BREAKING NEWS
Lights flash:
a shooting in a church.
A white man who hates the black--
he thinks he can get rid of their "poison",
their culture,
       their beliefs,
             their stories
with bullets and higher-than-mighty flags
stitched to his jacket.

They call it a "tragedy."
          (it's terrorism)

A few words of sympathy,
even Hollywood is tweeting about it,
holy cow!
Isn't it crazy that they care?

Ten seconds later,
we're on to trending, trendy topic number two:
         something about Samsung cellphones.

I think, maybe, these news people
(journalists, they call themselves)
they must be in denial, too.

Cause no way,
no way,
would they brush that under the rug.

The little girl who played dead,
as a man physically lodged his
"beliefs"
into the heads, the hearts, the blood
of her brothers and sisters.

It must be denial.
I pray that they will stop
and see the mural
in Charleston, SC,

and help the paintbrush drop.

Because 400 years of this
supremacist crap
is 400 years too many.

And if a picture is 1,000 words
let's start with one:

equality.

I’m listening to this song,
early in the morning
when raindrops decorate the dark bus windows.

"I guess I'm not prepared"

The pattern of words crawls into my brain,
tickling nerves, shaking loose memories
of the night before, a maelstrom of screams
about my college choices, future plans, and grades at school,
of doors slammed mid-sentence in my mother’s face.

"Family is all I'll ever have and need"

Everyday verses swamp nerves, then brain.
I **** sideways and
knock shoulders with my bus seat mate.
On the backs of my eyelids, I see
my mother kicking a hole in my door, 
memories of cracking wood is
garbled by rain and guitar strums. 

"Pick up my personal pieces"

I've listened to this song before:
in the car ride home after a tedium of classes,
through crackling speakers in bright grocery aisles,
and bouncing headphones when I run circles on the track,

But not in the dark of the early morning,

on a trembling bus speckled with rain water.

"Good things are over fast"

— quoted lines from “The Man” by Ed Sheeran

I'm in love with summer.
Standstill air,
dandelions drifting
the weight of the sky
pressing white heat.
Cold, waves beating the shore,
ceaselessly into the past,  
of when I was drowned
in your dreams.

I'm in love with autumn.
Crisp air,
Nudging leaves off gnarly oaks
and tall, regal cedars.
Lost in the anagram of colors,
I see fire,
      I see blood red.
I see a Faustian bargain
            but we won.

I'm in love with winter.
The biting cold in my fingertips,
the solitude of confinement,
walls of windows show snow
that blankets every edge.
And the birds that have left,
to warmer places.
Opportunity, that's what you said.
And your bags, and you,
were gone in the blowing snow.

I'm in love with the spring.
The clear blue waters,
and ferryboats beating against the current,
the gardens bursting into light,
the promise of growth and
of future
and of hope.
but, I guess, we weren't meant to grow old.
And the sight of spring flowers
and trees with bright green buds,
makes me sick to my stomach.

I am in hate with the spring.

When my mother is sad

           she buys plants

Crisp chrysanthemums,
      Swaying sunflowers,
         Sunset roses

A garden of love—

           or maybe growth.

I’m not sure.

      Elbow deep in earth,

she plants roots.

Maybe she’s creating new roots

                                 filling the loss of her family
                                                          ­                 of her friends
                                                         ­                             her home

Or maybe
             she likes to look at the colors through the window
                                like stained glass and rainbows,
                                                       a garden of her own.

Remember when, he
Called me on that rooftop night,
Just checking, to make sure
I got in—pulled me in for half a hug.
Joined me for a dance,
Thought about the time he
Told me that I’m so fun.
One last night out,
Young and free, before
Careers kick in and reality sets in.
It ended before I knew it,
On the car ride home,
Thinking about what coulda been,
He tells me he’s crying,
Begging me to stay—but
Saying yes is not an option.
Remembering when I found out,
He was reading the book I had,
Or felt he that fire in chest,
About our political crisis,
in a way like me,
In a way I hadn’t seen yet.
Spending so long settled in
The idea of a man lesser than &
Surprised to find the joy
In expanding my horizons,
Learning about my self imposed limits,
Watching them crumble in,
Realizing I am capable of
Every bit of the life I wanna live.
Found solace in the similar ways we think,
A sketchbook of drawings,
Connecting each & every limb,
Far far away
from spaced repetition.
Death by a thousand cuts
Ambition, something else
That I didn’t think I was looking for.
You took me by surprise,
Chelsea boots in that kitchen,
Didn’t ask me where i was from.
Between the bridges and lights,
Guitar riffs playing in the back
You grabbed my hand,
Spun me round, drink in another.
Kinda hated the smell of your breath,
The way you patted me on the head.
When you begged me to stay,
Under the night sky, every sway.

Dear immune system,

it seems you’ve got a vendetta against me,
which I’m forced to take personally.

Why did you offer free lodging to that vile germ?

I water you (more than our sorry, dying garden)
I give you antioxidants like it’s my job,
and at lunch? I treat you to fruit.
I wait on you, hand and foot, like a queen,
(I wash those too, don’t want to get sick)

Apparently, that’s to no avail.

All day, you’ve been lazy.
Your (evidently useless) white blood cells
cower and can’t figure out
how to get rid of the menacing virus
that slithers into crevices of my bloodstream

Now, I wouldn’t be angry,
if I coughed a few times, maybe a sneeze,
but you, arrogant imbecile, won’t retreat.
your antibodies fill my throat, scratching the walls.
Even swallowing becomes undesirable.
All of your minions pile up in my nose,
and spray debris everywhere

If that wasn’t enough, you don’t let me taste -
      a steaming forkful of noodles,
           a rich morsel of blueberry pancakes,
               or a refreshing bite of cool watermelon.

My endless collections of t(issues),
are like soccer moms, screaming
at you to try harder to reach your goal,
which, apparently, is repurposing my nose
as a foghorn.

I’ve tried cups of tea to calm you,
       glasses of water to soothe you,
        and steaming tomato soup to appease you.
Instead of laying low,
      you grow an extra head every time I cut one off.

In fact, you’ve got me writing poetry about you.
Don’t mistake this as an ode,


   or a Shakespearean sonnet,


     This, my lovely friend, is a hate poem.


    Please, let me breathe.