No justice nor equality
How to live without envy?

No money nor security
How to live without greed?

No motives nor prize
How to live without sloth?

No accessibility nor satisfaction
How to live without lust?

No pleasure nor satisfaction
How to live without gluttony?

No logic nor sense
How to live without wrath?

No compassion nor humbleness
How to live without pride?

Words of Harfouchism

There are grapes in my path
This abundant trail
now invisible as if we never were
Here, to pick and preen, salvage and reap
for pleasure and pain
I picked you some flowers,
I baked you a pie,
labors of love
with your own hands
connected to earth.

Breaking backs, and clinging sweat
Under wool, denim, straw, and cotton
Keeping more out than simply the sun
Depleted soil
Exhausted soul
Bursting with juice
Bountiful and hand chosen

And you in a hurry just drive by
Dust in the wind
Skin of clay mud
Day after day,
A boulder among the rows
Hunched in fields
Blistered and callused
Searching for more
Ripe for the picking
Migrants moving
Servitude by season
Benevolent harvest
Handpicked strawberries
By chocolate covered hands
destined from birth
closer to earth.

When I was young,
they called my Hurricane.
Because even my brother feared my wrath.
Because “so help me god,
if you touch me one more time”
Wasn't a threat he completed.
Because Barbie never seemed like fun,
And GI Joe kicked so much ***.
“Hurricane”
Because the boys in elementary school
got punched when they called me names
And the boys in high school
Got slapped or pinched or kicked or flipped
Off for trying to kiss me without permission.
They called me Hurricane
Because if there was chaos,
it was me.

Clouds darkened
One’s heart beckoned
The tornado swirled with its winds
Trees, animals, humans and structures all caught in
God’s voice in one blow
Yet it seemed the tornado was moving slow
The tornado and human lives
It’s a wonder if any one would survive
The winds continued to press their ways
It’s Heaven’s mount in what God says
Destruction, redemption and submission
The tornado supplying the condition
Movement with control
The witnessed eyes in behold
I am the remembrance in don’t forget
Sincerity with no regrets
The force with the power
At any given moment could be the final hour.

Trees of emerald and expectations,
taking root in dirt and damnation,
grow fruits flowing full of flirtation.

Children complain of chapped lips,
clinging to women's waning hips
as drunkards are in dire need of one last fix.

Suffering stomachs grumble
and morose mouths mumble
of a society that continues to crumble:

Demanding water of a well they dried,
without any tears, the people cried
for their way of life had died

in a world governed by greed,
while the people bleed
blood of toil and seed.

But power is now paper green,
and the forlorn farms stay pristine
while the people are lying in between
dying
and
death.

A single light
fractured into a billion shards
of bright white energy

fall like raindrops of
golden emotion to the
Earth.

All things under the sun,
sewn of the same silk and
molded of the same clay.

All pumping life
through roots embedded
in soft flesh.

Consecrating acts of love,
hate, and whim for they all flow
from the same spring,

reveling in the fact
that one exists exactly as
nature intended.