The rain exploded from the sky,
water soaking the trees,
reds, oranges, and yellows
bleeding from beneath the leaves,
branches bending and swaying,
puppet-like under the great strength
of the storm.

I sat in silence for half an hour,
maybe longer,
mesmerized by the catastrophic dance,
the matinée performance unfolding outside
my living room window.
A brutal ballet,
trunks of trees moving ever so slightly
as the wind did its best to
pirouette and sweep the landscape
up in its rhythmic mastery.
Claps of thunder, whistle of wind,
a chorus climbing to its crescendo,
as I remained planted to my seat
when, at last, the raindrop feet
dulled to a stop,
only an occasional pitter patter
as the dancers made
their way off stage.

I was panting
as my feet continuously
pounded against
the asphalt,
the steepness of the hills
sending shockwaves through
my calves.

The crisp air and dusk lighting
enveloped me,
the steady beats from my headphones
isolated me.

I moved 'round the multitude
of pedestrians
with relative ease,
feeling as if they were all
paying me as little mind
as I them.

My sweatshirt shielded me from
the cooling temperature
and simultaneously trapped
beads of sweat to my forearms,
the rest dripping steadily down
my shoulder blades,
off my forehead, my breathing
evening as I hit my rhythm.

The lights from the honking cars
and various restaurants and bars
illuminated my pathway-for-one
as I snaked my way north.

My mouth dried out as
my body had near hit its limit,
as I am not exactly in marathon shape
(to put it nicely).

Yet still I pushed,
a mind-over-matter-moment
as I tried to decide on a
definitive destination.

I wasn't sure whether
I was running from something
or toward something;
all I knew was that my blood
was pumping,
my mouth was inhaling fresh air
into my lungs,
my skin was sweating and shivering
as it kissed the wind;
all I knew was that I was
running,
all I knew was that I was
alive.

As my
heart pounded against
my ribcage,
the start and the finish line
suddenly mattered so much less
than the seemingly endless
stretch of sidewalk
underneath
my
feet.

I knew that I was running;
I knew that I was alive;
and that was all I needed
to know.

I have a wish
Though it seems unlikely
Hey Liley, Liley, Lo.
Arresting the GOP
Going on nightly,
Hey Liley, Liley, Lo.
It’s a lovely dream
It can’t start to early
Pick them up
By their short and culies.

I don’t know,
But I’ve been told
Republican pockets
Are stuffed with gold!
Sound off!
One two.
Sound off!
Three, four!
Kick their butts out,
One, two,
THREE, FOUR!

Hey Liley, Liley, Liley
They are most likely ******.
Living the life of Riley
Don’t go to dollar stores.
Most likely smiling slyly
They want to win again.
Hey Liley, Lilely, Liley
Finish off the working man.

I don’t know,
If you have heard.
The GOP are
Great big turds.
Sound off!
One two.
Sound off!
Three, four!
Send them back home!
One, two,
THREE, FOUR!

Sitting
very much alone
on a makeshift bench
out of an old log,
my coffee balanced in
a knot in the wood I've
made into a cup holder,
my feet planted into the
soggy leaf-covered dirt.
I gaze outward onto
the wooden bridge
that aids the passerbyers
of persons and canines to
overstep the pebble-laden
creek.
The air is brisk,
the sun sneaking only
occasional glances at my
solitude
behind a screen of
scattered trees,
tall and thin,
buried in leaves slowly
transitioning from green to
yellow.
I ponder on how
brave everyone has
said I am,
that they could never do
what I'm doing,
like I'm some sort
of war hero.
I laugh slightly to myself,
for, I wonder, how much
moxy does it really take
to sit on an
abandoned stump in the
woods, fighting off
tears of loneliness and
anxiety?
Aren't those who are
brave not so
chock full of doubt,
not clinging to a pen
and a notebook in
hopes of dispelling
waves of woes?
The wind blows by me
once more as if to
reassure me that
my newfound spot of
singularity is exactly
where I am supposed to
be, so I go back to
watching the passerbyers, or,
momentarily,
the lack thereof,
sipping my coffee
and soaking in my new
surroundings.

Let’s play Name That Goon.
How many can you get right?
Someone you see every day
In the news, in plain sight.

The first one looks very much
Like a troll doll but larger.
He brags about how much
Money he has in his larder.
But, his blather does not
Include many discernable facts.
He’s about half of the man
He stands on stage and acts.

The second one is a talker
In a very vaunted arena.
He seems as incapable of truth
As a citizen named Fiorina.
He’s been faking his credentials
And his skin has darkened.
He’s orange, so one wonders
If the old KKK has harkened.

The third one was a big cheese
And he was a big deal once
Until his mouth and behavior
Proved him to be a dunce.
But not before his crew
And his ineptitude managed
To leave the country *******
And semi-permanently damaged.

