I say I'm a Muslim, but I can't tell anymore.
I can't tell from what goes in my mouth,
what comes out and hits you on the cheek
worse than a slap, harder than a mere insult.
I'm outraged, but what reason do I have?
On the outside I could be anyone,
and I usually am.
Sometimes I am Puerto Rican, Lebanese, or Black--
a child asked me once, and I just smiled back.

How sweet would it be to take every crayon from the box,
even now that the numbers have multiplied and
what was once simple 8, 12, 24, 36,
has exploded into a million colors with a million names,

to crush them into bitty pieces and swirl the mixture with water;
make it all into One.

so that if we hate another
(what other?)
we just hate ourselves.

I say I'm a Muslim, and I know I am
because when I give up all my frustrations and
my toddler tantrums, and I even give up yoga,
or rather it gives me up, thankfully so,
when I injure my back: I'm grateful for that.
What a knowing presence God is to take away that which harms
and restore that which fulfills.

But even to those who are still hurting
(and I often am)
there are these small remembrances that come
between this onset of tears and the next.
Whether the sun peers through the dusty blinds,
the ones you need to clean again--so soon,
and you see the light stream through, faintly at first,
until you are forced to open your eyes,
to remove yourself from the hate you've stewed in:
how simple is that?

I say I'm a Muslim, and it's a choice
I make every day or avoid until the next day,
even though that day may not be easily given.
And I forget that.
But when I see life slip away from young lives, old lives,

lives not yet born

then I have to remember
that I do not have the answers,
and every time I try to be dictator of my destiny
I fail miserably, miserably, miserably.

And now that I wrote this poem
and I felt myself think, no, truly feel for the first time in a week,
that my robotic expression has melted into a frown that stands
a chance at becoming a smile.

Now that I am human I am a Muslim.
Not perfectly so, but decidedly so.

(In memory Deah Shaddy Barakat, Yusor Mohammad Abu-Salha, and Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha)

...

There was a way in her smile,
took me a while to notice.
For when love arrived,
I woke up from my September sleep.
Her words were the hands to the monster in her mind,
they would set fire to my emotions.
While her eyes would watch,
as my feelings would burn.
We were playing the battle of Love.
My sword was my Pen and my shield, her eyes.
“Yes, I Love You.”

There was a flavor to her lips,
I remember it from my dreams.
When we kissed with our words,
The Earth, The Water and The Sky would scream -
You Shall Never Be - and so agreed the reality.
“Yes, She Loves You..” whispered the tear in my eye.

There were words hidden in her eyes,
those that she never spoke.
And my heart would listen,
as my feelings would shiver in the cold.
Her eyes would read, ”Come, take me home.”
while her hands would refuse to touch my soul.
And my ears would ring to her words,
“Yes, I Love You.”

There was a certain magic in us,
even though I am not a magician.
There was a certain whisper from the Universe,
it secretly wanted us together.  
But how could we, when we were playing the battle of Love?
A battle that saw no winner and the death of Love.
And my mouth would repeat her exact words,
“Yes, I Love You”

And, I Love Her.

...

-KD

An Oklahoma politician
wants to outlaw hoodies
in the hood

It's true, it must be
I read it in Fox News  :)

I'd sooner be in Missouri or Cleveland
or New York City where you don't have to
wear a hoody or raise your hands to get shot


There are other things more pressing
than hoodies in the hood
that don't need ironing

like hoods in suits
and the elephant in the room
that needs shooting.

The musician cries
As he sings a sweet song
He feels the same way
As he has for so long
The feeling of love and
The feeling of worth
Has all been crumbled
And put in the dirt
After a show he gets peace of mind
Finding room to breath
But still not all are kind

That night they caused him to crack
Pushed him to the limit
And that was that
He wrote one last song
Recorded it there, played it outloud
In case someone cared
Noose made from the strings of a guitar
He walked off the staff
And stopped his metronome heart

Come my dear, enter the dark
Where pain is your bliss
Seduced by this ****** mark
Surrendering to a razor blade kiss

Tonight, touched by tormented lust
Lost in suffering, only to bleed
Abandoning those thoughts of trust
In the seclusion of tortured need

Breathing the sweat of desires stain
A victim to a demon without restraint
Closed inside a mind long gone insane
Where the innocence is there to taint

Come my dear, enter the dark
Where pain is your bliss
Seduced by this ****** mark
Surrendering to a razor blade kiss