Down a glass of wine and hold it to your ear.
A mock ocean swirls in its holy emptiness.
You are sitting at the bottom- with nothing but death wishes
and sweet kisses.
A small hope for real love oozes from clasped fingers.
But you squeeze it away to sing karaoke at the next bar.
They love you because you are free and boundless like the red balloon
that floats in their heads,
simultaneously.
You can own them all with your laugh- how personable you are.
A pseudo sociopath on the verge of make-believe
horror stories, spilling out on to the bar-
with your last drink.
Let them think you don't play dumb.
Let them think you don't drink yourself numb.
Stomp away with your cigarette-
Do they know you know they know?
It doesn't matter- call the next one over.
The ocean will always crash in your glass-
an empty temple of company.

I am trying not to
let your silence get
to me because I
know that you mostly
speak with your limbs
and they say love
but maybe your heart
speaks a language I
understand well while your
head communicates in foreign
tongues I cannot translate

"Go write a poem."
They tell me to pour my emotions out of the conversation,
and into a container they can silently curse and admire.
I'll gladly oblige their feeble minds
because after all, I'm only writing a poem.

"Go write a poem."
They tell me with a smile as if it should sting
because they believe poetry is fruitless and less fulfilling
than the insults they try to shoot like arrows
but why is it that they always seem to miss the mark?

"Go write a poem."
They are just so much better than the silence they receive,
they say, "It is what it is, so go do what you do and make art out of it,"
my brain explodes with the roars of lions, sirens, wrecking *****, marching bands,
because poets understand that it never just is what it is.

"Go write a poem."
Because we poets are angsty souls who cannot express
thoughts with words out loud- and stand up for ourselves,
we lack tact and function beyond writ and stage,
but what they fail to realize that a poet is never just a poet.

We are the creators of their entertainment (Shakespeare)
We are the innovators that fuel the beginnings of artistic thought (Rilke)
We are the warriors that fight for their civil rights (Angelou)
We are the martyrs that immortalize originality (Wilde)
We are the ones who make those powerful statements that those folks love to quote and label their photos with-
so the next time they tell me
"Go write a poem."
I'll make sure they hear the explosion.

I don't want to leave
our limb-locked warmth in our sheets,
but the day calls us.

I heard a woman singing in the car,
about being reborn as a peacock for Krishna
so that she could sit in beautiful penance for him.
While watching whizzing morning work trucks,
and beat-up corollas and motion blur,
I thought of you in the stillness of sleep.

If I were to be reborn I'd like to be a bird as well
so that I could provide the down in your pillow,
and be cushion to your carousel crown
But then I would be lonely when you go to work.

If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your sunglasses,
so that I could protect your squinting eyes,
and live by your lushest lashes.
But then you'd lock me away in a case, and I won't be able to see you.

If I were to be reborn, I'd be a bracelet made of magic beads,
so that I could promise health around your often pained wrists,
and fix the freedom in your fiery fingers.
But then you'll probably lose me, or unstring me accidentally with time.

If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your favorite puppy,
so that I could pacify your inner turmoils.
and be held by your human hands.
But then you'll possibly outlive me, and I wish to watch you grow.

If I were to be reborn, I'd be lonely, locked away, left, lost, and outlived-
so I'd rather stay in this life with all of my privileges
of providing, protecting, promising and pacifying
as your lucky lover.

Our summers carried hot days
where our skins shook loose and raw
wet and sticky
warm and blurry
like shared memories.
We loved the rain and shower
and felt safe under their power.
In the stormiest night I knew
we decided to cleanse ourselves of the day.
We stripped down to the ****.
We didn't know we had it in us.
The fence is high enough.
The sky is dark enough.
The fog is thickly cut
with a waterfall of storm.
We lit up blue when we heard thunder.
Stared at what's up above
and ran to shelter.
Our skins were soaked and bare.
It seemed to be a dare.
I looked down and my shoes were still on.
The magic disappeared.

light shapes dance across the tapestries,
illuminating Mother Kali's face
in the veil of darkness for a short second.
the red sky tints the room,
and reminds me I can not give blood
because of my tattoos
and of the minutes I lost today,
because of netflix.
Beezus stirs a bit by me
and tells me he loves me
in a sleepy murmur.
the glow of my phone keeps him Kali-lit.
he probably will not remember in the morning
if I answer back-
but still I curl behind him,
my tongue- withdrawn behind my teeth,
my lips planting destructionless dreams in his neck,
my ten arms- free of weapons,
and full of him.
and I whisper
"I love you, too."