We did really well this time.
It was the longest we'd gone
without one of us messing it up—
I was proud.
But now I've decided
these record-breaking few months
should really be the nice note
that we end on.
Cause both of us are performers,
not composers,
and we can play the parts just fine,
but as soon as the background music falters
and it's our turn to take charge,
and use the opportunity to shine,
we falter, too, and back out of
the spotlight that's begging us to take a chance.
So it's the last time
that I'm running backstage.
I'm seizing this chance
to conduct for once,
and I'm getting the feeling
you're just waiting for the song to end too.
................................................................­...................
Don't worry.
The decrescendo will be as fast as possible.

Do you remember the melody
of a sweetly sang blue silk symphony?
of my sharp breaths and moaning singing?
of cracks in my ****** expressions?
the ones typically tempered to turn my passion into passivity?

Do you remember when the accompanying
string snapped?
I went quiet, cold
couldn't sing for my stranglehold on my
selfishness and...lust? Yes. Lust.
Do you remember the difference?
The dissonance?
I feel like a **** and it's
so far from ridiculous
I don't feel like i deserve your forgiveness
guess what i'm trying to say is
I'm sorry and
though i don't know if it will happen again
because i'm new at singing this song
I don't want it ti

I need to know
all i need to know
is the harmony of the first night of the blue silk symphony
still echoes strong
(in the background, in the background)
and i just can't hear it because
lack of forgiveness ...whether my own for myself, or yours for me right now
( is such a loud sound)
( loud sound)

I was told to never fall in love with a writer.
But, a writer that recites his work with his hands is ten times more dangerous.
Eventually, you'll find yourself immensely fascinated by the veins that can play keys oh-so softly; soft enough to cradle an infant,
or even the aggressive way he fills your entire childhood bedroom with such impossible power and passion
in a single chord.
But, these hands are dangerous.
Just as they can hammer into the piano, his hands can rip through your heart. His hands will never just play your body simply black and white, oh no.
His hands will destroy you; each and every muscle movement will have you on edge and by the time the decrescendo drains the flood in your mind, it will be too late.

Fresh after the rain
I hike in the woods.
The leaves are turning to
yellow yams, auburn brick, pumpkin pie.
The ground is wet and the wood is damp.
The leaves lay vibrant on their death bed.
I turn around.
I see through the spaces
fallen flowers,
departed shrubs,
vanished birds,
the trees that once protected my eyes from the placid lake.
The air is bright with mist.
The grey sky surrounds me.
The cold breeze comforts my skin,
and forgives my lungs.
I take it all in.
But the cold air can never forgive
the dying trees and life dissolved.
Others will pass by.
Leaves will crunch and crumble
under feet that won’t realize the forest decline.
The music to their ears will return each year.
But the crunch will fade.
Less trees, less leaves.
A Decrescendo,
A whisper.
Silence.

my condolence to my heart for witnessing
the pain of a broken desire
where was i when the shot rang out
those years ago?

distance, lover
you have played the part so well
i feel so sick to discover
you don't care
that every word from my heart
decodes into your name
with a decrescendo
by your reaction

was all of me wasted
when my life will dedicate
to honoring your name?
i just lost all feeling to logistics
example: i look up to you
but when i was lost
where were you?
you didn't even post a sign
return my love with none but empty words
and seduction furthering...

distance, lover
you have played the part so well
i feel so sick to discover
you don't care
that every word from my heart
decodes into your name
with a decrescendo
by your reaction

persistance on my part has shown me
i've wasted yet another breath
insistance to be yours has brought me
yet another wasted breath
but it's okay
i've got more cool
to focus all my energy
into something i can hold
after all... it's just the loss of a love

Imagine this:
Me, who only speaks English
Me, who is moving to Japan
Me, with the Puerto Rican father and the Italian mother
being called a terrorist
for scrawling Arabic in the corners of my notebook.
"It's nothing personal," you say
"I'm just calling it like it is."
I sit in silence and wait for the teacher to stop this,
Say something, Say anything
Say No, Sofia would never hurt another soul
Her silence is a gag over my mouth
handcuffs on a chair
a knot in my belly plummeting out of control
If you had asked, I would gladly have shown you how to write your name
You start with the crooked smile of the letter "ba"
the calculated decrescendo of "ra"
"ya"'s sensual arc
I could show you how to write the guardian "alif"
or the embryonic "noon"
nestled safely inside of her calligrapher's womb
But somehow, between my pen and your eyes, the phrase

I miss you

written in near flawless script
turned into a threat resembling

someone is going to die

If you had asked, I would have told you of how I met an Arab
(you spell that: lam ba noon alif noon ya )
who loved music
(meem waw seen ya qaf alif-maqsura)
and Poptarts
(there's no P in Arabic)
and me.
Let me teach you how to write my name
so the next time you decide to throw around the word "terrorist"
you'll remember that those letters spell a name that represents
a living breathing person
and your prey whose name is spelled with the same alphabet as mine is
a living breathing person
Come here
Unclench your fists and take my pen
You are smart
I will teach you
Trace the shapes like me
and I will show you where you went wrong
be it in life or just now with these ancient ABCs
"Seen" is like a W except she's proud of her curves
and has a left hook that would make any man jealous
"Waw" is an air-headed guy whose body is an afterthought
with hair that billows in the wind and is never far behind
"Fa"
Treat it like a cobra
***** and proud
but dot it, mind you
That's the serpent's crown jewel
"Ya"
The singe-winged bird nesting on two tiny eggs
and "Ta marbuta"
There's no clever way to teach you ta
You just have to learn it
Now
use your two good eyes that are so good at judging and tell me that my name is not alive
The queen and the mother
The feminist and the prideful lover
And the misfit
I can be all of those
You will be all of those
Come here
There's enough space in my margin for you
Practice celebrating your secondary identity
now that you know I am not a terrorist
I won't hold a grudge because you misunderstood
I can't blame you
You just didn't know how to see

My lizard died today.
With sunken eyes,
He's relaxed.

Now I conceptualize:
His perception,
If one-

Of me.

Flowing blue and
Majestic purple flecked with a
Staccato of yellow, marked by the
Adagio of green and
Accented silver

Caesura.

Dolce is the rosa and lapis that
Crescendo into
Fortissimo red and a
Vivace of cerulean --

Sforzando of orange!

Decrescendo into emerald, a
Morendo into the dark
Grazioso, where rests a
Fermata of rainbow.

At least this is what I see
On the black and white
Sheet of paper.

I like driving at night


indigo nights in the odd hours of the morning
my tired eyes adjust to the rhythm of the traffic
a slow fluid, tempo, melting into soft orange lights
cars slip in and out of my consciousness

the street illuminated in artificial glows
and manufactured air fills my lungs
forming goosebumps on my skin
my eyes are growing weary

the radio static, constant
tuned to 91.3
plays liquid jazz
dewdrops on my weary mind
and my pulse fills the empty spaces in the bassline

the music melts into the rhythm
the soft lull of the engine humming
the crescendo and decrescendo of tires on pavement
a lullaby

the reflectors twinkle on street
like artificial stars
and the highway-- a tangle of progress
unravels before me

my eyes slip into a dream

I like driving at night
but one day I won't