sprinkle your love over
me like cherry blossoms in
spring where everywhere
everywhere everywhere
are littered with pinks

but then summer came and
you forget about valencia like the sun forgets the
sky and I drop petal by petal flowers
by flowers and the streets are steeped in
longing

autumn came and left, breathing life into a
crocus and drawing it away just as quickly like how you
take each of my breath away from
me and each of my heart beat walks away
with your steps

the blurriness of winter borne the snowdrops
snowdrops, snow drops, the death of that love that
once bloomed in my heart.

‘twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas,
Humidity can’t be seen
As the sun whirled
Its final twirl.

A flock of pigeons stand by Midnight’s Trolley Trail.

I am my own eye,
Staring at taught veils
'tween cotton gaits.

The clouds are no more,
Spirits remained encaged in rose sepultures,

A transformation so chaotic, they cackle at their false fear.

MY BLURRINESS SEEMS TO BURN
STEADY. ready,
For what to behold.

I have left Universe to relay ,
As the subtle sun one did in its day.

I am left
To react.

React to what?
React to wee?            React,
to relationships,        React,
to their degree of nobility,
So fruitful, so radical in concept indeed.


Of all these perspectives
I am one.
One paper, one tree cut for endless possibilities.

The treasure remains underneath,
Where I weep
In the deep,
In the deep.

There is nothing to find,
And that made all the difference.

'twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas.

There it is
a peace of the future sky
in my eye
fuzzy floating, now unresolved;
a blue and white someday
on hills and trees
I squint into.
When I am seeing this blurriness,
I see red and yellows,
blacks and whites,
all melding into one grayness.

Oh , my imagery, I see beautifully.
hazy , but, one day....
I will visit the optometrist...
right after my
psychiatrist.

The subtle cross between intersections, a life of blurriness, through crossed t’s and neatly dotted i’s I removed from the phrase Poetic Form, (trying to spell it without crossing myself back into it).
From lesbianism to manhood,
to cross what being a man means,

I wonder if my own identity is written in pen and everyone wants it typed and edited,
Yet I’ve taken the plastic keys off my computer board and made them into magnets last week,
Setting myself up with stolen magnets stolen blocks,
Putting them in order on my own fridge,
Scrambling them back because there is no order,
They only told you there was so that way you’d sing a song,
But I know now that I can write words, there’s no need for a pre-prescribed song when I’ve written my own,

In my own words.
When I look back and have pages of songs nobody else asked for or decided to write,
When I’m in class and I pocket my songs into stories and my stories under my low grades,
Under my teachers’ requests for MLA format,
I think of that caterpillar I played with in my room when I was six,
And how i thought about how people only wrote about butterflies
And how the caterpillars felt about that,
So when I asked my mother to ask her friend, an author,
If she’d write me into a novel,
Would she ignore me because I was a caterpillar,
Only choosing to open her mouth and write when my story became beautiful and socially acceptable,
When it grew out from the pubescent disliking of itself and stained the sinks of society,
Out of a hot *** of queer and quarantine,
Till the broth of the fluidity of my own being was was down the rabbit hole
Till all that was left was whitewashed spaghetti?

If these songs were anything I could write down again and again,
In pen, ignoring the requests to write neater,
To type faster,
If I put all my work into an envelope I already broke,
Shove it into a mailbox decorated with things people disagree with,
My pages bleeding ink few people can touch without being soaked,
When they ask me what to file me under
I don’t say “minority fiction” anymore

I say file me under “road signs”
At the intersections.
File me under that caterpillar,
In the wheat field,
Next to hydrangeas on the dinner table
A Sunflower in the spring
The harvested Brown Rice,
So when you make me into a meal I didn’t ask for,
I can be at least eaten by the vegans.

