A bearded Sikh is practicing
his faith, you'll say
but a bearded Muslim is
extremist and has gone astray.
A pious nun can be covered
from head to toe
but a covered Muslim girl
is oppressed you know.
Respect for western woman
when she stays at home to look her child,
same is done by Muslim woman
then from outer world she is exiled.
In schools and colleges
semi **** girls are allowed
but with unjust laws
a covered Muslim girl is scared and cowed.
A Jew kills someone then case
against a criminal is filed.
but when a Muslim does any crime
then Islam goes under trial.
For acts of ******
Christianity is not blamed
then why with every bomb blast
hatred against Islam is flamed.
When a Palestinian takes gun against oppression
terrorist you shout and call
but when blood is spilt for oil and wealth
why your voices are not heard at all.
when an imperfect driver bangs a perfect car
no sane blames the car.
then why for vicious acts of few Muslims
Islam is put behind bars.
O media! O world!
why you hate why you detest.
against this double standards
I voice my strong protest.

my love, the azured skies
they are too bright for me,
it burns my skin
like the pepperspray
of protesters
fighting to walk alone.
when i look down,
my love, at the sand,
bright yellow specks, slowing to dust
my world is turned
upside-down.
cover my eyes, no,
tear them
out with scalding knives,
and i will beg in the streets of
new delhi because
my heart cannot take the view
of both
the merciless world
and you.

Dada
Dada why is that man yelling?
that man on the corner
with the shirt that says "Jesus Hates You!"
why is he yelling Dada
he is there everyday
does he sleep Dada?
does he do puzzles like me Dada?

And why does he yell louder at you Dada?
Did you do something wrong,
did I do something wrong?
Do I need to say sorry?
Why does he hate your rainbow shirt Dada?
I always thought it was really pretty
Why does he tell you to die Dada?
What is death? Is it fun?

He must get lonely on that corner Dada
I get lonely in my room sometimes
he must have nobody to play with
Can I be his friend Dada?
Can I stand on that corner with him?
I'll meet so many different people Dada
And maybe just maybe
that man will tell me why he is yelling

Based on a painting, "Nuclear Puppies", by Julie Nagel, 2001*

You’re a mutant, you know—
got funny dog babies sprouting
out of your head like they were
ears.  Those copies of your face

look up at a sky of ashy gray,
perked and tense.  Are you listening
to yourself?  What choir
of dog-eared deformities

sings to you?  Maybe they should have
howled louder before we dropped The Bomb.
Maybe the yellow caterwaul of their
melting butter bodies would have stayed our hand.

I doubt it though.  
This is what we do. We burn things.
We tinker, adding and subtracting until
what’s left is blasphemy—until what’s left is

you.  A yellow almost-dog, a sagging
body with melted flesh where there should
be fur. Sad monster; beg your alms
from the atomic Frankensteins who made you.

Your skyward eyes are bright, still happy
anywhere but here.  But your abominable
body lies here staring into gray space with
Alpo still sticky on your nose, wet, brown snow.

I remember the sound of her scream.
Echoing like the sound nails make
when scratched against a chalkboard.
I remember the smell of her blood.
Smelling like her last drop of life left.
I remember the way her hand trembled...
as she pleaded me not to throw another punch, with her hands raised and shaking like those of a man's suffering from Parkinson's.
I remember the way her son watched.
His eyes growing tears,
only fifteen,
but his hands were stained by the blood of his mother
with his death like plea,
to let his mother flee,
because her breath was starting to grow thin.
I remember.
The way her olive skinned face felt pressed against my bullet proof shield
and how her gentle hands wrapped around my wrists,
hoping for me to feel the humanity slipping from her finger tips.
I remember how she never showed aggression.
How the only hand she raised before mine,
had *******,
reminding me why she was here.

I do not have a gay agenda
That consists of me stealing your faith
Crushing your god
And molesting you with my eyes
If you pass me in a crowded hall.

I do not have a gay agenda
That consists of me taking the minds
Of innocent children
And leading then into devil worship.

I do have a gay agenda
That consists of me (a girl)
Finding the perfect girl
To call my wife
And start a family with.

I do have a gay agenda
That consists of me letting love be fluid
Labels have no meaning
Or bounds
And letting religion roam free.

So with my simple gay agenda of love
Why are you so worried?
Are you afraid that my agenda will beat out yours?
After all love trumps all hate
In the end
One way or another.