Ode to Sorrow

There’s something romantic about

pouring a pitcher full of sorrow

into my brain like chilled beer in a mason jar

that I gulp down and refill, refill

until I’m filled with drunken thoughts

about my lack of – and

overabundance of life.

 

I sit on a mountain

of melancholy, and swim in a river

of despair and sulk in the sorrow

that I allow into

every single moment of my day

and there’s not a thing

I’ll do to change it

 

Sorrow,

whispering into my ear,

“Get up, go outside,” and “Sulk a little more,”

so I slip on my moccasins and traipse

to the coffee shop

where I sit in the window

watching all of the lonely people

in hopes that one

will make eye contact with me

so I can kiss the sorrow

from their lips

only to turn away

and never look back.

Intertwining

Tonight

I will sway my

body to the buzzing

of a sensuous saxophone

that guides

 

my fall

into the sea

of your pleasant remarks

that drip and drop into my mouth

each time

 

you say

blues makes you feel

lustful, or when you stare

into the caverns of my eyes

like you

 

really

see who I am –

my being as a whole,

not just my body alone in

this room.

 

Tonight

I want to lie

in bed with you to chit

chat about smooth jazz and french films

and how

 

both let

your brain unwind

after a long day, so

let us unravel together.

Our brains

 

Inter-

twine and our skin

unites under your sheets.

I disintegrate by the thought

of you.

Ramble

This morning I pried my eyelids open and began

blinking, only to see a deceased spider on the window

sill, much like the windows I wipe clean time and time again

after my skin blistering showers so I can view

my neighbor’s dying lily garden from a safe distance,

 

but don’t ask me why I think it’s beautiful or why

it makes the gears inside my brain churn about

the well-being of my own decaying body

because I don’t have an answer, and I’ll begin to think

I need to see my shrink twice a week instead

 

of once, and you’ll believe that it’s enough

to save me from myself, but frankly

I don’t think I need saving any more than you

do, so bear with me while I analyze the doomed

state of my being and visualize the toxins bursting

 

free from the cracks and scars on my hands, because

they need a release from my nervous habits that overcome

my being when I think about the cycle of life, and I begin picking

all remnants of skin left around my fingernails, or chain smoking

cigarettes in freezing weather, and I’m so predictable every time

 

life fails to pan out in any sort of a predictable

manner, although, I have been thinking more deeply as I listen

to Death Is Not The End on repeat in hopes

that Bob Dylan wrote it as a coping method for those

like me who have not completely come to terms with death, so

 

I peek out of the window at those dying

lilies for a reason, and feel as if I’m dying

with them – for a sense of validation because every single year

they die and regrow slightly different than before, but they’re

always just as breathtaking.

A Letter

Dear Human Being,

You are not a concept. Your heart beats, you breathe, you feel pain.

You’re a refugee who is discriminated against

and refused access into the United States of America, the land of the free

and the home of the brave. I write one word for this letter and erase, erase.

Erase, replace. I’m not sure what to say. “Hello” and “how are you?”

sounds absurd as your life dangles by a string.

 

What has my white skin done?

Like gazing into the midday sun for a split second, and becoming blind

for minutes on end by the outline of the circular image in your ocular

view, with traces of white reminding you of its presence. The whiteness –

it’s everywhere, disregarding the spectrum of color and continues

to wedge its degrading actions into your life, and urge you further

and further away from the white man’s world through unjustified hate:

Speak English, he demands.

Go back to where you came from, he declares.

Destroying your home with bombs, and accusing you of terrorism.

Demands, declares, destroys.

 

What happened to the colors of the rainbow? We must embrace

each wavelength our eyes perceive as colors because they are a part

of life – not to be ignored, disfavored. Because pure white contains

every color of the rainbow. And yet, this white infested world

lacks much color, while molding society like clay.

 

How can we disregard displaced human beings running from gunshots,

living in the streets, with only the clothes on their backs, and nothing

to eat? The white blinds me.

I’m sure white blinds you more when it insinuates fear as you walk into an airport.

I’m sure white blinds you when your hijab is perceived to be synonymous with Islam.

I’m sure you’re blinded when your children need a safe place to rest their weary bodies.

I’m sure your emotions overflow, when each day offers another flood of tragedy.

I’m sure the white allows your aching body to suffocate and drown, while pretending

to care. Pretending to relate. Pretending to understand.

 

What right do I have with my whiteness to feel damaged

by your affliction, when I will never understand the severity as you

have experienced it? Has privilege made the white incapable of compassion? Empathy?

Human beings are praying, while grasping their children, with every inch of their soul

in desperation to escape a world of disaster, that the white have become imperceptive of.

 

I wrote this letter to express how sorry I am. I am sorry

for the whiteness that selfishly raped your rights.

I’m sorry for the lack of concern, comfort, kindness.

I’m sorry for the self entitlement.

I’m sorry for your mother, father, brothers, and sisters.

I’m so sorry.

 

I’m sure the white light will continue to attract ignorance like moths attracted

to a porch lamp that swarm around the white light, and blinds them until death.

I wrote this letter to offer any hope that’s left – that one day, this will be a world

filled with bright, colorful light.

 

With best regards,

A Human Being

 

“H”

The dirty diesel

injects its destructive fluids

into your entire being

while your brain receptors

are fooled and

your nervous system

gives in

as the poison

deceives you.

The dirty diesel.

 

The rush –

It fills you up.

Euphoria makes you feel

alive, but only

temporarily.

Its true colors 

yellow like piss

intensely seep through

and steals all control

until you have none.

The dirty diesel.

 

Cobain said,

“I travel through a tube

and end up in your infection,”

only to be discovered dead

with three times

the lethal dose

of the deadly diesel

eating away

at his insides.

A masochistic delight.

 

The self-inflicted torture

so tempting, yet

so tormenting

purloins all sanity.

Now look in the mirror

as you tiptoe closer

and see nothing but a needle.

It speaks to you like it spoke

to Staley who swore,

“You can’t understand

a user’s mind.”

The dirty diesel.

 

Does the pain

inside your brain

take a breathtaking halt

when the diesel kicks in?

When the cordial warmth

of your skin

consumes you? Or

does reality strike

when your muscles ache

and your legs begin to shake?

Killing yourself slowly

with the dirty diesel.

 

I watched your closest friend,

and your worst enemy

suck the life

directly from your veins.

What better way

to describe

the twisted relationship

that will persistently haunt you

because you signed a deal

with the dirty diesel devil.

 

Chaos

We watch the chaos

It occurs

We visualize it

Hear it

Sense it

Touch it

We feel it thriving

everywhere we go

We picture it

in unique ways

that often

conflict

each other

In hopes

that our way

is the right way

We want to feel heard

But each “way”

slowly

strategically

determines a path

a chaotic

scattered path

in which determines

the rest of your life

We often underestimate

the impact

of our decisions

on our being

and on others

Those little decisions

recreate the chaos

that we once avoided

Or at least

we thought..