I stand atop a hill,
Right in the thick of love,
Deeply pondering my thoughts,
From high, up above.
It was not until I saw your face,
Did my heart slowly start to pound,
Envisioning nothing more than blurriness,
From all around.
As I look into your eyes,
I can’t help but form a luminous smile,
A feeling that comes only within,
And appears all the worthwhile.
How did I find such a worthy guy?
Respectful and sincere beyond belief,
Loving and very much admirable,
Attractive, heartwarming, with perfect teeth.
I stand atop a hill,
Embracing you with loving arms,
Kissing your lips with passion,
Discovering all you’re charms.
You leave me in much suspense,
Every time we unite,
You’re love to me exceeds all expectations,
A feeling oh, so right!
So much freedom,
We endure,
As we embark on new adventures,
With much to explore,
I stand atop a hill,
Smiling endlessly through the night,
Because I know you’re always there for me,
Always shining bright. <3

I was falling.
I knew that somehow my feet had tumbled over some sort of cliff but could not recognize the scenery nor how or when I had reached this peculiar predicament.
Along with the always present weightlessness of falling through the air, there bubbled within me another feeling; one I did not expect.
Apathy.
The blissful faux virtue of anhedonia that coursed through my veins like a venom; pumping with my slow heartbeat....
I fell in slow motion, giving time to muse on such things while the skies around me changed drastically from clear to cloudy, from wistful clouds to a menacing overhead growling.
I closed my eyes and smiled.
In the back of my eyes though appeared a hooded figured shrouded in black with only a slight sneer appearing through the visage. This figured caused the blissful venom to tighten and turn sharply into a fear that made me unable to breathe.
I screamed as I started falling faster and mouthed words that couldn't be understood.
Tears poured and fell upward like rain from a tormented ghost.
Just before the ground embraced me and swallowed everything I ever was or ever would be, time stopped and there was silence.
I opened my eyes and to my surprise, the blurry sight of two figures appeared. One emmitted a faint glow with a softness about him; a calming aura...
while the other gave me the feeling of power and rage; a darkness about him like a creature bearing teeth against the night.
In unison they whispered five words.
The blurriness faded and I gasped. They were both distorted caricatures of me.
In the blink of an eyes, I was yanked upward with a speed so fierce that perhaps my body would not be able to handle it. Through the stormy and the calming skies...

I woke up out of breath to the sound of an alarm clock screaming beside my bed.
I blinked a few times and sighed, recovering my breath...

"Don't give up on me...", I whispered.

I stand atop a hill,
Right in the thick of love,
Deeply pondering my thoughts,
From high, up above.
It was not until I saw your face,
Did my heart slowly start to pound,
Envisioning nothing more than blurriness,
From all around.
As I look into your eyes,
I can’t help but form a luminous smile,
A feeling that comes only within,
And appears all the worthwhile.
How did I find such a worthy guy?
Respectful and sincere beyond belief,
Loving and very much admirable,
Attractive, heartwarming, with perfect teeth.
I stand atop a hill,
Embracing you with loving arms,
Kissing your lips with passion,
Discovering all you’re charms.
You leave me in much suspense,
Every time we unite,
You’re love to me exceeds all expectations,
A feeling oh, so right!
So much freedom,
We endure,
As we embark on new adventures,
With much to explore.
I stand atop a hill,
Smiling endlessly through the night,
Because I know you’re always there for me,
Always shining bright. <3

I was at a bar,
Against my will,
I don’t drink…
Alcohol.

The people laughing,
Hollering, Wallowing,
And swallowing the
Brew to a counterfeit
Reality…
A reality of invincibility,
A reality of incomprehension,
A reality of  abstract visions,
A reality of indiscipline,
A reality of the minds,
A reality of blurriness,
A reality of sheer…
UTTER Stupidity.

They stutter and stumble,
They rock and ****,
They slam and slam
More brewed bogus
Reality.

They call it an escape,
But while in that faux-reality
They forget;
There is no reality
More genuine,
More intricate,
More perplexing,
More marvelous,
More sobering,
Than one within sobriety,
Made from all
Natural ingredients.

I might have likened the bottle
more than the *****
the drink often brought peace and sleep
but also her too
sometimes a room full of unwanted types
the restless,with a grudge
the music would disappear
and blurriness replaced sight
often anger
it's quiet tonight
I must not have seen her
words and pages tell me so.

