not good enough to be in your band
or join your basketball team
but good enough
to spectate or be your water boy
not good enough
to pass your classes academically
but good enough to receive a passing grade
for participation that helped me graduate
so I’d be out of your hair
not good enough
to break bread with you at the lunch table
because our parents made different salaries
but good enough
to be put down when you needed a laugh
or to feel better about yourself
not good enough
to answer back when I needed your help
but good enough
to be a nostalgic crutch when you need someone
to lean on
I’ve only been good enough
to stand in front of your machines,
to fill out your paperwork,
to sweep your floors
but not good enough
to advance at this job or in this society
and now I’ve found myself conquering the world
despite your predictions, despite your conjectures
despite your criticism, despite your disparaging remarks.
I have made myself who I am today based on the indifference
towards your humiliation, your rejections, your rebukes
so, if you see me on the streets and I don’t say “hi”
it just means you weren’t worthy of acknowledging
and if I give you the sharp eye and spit in the trash can
it only means I’ve forgotten about you completely
and that is good enough for me.

Today, early on a
Saturday morning, I'm
trying a little trick I
learned from Bukowski.
I put on some classical
music and I am trying
to write.
Beethoven's 5th in C minor.

I sit in my favorite chair and
watch my black cat lie on the
back of the loveseat and
watch the snowfall.
She looks triumphant,
but it could just be the music.
The philodendrons that hang
around the house and the
bamboo plants seem happier, too.
There's no hope for the palm tree.

Well, the main thing is that I put the
pen to paper, and Beethoven,
my cat and you came along for the
ride.

Maybe the cellos, violins, and
trombones will fertilize my
creativity.
Now, my other two cats have joined
the fun.
They wrestle by the heater and laugh at
all the fat, rich *******.

Somewhere between words and a phrase
And images that waltz on a page
Naked or masked, with a ** and a hum
Read me in the lines of a poem.

Curled up with flair in cursive ink
Or in italics that make one think  
In bold scribble of soulful blues
Meet me in a syllable of haiku.

In sounds and rhyme, in free flowing feet
In rolled up, crumpled paper sheets
On kissed ends or in couplets terse -
Trace me in a little verse.

Midst damp and broken metaphors
In sentences loud or hushed whispers
Hidden behind some quaint smilie
Find me in poetry.

Poesy — a world large enough to hold
Sordid moments in its fold
Sweetness of life and broken hearts
Harsh reality and runaway art.

I go back in time
as I get a whiff of some familiar scent.

Like the aroma of spices from my mother’s pulao —- the blend of bay leaves, cinnamon, black cardamom and cloves
that left eyes sparkling in anticipation of a royal meal.

Or the scent of fruits
that made their way into my lunch at school - bananas, apples, grapes, oranges
along with an embroidered napkin
that held onto the smell of the season, the love of parents and the comfort of home.

The tanginess of lemons in my father’s cologne —- a burst of summer every time I opened his closet.

The fragrance of roses from incense sticks that my grandmother would light as she prayed —
the mysticism of life in her folded hands.
The smoke would rise from the sticks, curling, to reach heaven along with her prayers -
and I would look upward wondering if God could hear her songs and smell the roses.

The heady scent of rain and earth as we played in puddles
walking and slipping
splashing and laughing
lost in the moment
hearts as light as those drops of rain.

A whiff of these and I travel back in time
I miss the innocence
and melange of those
happy scents and aromas.

It seems like a different world.
And though far away —
It seems like yesterday.

I see you walk towards the door, mama.
You have some bags. You seem like
you're in such an awful hurry.
I lift my little hands up to you,
the person who I love most in the world,
but you seem so distracted.

You tell me that you'll be back soon

The door closes.

I wait.

I distract myself with the few toys
that you've left me.
The TV is on Sesame Street
as Elmo teaches me about love.

I see a beautiful leaf flutter outside the window.
I can't wait to tell you about it.

It's been so long mama.  

Where are you?
My stomach is growling
but the snacks you left have run out.
I try to open the door but my little fingers
don't yet have the dexterity.

I hope you bring blueberries home,
You know they're my favorite.

I'm starting to get scared, mama
my stomach hurts so much.
I wish you were here to cuddle me
and make me feel less alone.
I whimper.  I miss you.

I've made a mess, mama.

I'm so sorry, it was an accident.

The first time, I tried to hold it in
but I couldn't.  I hope you're not angry.
I have nowhere else to go.
I didn't know what else to do
so I took my pants off and put
them in the corner.

It's been so long, mama

Why haven't you come home yet?
I'm screaming now, my tiny body
wracked with sobs.
I'm angry and confused.  
I don't understand why you left.

I'm terrified and alone.

I'm so tired, mama
my lips are dry.
my stomach is empty.
my eyelids are heavy.
I am inconsolable,
but I'm too weak to even cry.

my heart is broken.


You were supposed to protect me.


It hurts so much.

I'm closing my eyes, mama.

I hope that the next time I open them
You'll be there to tell me
Everything is going to be alright

I still love you.

Goodbye mama.

I press my paint-smeared face
so close to the canvas
I forget what skin is
and let it breathe on me—
yellow smudging into blue
like two people promising
just to be friends.

I think maybe color is emotion
learning to leap off the brush,
like leaning into someone
when you don’t know
if they’re going to kiss you
or just tell you they’re not ready.

I listen—like really listen
and I swear—I hear something
like maybe the brushstrokes
are whispering their regrets,
like maybe dreams
drip down the canvas like tears.
like maybe
every hope ever forgotten
is buried under a layer of paint
no one talks about anymore.

This isn’t just paint—it’s my heart
before it breaks open
onto a blank space called art.

This is the bleeding map
no one taught me how to write—
this is my silence painted loud.
Here—in front of it all,
trying to understand the part of me
waiting to be seen like this—softly
completely—without a single word.