featured in SEASON OF SORROW
I burn with time: a collection of collard moments.
And I wonder why some-things defrosts
on the sight of some-nothings ― I learnt about
this on a bus when I sat and held hands with a girl
whose inside was overcooked by partitioned quinces.
I call on earth, bear me witness:
I have licked my wounds for progress:
a purchased eloquence on this dirg-y road.
The afternoon sprinkles into my room
and an ocean of hassle grows into peckish mannequins in my head.
I see in the movie, a boy― one with hunger― asking for
a pint of care; I see in the movie, a boy racing after cars―
the night is held at a point away from rumbling stomach.
America is anywhere you work your bones to
the core to make another very rich― says Danny Glover.
I try to assemble prayers for my collapsing hope.
I do not want to ask more than my dream can carry.
My long dead father wakes with me and I am shown
a one way around a twisted tree. My mother has a way of reaching
me without being near: my navel carries the weight of her pains.
There are no sad stories in a child’s dream: this is open for wrong, for debate.
I want to show you that entrance into my worries: the fluency for
my fears: the ones with the sound like a can full of nails: though
I know that when I stand long enough in a place I become its monument.
headliner image: end sars protestor from TSA the streetjournal