As a gush of wind passes by me,
I hear a high-pitch sound,
I envision blurriness,
From all around.
I feel a gentle touch,
From the almighty winds' power,
I'm alone with the wind,
As high as a tower.
The singing breeze captures my attention,
As my curiosity rises,
I'm at ease with the wind,
Of various shapes, and sizes.
I see a shadow of the wind,
Feel the winds' breath on my skin,
I'm relaxed and content,
From my conscious within.

Here I am,

living in the space between
truth and reality, fleshing
out fact and fiction.

Honestly, honesty doesn't
always mean accuracy.

Symposium of grief and
all its little tear soldiers,
running down your face,
fleeing the battlefield before
the war's even begun.

I wish you would stop.
Bringing logic into this,
that's so like you, like
logic does any good when
I'm like this.

Why do you get like this?

I don't know. Ask God.
He has a very sick sense
of humor.

I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'm getting beyond myself.
I'm getting tired. I'm getting
so tired, darling.

Erasing myself from history,
not that hard. The only mark
I ever made was on myself,
young and stupid on the cold
bathroom floor, begging God
to throw me a crumb.

I don't remember everything
from those years. Now when
I think of blurriness, I think
red.

Jesus. It hurts to write this.

I tried explaining it to you
once. I tried to tell the truth,
but it wasn't the right one.

What is your truth?

Do you really want to know?

I could spend the rest of my
life writing about this. I hope
I don't.

I was going to tell you. I was going to let you read a page. I swear.

I just wanted to put a
face to the feeling,
wanted a solid "you"
to write to, something
other than the blurriness.

I didn't pull you out of
your grave. I said,
scoot over.

When you walk a mile in
someone else's shoes, you
find your feet growing to
fill them out. That's the thing
about empathy:

Your own shoes are a little
too tight now. You've got
blisters on your ankles.

I had a dream that you bit
me and then ****** the
venom out. I had a dream
that you gave me mouth-to-
mouth so heavenly I forgot
who drowned me.

You had dibs over both sides
of the coin, half-dreamer, half-
dream. You made a place for
yourself inside my head. There,
you said, *now I can live forever.

Those dreams fading away,
carried by the clouds, that suddenly surfaced.
Those worry clouds - surely able to take away those infatuated love.

Those guiding hands of yours are no more here,
I am so lost in the wilderness,
Without you by my side.

Those feeling of not wanting and wanting at the same time,
I am so perplexed, yet try to understand the full context of it
by seconds by minutes by hours and by days.

Maybe not maybe yes,
we are so selfsame however unconnected, unrelated here and there.

So here we goes our epoch of love, swaying, stranding on the beach of blurriness. I stood dumbfounded not knowing what to do.

Do I failed miserably or we haven't tried at all?

Father Time grounds his Sun's dial
by an ocean of hot sand,
his world inside an hour glass galaxy
spiraling downward
like a blue feather from a jay in a baobab
the mirage a lake, an eerie oasis throbs,
fuzzed by heat's blurriness.

Einstein peers through invisible specs
his peers skeptical of what he suspects
questions answered by questions
matter no longer matters
in accordance to my flannel pattern,
an arid desert spreads our earth,
Whitman's witnesses,
your songs causes gasps
in every plant's lungs
not just the grasses.

Like a shooting star.

I drifted further and farther away. To where it- whatever that is! Whatever that is, goes blurry...so blurry, so that the blurriness is moving, pulsating, as if to say, ‘I could be anything, I could mean anything.’

Like a star.

But.

When everything is possible, nothing is plausible.

It is a paradox. Oh but a paradox!

On a dark lonely street lit up with golden light,
Some walk staring blankly at the jet black road and some admire the glittering sight,
Some pass by gazing at the few stars shimmering, some letting in the feels of the moonlit night
Some look at the blurriness of the way carrying a heavy head and wiping off teary eyes.

