For you,
I feel an ancient yearning
Baked into my bones
A cosmic ache-
A prehistoric hunger-
A primitive pining

Yes,
It’s a supernatural connection—
Mine and yours—
A rest-the-vessel,
Let-the-tides-guide,
Sacred sort of love

Because betwixt us,
There is a longing
Only the moon
No — only god, herself  
And all her sapphic sovereignty
Could resist

There is a glowing desire
So fervent within us
That I wish I could reach into your Heavenly Body
And pull out your stars  
And thread them into the nest of my womb

An immortal, galactic romance—
Ours is—
Fit for gallery halls and poetry readings
And woven with all the glittery things  
But it’s Roommates, they’ll call us
Roommates, reads our plaque

Roommates—
Not lovers, nor sweethearts
Not partners, nor darlings
No lust
No lore
The saga of us, enduring no more

Celestial stains and divine shame
Roommates, we’ll remain
So we’ll guard this holy matrimony,
We’ll let our lovers’ anthem die
We know the truth is in the stars
We know who lives a lie

our thoughts are cradled like an unexperienced parent.
our willingness to be in each others work.
to watch is to live. to live is to watch.
films speak more on how we see our worth to
others...
maybe it's the other way around.

the campus is giving 90s teen drama.
motion pictures is why we are
here.

i am the star.
no, is she. or is he. wait, it's
all of us...

it's the thought counts. it's the frames that
count. it's the thoughts that dictate the rate.

the obligation expands as some of the angels cry over
us. protecting the rest.

some scream like the students in 'cleaners'.

does the comedy make us think? or cry instead in the
seats of  
cine lawan --

Me, [insert your name here], a filmmaker. we all win
an award or two. some of us do.
we still keep creating.

my thoughts hold me in a loose trance. dancing with
me in the heat -- walking
with me the rain.

the white lady - i mean ghost- must have stopped recording since
we can here our voices again.


is the world even gonna end? says a fragile student
two rows in front of me. their back facing her
front.

it's giving blue and hidden in the dark. illuminated
by the works of art.
cinema. it's films. movies.

that a big reason i'm alive.
it's a reason to continue
even if there is not a quick
fix to life.
films give us life. or is it
the other way
around?

as the filmmakers desends into madness -
i mean their seats,
they soak the experimental footage,
red dirt sprinkled everywhere in
a ditch--
one weeps and the other takes a shot
for a share later.


everything happens because we filmed it.
thought it. cast it. documented. recorded.
edited.
distributed.

a feedback loop.

we think we know how the plot will unfold.

i see the colors from the projections even
as i look ahead. Still. Here.
I am still here as
my thoughts-

I don’t think justice is sweet-
not real justice anyway.

It’s not like a birthday cake,
baked with love, shared with joy.

I think revenge is sold to us as sweet-
the beautiful, perfectly decorated cake we bought from the shop’s window
But one bite in and you realize:
There is no sweetness only salt
And curdled milk

I think justice is communal
For the greater good

For true justice
we must change the way we think.
Not just for me, but for we
For the whole community

So how can justice be people locked in cages
Making slave wages
How is that good for community.
Parents ripped from their children
Mothers’ children stolen
locked away

Not learning how to do better
Be better
Stripped of the lessons from the mother
Taught they are less than human
Treated like zoo animals
Rounded up like rats
Unearthing the secrets of what curdles the milk

How can justice be sweet when this is the reality
Selling out my fellow humans for my right to
THE AMERICAN DREAM
But is it really a dream worth dreaming-
If it’s just for me and not for we

If this is justice
why is it so hard to sleep.
The spoiled cake sold in the bakery window
We’ve already taken more than a couple bite
Will we spit it out?
Or will we binge until we reek-
of salt and curdled milk?

I have an American diner kind of life,
Like a menu full of cheap food,
That's the best you've ever had.

A big stack of pancakes,
A slice of cherry pie,
All for $10.99.

That's how I'll keep living,
With the holes in my pockets,
And my cheap diner food.

I've been American dreaming...a slumber of days untold.
American dreaming...a longing for the days of old.

Because old dogs can't seem to stop turning tricks and the lotto's been called again but I still haven't won my picks.

American dreaming of days of the past where bad things were common and women wore masks.

Of smiles and deceit to hide their fate from the men with knives who swore they'd made the pain fade.

Away to the future where "******" run amok, and the ones elected to "save" us couldn't give a f---.

Yes, I'm American dreaming, of a place welled up with pride, I'm American dreaming as we **** ourselves from the inside.

In a place screaming "Freedom" as we duck and run to hide.
The abyss pulls us closer as we put our trust into those who've lied,

to save their skin, because we only back the best...
I'm American dreaming...but I can't seem to get no rest.

𝓐𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓱𝓪𝓶 𝓛𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓷'𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓮,
𝓝𝓸𝓻 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓘 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓵𝓪𝓲𝓶.
𝓘 𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓽 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓵 𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓮𝓭
𝓐𝓷𝓭 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓽 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓭𝓸𝓻𝓴𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭.

𝓟.𝓢.  𝓘 𝓯𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓮𝓭.

Our chariot soared through the tunnel
And from out of the dark, light.
The sight of the city erupting
With fires' glare burning bright,
Venom like a snake's bite.
Vast buildings careening down,
As we maneuvered around them
The air was thick with smoke
And the smell of lead & sulfur,
The ground shook in violence.
We landed in a clearing,
The end was close at hand
The limits to see it, subjective;
For many laid dead in our stead,
Many enemies & siblings come to head,
And long did we have to tread before rest.
I unfurled the flag
And hoisted it up overhead,
Flying high on the mast.
I said my prayers
And made my peace,
Before the rain began.
All around me was storming,
Shutters battered marble
Amid crys for no quarter-
Blood was to be our recompense

Where is your Ok line?
Lay upon the asphalt of your tender life?

Does this line fall straight or
Wander like a rivers ebb?

Does your OK line look away from Native children of America forced to give up their language with a safety pin in their tongue?

Or does your voice remain silent, letting white paint on black dictate another's worth but your very own, into the hands of righteous power.

Does your OK line follow blindly with conformity from false prophets who seek to control your mind making it easy for you to turn away from suffering?

My OK line seeks for equality, self-determination, and soothing suffering
With my voice and pictures that will never be silenced in a democracy but will be sold to the highest bidder in a dictatorship.

How silence kills and you suffer less believing you are somehow more disserving. You are as equal as the stone stuck in the sole of your shoe.

Remember the discomfort is equal for all. That's the OK line. We are equal; stone, thorn, blade and heart. Bleed, but bleed less in company of a powerless generation who votes the OK line towards freedom of choice. None will be free from our last breath.

Everything normal:

the queen size beds, the TV --


and the pizza box.