i guess maybe the problem lies in the fact that my
memories are so falibile,
dizzying. i guess maybe the problem is that i’ve
beaten this dead horse a million
times already. i guess maybe the problem of finding an individual memory
stems from the fact that you
have always been sunshine
to me. i can taste grape and feel like i’m choking, six pieces of gum and
nothing but
overwhelming
laughing
laughing
laughing.

i can feel the texture of letter tiles as we
spell out nonsense,
inside jokes inside our own bubble
of comfort. there are stitches in my sides: you have always
been my favorite, you know?
“every day feels like summer with you,” stitches
stitches in my sides, falling apart at the seams
in the best way i’ve ever known. everything good is with you; every sunshine, warmth
upon my skin, cloudless skies, they’re all
you,
laughing
laughing
laughing.

i can hear the buzzing in my skin, the beehive sound of a tattoo gun inking
your laughter into my
collarbone. it’s sunny, red, a desert landscape that feels like
home.
i can taste apple soda out of a glass bottle, and it brings me to the cemetery
across the street from the grocery store, feeling
edgy in our private-school uniforms
sitting on tombstones.
other people, other friends. they’re there too, but right now
all i can see is you:
laughing,
sunny,
haloed.

i can see the pedestal that you
get put upon-- by me by me by me--
and then i open the door
to your black kia soul
and i can hear myself complaining about
all the trash i have to move.
you’re no helios,
you’re not
apollo.
you’re just
the memory
of home,
breathlessly grinning.

racist man with orange skin as if tanning beds are not just an excuse for us to pretend like we've got more melanin

i guess maybe the problem lies in the fact that memories are so falibile,
dizzying. i guess maybe the problem is that i’ve beaten this bush a million
times already. i guess maybe the problem stems from the fact that you are always sunny
to me. i can taste grape and feel like i’m choking, six pieces of gum and nothing but overwhelming
laughing laughing laughing.
i can feel the texture of letter tiles as we spell out nonsense inside jokes inside our own bubble
of comfort. i can feel the stitches in my sides: you have always been my favorite, you know?
“every day feels like summer with you,” stitches
stitches in my sides, falling apart at the seams
in the best way i’ve ever known. everything good is with you; every sunshine, warmth upon my skin, cloudless
skies, they’re all you, laughing. laughing. laughing.
i can hear the buzzing in my skin, the beehive sound of a tattoo gun inking your laughter into my
skin. it’s sunny, red, a desert landscape that feels like feels like home.
i can taste apple soda, out of a glass bottle, and it brings me to cemeteries across the street from
price chopper, feeling edgy in our private-school uniforms sitting on tombstones. other people,
other friends. they’re there too, but right now all i can see is you: laughing, sunny, haloed. maybe
i can see sometimes the pedestal you get put up on, and then i open the door to your black kia soul
and i can hear myself complaining about all the trash i have to move. you’re no helios, not apollo.
just
home.

--and the grand canyon is
getting smaller behind you
while your heart is getting
bigger, ready to burst,
craving a return to the journey:
when red dust reflected on
your sunglasses instead of
your side mirrors, the rearview,
when the car mileage hadn't hit
halfway. something
about the southwest settles
under your skin like an itch.
it's almost like-- it feels like--
you're finally finding out that
this must be what it is to be
homesick.

like the ones who know me best
are the ones who don’t know me at all

like i’ve been staring
at this mirror for
so long that i
can’t remember what i’m
looking at anymore

how much better is it,
do you think,
to be who we are now
instead of who we were?

here’s the damnedest thing about “hopeless romantics”:

they’ll splinter their own bones into kindling
to build the fire that warms you,
as if putting a match to their insides
might cauterize the wounds
left behind by the greedy lovers and too-rough hands
that set their hearts to bleeding in the first place

you see, the poets spared no pains when they dubbed
the especially romantic “the hopeless”

they are hopelessly betrothed to the warfare,
the burning insanity
of a soul madly in love with love—
the way the heart rages against the brain.

there is nothing more american than superman.
i know this, not born but raised in kansas.
at the movies, when the man of steel tells
the government agent that “ma’am he’s from kansas,”
the entire theatre starts applauding.
he is the only illegal alien people from kansas will ever clap for.
when i was little, my father used to tried convince me
that he was alien, just not an illegal one,
because, well, it was technically true.
he’s just like superman, really, a boy living in a world
that’s not quite his that he loves anyways.
white kids in my classes never laugh at that story
but i still think it’s pretty funny. white kids in my classes never
like a lot of things i keep talking about, writing about.
because they’re always talkin’ about bootstraps
like everyone is born with the same pair of shoes
and i can never stand that.
because america is not a dream, it’s a meritocracy.
i mean, superman, that’s why we love you, right?
you’re the best and we only like things that are different
when they are cutting edge, bodies sharp
but not knife blades, nothing too lethal.
the reason we should allow immigrants in the country is
because of how they stimulate the economy,
the reason we should fund public education
is to keep kids “off the streets,”
the reason we should stop burning our planet alive
is because we have nowhere else to go,
the reason we should care about another person is always
bound to how they affect us. and i’m tired of penning arguments,
aiming to teach people how grow empathy a few years too late.
stop talking about my people like they’re dollar signs,
like we’re only worth our output. you like us when we’re superman,
sob stories to success stories, model minorities.
but you hate us when we take up too much space.
you hate us when we’re too angry or too loud or too comfortable.
you like us grateful, don’t want us to ever ask for more.
can all our american dreams live at the same time?
or are they pack of cannibals, eating each other out of existence?
does a dead boy in kansas mean the same to you
as a dead boy in syria? do you cry for him in the same way,
is his body just as heavy in his mother’s arms?  
riddle me this, if a body falls hard against the concrete
and his murderers walk around as if they are not murderers
then does it make a sound?
how much is it worth?
how much is it worth?