Few even fly with their feet on ground
Some throw humongous curses to the stone that their toe has found
Some walk on hungrily searching for food
Some sweep off the Earth looking out for luck momentarily shouting "Oh, life's good."

Some run with hurried steps towards home,
And some find their's on the slabs of the roadside bench made of stone.

While some exitedly wait for the day to come,
Some calmly live for the nights alone.

As a gush of wind passes over me,
A hear a high-pitch sound,
I envision blurriness,
From all around.
I feel a gentle touch,
From the almighty wind's power,
I'm alone with the wind,
As high as a tower.
The singing breeze captures my attention,
As my curiosity rises,
I'm at ease with the wind,
Of various shapes and sizes.
I see a shadow up ahead,
Feel the winds' breath on my cool skin,
I'm relaxed and content,
From my conscious within.
Let the singing breeze wave to me,
Let it hug my body and speak,
Let it become alive and nature's friend,
Let it find its highest peak.
It has much to show,
Of its beauty and gift,
Let the singing breeze sing,
Let it convey how swift.

"Ugh, I'm so tired
I haven't showered in forever
I'm hot and thirsty
And my legs hurt so much"

Walking next to her
I replied
"I can't feel any of that
I'm so tired
That I'm only vaugely aware
Of a tingling ache in my feet
And some blurriness in my eyes occasionally."

She laughed and said that I had transcended

I said to her
"If this is transcendence, it kind of *****"

This knee used to be fine,
no grinding feelings or immobility,
I crouched like a god

I also had back muscles
that laughed off twisting,
I wiped my *** with gay abandon

My eyes focused when I woke
and any blurriness was a sign
of rock ‘n’ roll

Now, as my supposed wisdom grows,
this flabby mechanism
seems want to say no

My bifocals reject me.
Reality is not made for focusing.
It is made for massive blurriness.
There is no true form of clarity,
just varying degrees of disparity.

One man cries out to me
about how he is so hungry.
He has a bloated beer belly
that bulges out of his jeans.
He is crying about the purity
of his country, so angry
about the brown Muslim,
and so close to a stereotype.

Another man is merely weary.
Thin and drawn lines run down
wrinkling his withering form.
Each one that is found
is like the rings on a tree
reminding us all how he is aging.
His shirt is torn and holy as the mother Mary.
His calloused hands are as harsh as
the sandpaper he has been wielding.
While other yielding tools
play in digital pleasure palaces
of instant gratification
go on week long vacations,
he is working, fifty-something
going on seventy-two.
What is a Brown Muslim
supposed to do to prove
he is a good man?

Sister says it’s all gods will.
She loves all strangers.
She has faith and says that I should feel
the divine energy flowing through me,
but life is way more confusing
because more of the faithful
pledge their support
to the greedy and hateful

I can’t see through to the truth
The bifocals might have worked for you,
splitting life into two points of view,
but for me they are pointed askew.
Perhaps I need to find trifocals,
so I can focus on more varying perspectives.

I've finally realized my worst nightmare.
All it took was reading something that was always there
hidden in the recesses of someone else's mind,
written down for yours and mine
to process and enjoy, relate to then forget
as we continue down the rabbit hole of online.

But this story, this time, seemed to stick.

I've met my greatest fear, the panic it incurs.
The breathlessness. The blurriness. The helplessness.
merely from the though of it...
to forget

It seems that all life becomes a big blur
When it fades into fuzzy memories
Of old recollections that churn and swirl
In a part of the mind once thought empty.

