Today, people remind me
that I'm only 23,
which means,
young,

but getting old.

Still living in my
parents' home.
Doing what I want,
not what I'm told.

Wishing a salary
and cocktails at five
didn't sublime
the rest of my kind:

WORKERS
OF THE WORLD
who UNITE drunk
and dissatisfied.

Happy Birthday to me

Tell my boss
that his work
is no longer
for me.

Because I am not
a salesman to artists' dreams.
I am not
a collector of rappers,
displaying them
as one of many.
I am not
a puppeteer
tangling human beings
into commercial machines.

I am a poet.
I untangle strings,
and out of the mess,
create beautiful things.

Happy Birthday to me

Spoon honey
into coffee,
sweeten the daze
of a disturbed sleep.
I write the day
shamelessly,
after my cousin
texts me to ask
what I'm doing,
ASSUMING...

I'm planning a party maybe
starving myself into
a tight dress to
peacock my
mom's
delivery.
How can I explain
that writing poems and
eating cake are better presents for me?

Happy Birthday to me

Thank my parents
for supporting me.
Tell them I am happy
to veer from what
I was expected to be.
Ask them to defend
my insane belief that
people would ever pay
to read poetry.
Promise them,
I will make my passion
a career opportunity.

Or I will try,
until I don't breathe.

Because
half-*** attempts
at 23,
sow regrets
at 40.
And 23 years ago,
they bore me —
an infant
meant to be free.

Today,
I am still breathing.

Today,
I have friends
who support me. 

 Today,
I have a day
and a night
to live my dream.

And that's all I need.

Happy Birthday to me

I am 23.

And after nearly,
a quarter of a century,
I have finally found
my therapy;
My reason:
To be.
To breathe
the world,
I see not,
Death
Fear
or
Responsibilities

but

Life,
Love,
a­nd
  **Poetry.

The most beautiful hour in L.A.
is 3 A.M., when,
petals
of lavender
peep through
wooden blinds,
lulling restless minds
laid on Egyptian
Cotton candy
clouds amuse me.
Because as I close my eyes,
I realize,
that here,
there is no starry night
because this beautiful haze
is light pollution.

But pollutions' hue calms
a city mind.
Like sirens quell
eager ears,
And liquor tickles
tantalized tongues,
And words flow
from numb knuckles,
And insomnia wets
drying eyes,
I,
am struck,
that this lavender haze
helps me see
that too much
is always what I need.

1991

I realized
We were both born
in rotting soil,
plastic toys fed
by Arabia's oil.
Eyes closed,
ears behest
to broadcasts, we,
could NOT protest.

That was the beginning
of our mass destruction,
but cribs offsides,
we slept soundly,
thanking our stars,
proud to be Americans.

10 years dormant,
the lyrics laid,
enough to stick,
but their irony to fade.
Until grade school,
recess goaded,
as burning buildings
on our side exploded.
The imminent threat preloaded,
in airports we shed shoes,
forever coded.

The broadcast — our center
was the theorem
that planes, oil, and Arabs
risked everyone's freedom.
But when we raised hands,
to ask why, teachers said
hail red, blue,
and especially white.
We forgot our roots,
because the Ellis Island trip
was obviously cancelled.

So we read headlines,
instead of Orwell,
the day 911
called for a police state.
Trusted the government
and ****** Muslims,
the day turbans
meant hijacking planes.
Pledged allegiance
disguised as freedom,
the day war
was declared
on Saddam Insane.

Our flag revealed
a sham feeding flames,
angst-ridden
teenagers
we became.
With raised middle fingers,
instead of hands,
to Green Day lyrics,
**** Amuricans.

Because only idiots
press a red button twice,
when mass destruction is the price.
And only villains
make children orphans,
while victims drown
in New Orleans.
And only gluttons
eat caviar with silver spoons,
tainting forever
a nation's youth.

Entrenched in dunes,
we boarded blind,
to debt,
death, and
jaded minds.
Blamed by perpetrators
in dollars and change,
for a guerrilla war
fought in vain!
Voted Obama,
with Osama slain,
and soldiers withdrawn,
we hoped for change.
PLEASE, we cried,
JUST STOP!
We are CHAINED —
to a bulldozer
that has NO BRAKES!

…

So the broadcast said recently:
We are losing control
of the Middle East. And
Al-Qaeda is far from weak —
ISIS: THE PHOENIX OF HUMAN GREED,
We just turned off our TV's
and looked up,
the kids who gave up,
thanked Musk — our atlas,
not yet shrugged,
whose vessels of stars
will rocket toward Mars,
from this godforsaken
civilization
built on hate.

And when you tell me, ***,
"We were both born in 1991,"
I can only sigh,
and breath sympathy,
for our dark history.

You found friction,
when so many told you
to slip down with them.

You were the safety
to a gun-wielding chorus screaming:
"Fire!"

Shoved from the Fourth
you fought to protect,
to being snowed-in,
half a hemisphere away
from the coconuts
and palm trees you fled.

Hotel room to hotel room,
the flesh from your skin dissolves,
piece by piece —
like a nation's artifacts.

Resigned to watching
a comedian's suicide
trend on Twitter —
an individual who made it easier
to laugh and forget the words:
"Liberty and Justice for All."

You should grimace.
Silenced. Snowed-in.
Unable to even say,
"America — please shovel me out."

"Expressing your feelings
couldn't be called art."

So birthed
Shakespearean Walts —
whose puns crammed nature
into mens' hands
and shadowed doubts
that we are all human.

The need to rhyme
and snort out some lines
demoned great minds
who refused to color
outside the lines.  

Metaphor ran over happiness,
watercoloring lines
in INK.

"A petal is
a woman who fails
when she wilts."

So girls learn to answer,
coyly in high school english,
that everything but petals
are ******* symbols.
No reflection needed,
when nature is a *****.