocaust, the Kristallnacht nights
and beautiful words suffered by ancestors lost.

4.
Inhale chicken noodle soup, with a side of Lithium,
And prance to Literacy class to combat envisionment
With free association conceptual constructions,

5.
Computerized like Prometheus’ fire burning through SmartBoards
In classrooms where the poison of heterosexual history
Is fed to boys in skirts cursed by Adam’s apple,

6.
Baptized by social norms and locked away in hopeless closets
According to the Tautology of Leviticus…
until they cut their breath by the vein of soteriology;

7.
Misunderstanding of God’s words
Covets the innocent to early graves
In biblical paratactic irony…like God betting Satan for a Job.

8.
Rub fried chicken oil on Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ skin
and soil his white pride with ***** flavor,
for revenge  On the Properties of Things

9.
and howl out in glory of victory
over totes of  lickerish piper methysticum blunts
that beg the conundrum,
'What is the origin of this world?'
'Ether,' he replied.
But it is not ether!
Nor Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
It is Dada. Dada. Dada!
  10.
For this is a record of the life stories of the greatest minds and geniuses of your generation,
written in boys and girls
who mimicked Basquiat’s genius and tagged bathroom walls with abstract philosophies like “Love is a prime number” and “ the weight of Duncan McDougall’s soul can only be found on the 15th of October”
who drank vampirish gulps of Vicodin while consoling themselves with aphorisms such as: “don’t rue the misses, you don’t need a Mrs. when you’re elevated by chemical kisses”
11.
Who stood naked in mirrors, weeping, for they were a mystery to themselves, but a great talent and soon to be legend to some.
Who lit cannabis in loneliness and waltzed naked with their ghosts, fantasizing about ****** tomatoes and Corpus Christi Mexican Jazz.
Who composed psychedelic anthems from dreams that were lost in ghettoes where virginities were lost for loaves of bread, for the hunger of bread.
12.
Who wrote suicide notes on a toilet seat, contemplating the texture of Marshall Mathers’ favorite underwear and whether the color green was an invention of **** Germany.
Who used to love their lovers in darkness and colored the streets of Manhattan with rainbows on June 24, 2011 to mark the date lady liberty finally bought a new pair of glasses.
13.
Who lost musical talents to a Wine-house and ended up in a whine-house where lobotomy was subsequently prescribed by the milligram.
Who indulged in pharmaceutical vices and when asked why replied simply, every recursively enumerable set is Diophantine.
Who diagnosed themselves with “start ****-itis” and self medicated by eating Fifinellas at the stroke of each midnight.
Who rubbed paraprosdokians on their skin and occupied Wall Street in search of a new euphemism for being American.
Who poured Alkalizer on a dead moose and kicked it while feasting on the divine question, “why does Rice play Texas?”
14.
who got bored with conventional relationships and bought the Origin of the World on street corners from vixens nicknamed “Jezebel” and climaxed atop of them screaming  “I’m in Babylon, the great Mother of ******!”
Who attempted suicides upon suicides upon suicides, in Oakland, until they were shipped away to private catholic universities in Rhode Island, where the history of Colossus was being taught.
15.
who serenaded love interests with four letter curse words at open bars where Kubla Khan was read and Tartars kings were licked all over like holy communion *****.
Who drove home with the spirits of wine and crashed on telephone poles where their obituaries were written in their prime, leaving their mothers weeping and calling congress to reconsider Prohibition.
16.
Who mixed Redbull with Propofol and drank the juxtaposition galore only to be woken up the next morning dead in their sleep.
Who tattooed rat poison packages with goodwill messages such as “****** divided by Water =6th day of creation” or “Seroquel + Brett Favre = St. Patrick”,
who went speedballing with Basquiat during autoscopy and woke up wondering the cost of Nautilus in Albuquerque.
17.
who took 33 hallelujah 1800 tequila jello shots and daydreamed about laying on Mithras’ grave, yelling, beetlejuice, beetlejuice…beetlejuice.
who found the truths of the Bible invalid by the miscalculation of Pi in 1 Kings 7, verse 3, and mailed death on anthrax letters to Reagan in protest.
18.
who sat empty bellied at breakfast tables wondering the temperature of satellites at Lagrangian points,  only to soon catch fire in their tongues and speak Labyrinth soliloquies that ended in
19.
Zion,
Where Google knows every answer.
In Zion
Where the youth, tomorrow’s future, quote a ***** named Hova better than they can quote Jehovah.
In Zion
Where *******’s art was used as weapon during the Cold war.
20.
In Zion
Where sartorial geniuses where no pants,
In Zion
Where David Kato Kisule is the secret hero of these words, for he was taken at a time
In Zion
Where we were supposed to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

21.
In Zion,
Where the youth bear the scarlet letter X for they are a problem to tradition and hold no definition for the future, for they have discovered
In Zion
That the origin of this world is in their living eyes, and not in the dictionary of their ancestors who lived
In Zion
when the epitome of the literature of life ended in Revelation of Amen and Shantih shantih shantih;
this is a record of the greatest minds and geniuses there ever was, written
in Zion
where the meaninglessness and nothingness of Dada reigns, and the trinity of life now lives in the Subject, subjective and subjectivity.

Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence
And start scrambling eggs,
Ending sentences with verbs,
Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi
And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions

Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon
Where violet doesn’t recognize blue
As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew,
And then your brain smiles to your ******

And you choke on a giggle
And wiggle an index finger just a little
And remember black widows
Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies

Like wearing Armani suits barefoot
And breathing through your skin
Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms
And leave a beautiful corpse
With great stories suffocating inside

And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous.
Now ever heard a genius cry?
‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry.
Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry.

Ever read these written words?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die
And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure—
The universal language of immaculate deception
That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia

Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil
With oxygen choking your nostrils
And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger
Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny

Like how a dose of metamorphosis
And a 1mg of juxtaposition
Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon.
But ever heard a musical note?  
Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness.

Ever heard the sound of silence?
Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity
Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar,
Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets
Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love.

Ever heard a Mockingjay sing?
Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide,
Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love
And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence
Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence
And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.

I remember the morning Tuesday was invented—
how gleeful we sang across the streets—
forgetting that the day after tomorrow would be Thor’s day
and that one we didn’t own, too.

I remember the bathroom stalls, the sins of Leviticus
we survived
comforting our confusion with the indulgence that God too
love man, kind.

Let the purgatory full of half good men sing about their sins
with pride and laugh at the moons and stars for being without limbs
and tongues to protest their innocence and Idontgiveadamnisms;

For I remember being fed the tenets of heterosexual history in elementary school
yet wondering why queer gods are the ones named after the planets.