Faint images seen begin to appear,
Though they were considered misplaced and lost.
This past visioning will soon start to clear,
But unknown is the true price of the cost

Of regaining sight of past experience
Throughout an entire lifetime's worth of
Personal penance and inherent lament,
Addiction for distraction, a love

For misery's indulgence, evilness
Bubbling inside a decrepit heart...
Perhaps the past might have its blurriness,
But I remember so I'm not torn apart.

tyndall, my dear tyndall in the morning
why don't you tell me
how blurriness is the majesty
here
when i put my glasses on
and sip the liquid i cannot tell what it is
it becomes foggy
why don't you tell me
how i wish i were a forest fairy
that misty eyes are not what the lake tells
that it is what the lake shows
behind your clothes
there is no skin
you have no flesh
crushed skeleton
yellow as pollen
they named you tyndall with a reason
why don't you tell me
how all of these time i prayed to ra
diana kept giggling and put all my cries
under the label 'noises'
i thought i could trust her
my mother once said so
that she was my other
why don't you tell me
how the striped pants on the runways
are now out of date
how flower prints on the blowing skirts
of ladies who promise you
to gather you to their breast
do not wither
why don't you tell me
i do not have to water
them
don't you see the flow
of liquid i cannot tell what it is
keeps running and running out
i will soon be dry
is it a cactus i see -- i can't even
there's none
you don't have to tell me

That night, I have a dream. I'm running through a golden field of poppies reflecting in the sun. The field is a engulfed in a flame of yellow and orange diamonds. I'm alone, but I feel there is someone there with me. Where they are, I have no idea. I swivel myself around in a circle, making myself dizzy and confused. Is this the best way to find a person? Dizzy and confused? They can't be seen so I spin my own vision, thinking a blurred vision would be better to find a hiding person. The logic is upside down, but so am I because I notice the sky is no longer its natural blue, but rose red and shimmering like light on the waves of the ocean.
I'm on my back, staring at the ****** sky. Underneath me, the golden poppies have been squished by my weight. The sun has gone away too. It's gone behind a cloud, a mountain, I don't know. It's gone. I am no longer thinking of the person in hiding, but of where I am at all. My ego steps in, yet I feel no worry. I'm not bothered or scared. Indifference with a side of curiosity washes over me like a cold, hard rain. I know I am dreaming. The tingling and the blurriness give it away.  When I discover this, I lift myself up somehow from the broken stemmed poppies and walk forward to the end of the field.
My bare foot touches the damp dirt. This is the first time I notice that I am not wearing any shoes. I can't tell if I am wearing any clothes. The colors are all bleeding into one, but I feel the moist dirt underneath my feet and my toes. I wiggle them and press them into the ground. They dip in, like a toe into a pool of water. The water is a paradox of temperature. There is a noise behind me with no sound. A vibration of sorts. I look over my shoulder and see the ember field of poppies, swaying back and forth in a silent wind. The sun has returned and its rays rain down on me. I close my eyes and feel the warmth, knowing I feel this because of a memory of actual life. What if a memories only purpose is to fuel dreams? What if true living is only in dreams and reality - home, work, home - is only meant for dreams? Wouldn't that be something.
I walk through the wet field of dirt and mud and come to a river. There is a dock and I walk on it to the end and discover a rope. It looks to have once been tied to something. The hard wood under my feet feels strong and sturdy. I am not afraid to fall in the water, but if I was to, I knew I could swim. I go to my knees and examine the rope. It is water logged and the twine is damaged. It's nearly come undone. The only thing it has going for it is that it is very long. At least ten feet in length. It looks to be used for tying boats to the dock. I look up and see it, the boat, sitting in the middle of the still river. There are two people inside. They are shadows until the sun shifts and I see that it is Claire and Hane.
I stand. I put my hand up and wave, but they don't see me. I shout at them, waving my hands wildly, but they do not hear me. I stamp my foot on the dock, rocking it back and forth, trying to see if the vibration will reach the boat they are sitting in, but they do not feel it. I'm invisible to them. I sit down on the edge of the dock with my legs hanging over the sides and look at my reflection in the water. There's nothing there. I look up and see they are staring not at me, but over me. They are at the sun. It's setting. I look at their faces and they are smiling warmed smiles and I struggle to make sense that they cannot see me. I look over my shoulder, wishing to feel the same, but as I do so, I feel my grip slip on the edge of the dock and my legs go forward. My back slaps against the glassy surface  of the water. I plunge in and sink until I hit the bottom. The sand bursts from both sides of me. It gets in my eyes. I can't see. I can't breathe. I wake up.