The fourth was the third’s pal
In all those dastardly deeds
That any tale well scripted
Or any tragedy needs.
He made a bundle for him
And all of his colluding pals.
Maybe he thought that might
Make him attractive to the gals.

The next one is the queen
Of the Washington crazies.
She might make a bigger fool
Of herself, but she’s too lazy
And as stupid as a box of lint.
She opens mouth and convinces.
Every time she speechifies
The entire country winces.

So, now we have done it
We have played Name That Goon.
If this glib poet doesn’t choke
We can have more real soon.
So, you all play nice and have fun
At your next political gathering.
And keep track of who is who
And what they are all blathering.

Coming off the unbearably sweet high of our Nation's proud capital.
I salute you.
For bright mornings with fruit smoothies made so masterfully.
Afternoons of stasis.
Of quick showers and quick words on a condensed second floor.
Straight intelligence and legitimate knowledge.
Stories of brothers pranking in Palestine.
"Can I have some?" asked so coyly when candy is available for adults.
Thick hookah smoke burning my lungs and sapphire blues eyes.
Old nicknames. Flying off the tongue like song lyrics we all know.
Unfamiliar places, and familiar places.
Habibi. As-salamu alaykum. Words my cerebrum forgot but heart did not.
"Do you want coffee?" "Come here." "Kiss me."
Your smile. Your home. Your hands. Your eyes.
Nostalgia over taking our souls like baby pictures.
I wish it could've lasted forever.
But nothing does.
And that's good, right?
Too much of a good thing makes us greedy.

See the Republican,
Hop, hop, hop.
Hack up the welfare laws
Chop, chop, chop.
See him getting wealthy,
Shop, shop, shop.
Watch all our forests go
Drop, drop, drop.

Teflon coated Republican,
Crook, crook, crook.
Put him in a prison cell,
Book, book, book.
Fine him for every dime he
Took, took, took.
Check out his finances,
Look, look, look.

Hear the Republican,
Lie, lie, lie.
Selling out constituents,
Sigh, sigh, sigh.
Writing up new voting laws,
Cry, cry, cry.
Cutting breaks for all the rich,
Why, why, why?

Smell the Republican,
Stink, stink, stink.
Defender and a patriot,
Wink, wink, wink.
Master of the magic trick,
Blink, blink, blink.
Hater of the common man,
Fink, fink, fink.

I left my heart in the District of Columbia
It's where I last found love
It's the last place I left my heart

With someone special
With the city

I left my heart in the District of Columbia
It's the last I knew of love
The kind that warmed your soul

Kept you warm
Woke you up

I left my heart in the District of Columbia
It was a silly love
One that sincerely stole my attention

Left me speechless
Gave me hope

I left my heart in the District of Columbia
I pray I get it returns to its home
I pray I return to the place that stole my heart from me

Doubt is the lonely father of fear
Not a clad caped hero
Waiting to swoop in
And save the day
But a two faced killer clown
Wearing ****** crocs
With electric joy buzzer shocks
Sending surges through your veins
Sending urges that drive you insane
It may be in reason
It may be in season
But the summer heat
Can burn your feet
Under the fire of fire
Place you in stasis
As you wait to find were your space is
Letting others tell you were your place is
While they race to chase
A better life
Doubt can be better than blind
Adherence
You just have to watch out
For the dangerous side of doubt
Turn detective to fix the defective
And Steer clear of the fear
That disparages hope and reason

I sat hard-pressed against
the plastic seat on the Metro,
green line to Branch Ave,
feeling the heat
of all the dozens of bodies that surrounded me,
5:30 PM and everyone
making headway for home after a
long, hot work day.
The swampy humidity
clung to my arms like sticky tack.
I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my
blazer
and listened to some 90s
R & B on my iPod as I
c
o
u
n
t
e
d
d
o
w
n
the exits till I could
free               myself      from
the suffocating crowd.
It was no day that was even remotely extraordinary,
no life-changing series of events,
no incredible people I had met;
nope, just commuting back to the SE quadrant of
town as I had
every day that summer.
I looked up and took
a snapshot with my mind;
I remember exactly
how that sliver of time
felt to me,
how it looked,
smelledsoundedtasted
as I realized my days in D.C. had begun to feel
like the norm,
that I had grown accustomed to the
claustrophobic train cabins,
the repetitive street names,
and
10% sales tax.
So suddenly there was this
catastrophic
timeturning
momentous magnanimous monumental magic
of the most mundanely minuscule moment,
as ordinary crawled up my veins
and absorbed me in it.
Somehow
squeezed.in.between
the rush-hour,
the annoyance, impatience, and near-suffocation
felt like
home.