A government official gives a speech (maybe)
omg that guy’s inciting violence (probably)
and sweet mother of pearl
that guys hot! (definitely)

//Query: What the hell am I doing here?//

And the internet:
The dead-est of the dead
The most rigor of mortises.

//God is made of sulfur and metal pipes
Which hang from the sky 
In torrents//

And I’m a madwoman,
A red-pill swallower
A conspiracy gobbler
An anti-corpo depresso wallower
to process        global globally       trauma..a..a..

//I love you! like your cat loves human flesh
Like human flesh loves to decompose
And the bathroom is on your left
Invest in a better wi-fi plan.//

And I guess I am depressed
Or at least I should be depressed
I should feel something (definitely)

But are we all not just a copy of
A copy of

We disappear into the cave beneath the falls
Surrounded by the smell of urine
And graffiti I can’t read.
We avoid the hand railings
Along the stairs.
The landing has half an inch of water
The drain clogged
With cigarette butts and Starbucks.

I complain the whole way down
And then complain some more
Because we can’t go further down
Descending deeper into the falls’ belly.

It’s weird that I am on the other side of the falls
(The side with the big green lady)
When I remember being eleven
On a school trip
Surrounded by the fresh spray
And crisp air.

Where’s the dream? I want to ask,
Now that I am on the other side.
Perhaps it was inside those two towers,
The ones I saw in old photos from the 90s.
But if the dream really was in there
What would that leave for the people outside?

On the flight home to Texas
I press my nose against the window.
The tarnished green skyline
Is on fire with the sunset
And it is speaking to me,
Telling me of secrets,
Of the secret,
The best kept secret of Rome:

All roads never led there at all
And maybe the entrances
Were portals to deeper things.
A way out.

He’s got a scrubby look to him,
Unshaven and sad.

It doesn’t matter if sometimes
His accent pushes through
Or he slips back into Arabic
Because he doesn’t say much anyway,
Just stares out the window
As his mind flies off to the peaceful
Beaches of the Mediterranean,
Or to that Uyghur restaurant down by the bay

Or to the softness of her hair
The gentleness in her face
And how the ocean breeze
Felt on his skin.

“Aren’t you going to pass out a worksheet or something?”
A student asks finally.

He shrugs.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says,
“But I could if you’d like.”

They all shake their heads vigorously.

Another student raises their hand
And inquires about his absence policy.

“Absence is the only policy,”
He responds, before
He kicks his feet up
And reaches into his desk
Digging through workbooks
For a cigarette.

He whispered that I am a valley of high mountains
As I stood on its summit
And the world held still on a deadly winter

And the glaciers I had climbed 
When I scaled this mountain last
Had faded and settled into the flowerbeds.

But be silent, I warned him
Who was on the summit with me.
Because your echoes may break the mountains
And it might all come to an end.

And as he looked ahead and spoke
Of the filthy world below

I held the snow in my palm
And prayed on it.

And he talked and talked

As I gazed at my hands
I was no valley, for I could not see the mountains
In my fingertips.
Where the artist saw a valley,
I, the poet, saw blood, only blood.

And my cries broke the mountain

And there was blood, only blood!

I remember when I used to make earthquakes, too.
Every step a stomp I would
Bite the rock into pieces I could chew
My emotion turns to a foliated list of reasons
You might want me dead by next Jummah afternoon.
Then we whirl into a cyclone of suspicion
You of me and me of you and both of us
In a turntable, dancing stoically to a rhythm of risk and rage
And anger and pain
Our traditional dresses falling off into
Dark walnut down the drain.
Our nations paint colors on our chests:
Yours a flag, mine a bloody stain.
And my nails dig deep into Japan today
But my fingers stay home, filled with 
Flames, with names
With gravel and spices
And I wonder if perhaps the grand directors
Have miscast my part;
If I play a ghost in myan gulli, is it
Inevitable
Or is it art?
Near the Line of Control,
The ceasefire holds
But little else does–
It was 12 o’clock at noon
And there was a good sun somewhere.

I learned how life works 
Through musical chairs in kindergarten. 

I was always the first one out. 

The music would stop, and all would 
Turn their large, wondering eyes up 
To me, awkwardly mid-walk between two 
chairs. 

I’m out, I thought. But why? I could feel  
The rage and embarrassment begin to boil over. 
Perhaps I was not fast enough 
Or maybe I just simply couldn’t anticipate
My teacher’s next move?

There’s not enough chairs! I bawled,
And they laughed.
That’s the point, they said, 
And I sat down at my desk, dejected.

I watched as they circled, like vultures
The carcasses of the chairs,
The chairs which were spaced out unevenly,
I realized, so that more chairs were in the middles than the sides. 

It’s on purpose, of course.
The game won’t work if everyone has enough.
So I might labor to produce
Ever-more comfortable chairs
Which become thrones just for
The chance to buy a small wooden stool.

And it’s all too often
That my classmates mistake effect for cause.
My friend developed an odd addiction for comfortable shoes
To cope with the blisters and calluses
That come with a life of constant standing.

Then they’d point to the shoes
And blame those for my friend’s status.

Your ability to take a seat in the game is irrelevant
If your father owns a chair factory.

And none of the above will ever happen to you
If your daddy’s rich.

It was October, getting cold. I was walking with my friend to grab boba, and I was worried because I had read earlier that the government is definitely watching us, and that was creepy. 

Anyways, I was looking up to the clouds and thinking, well, at least we’ve still got this beautiful sunset. I imagine I looked a fright because the wind was picking up and swirling my hair all about my face. Some of it got in my mouth, and I did not like the taste. My friend joked about how hair has extra protein and is good for the diet. I remember smacking her. 

We strolled past my friend’s house, and I noticed her dad on the porch. I saw something like smoke drifting from his silhouette, but I figured I was mistaken because he is a minister and does not smoke; and suddenly I turned to say hi from behind the hydrangea patch, and he saw movement, my hair maybe, and it frightened him, so he jumped. Then he said Jesus, kid! What are you doing sneaking around in the evening? I told him I was just hanging out with a friend. I tilted my head back a little, like how my mother describes corpses’ heads in the morgue. My hair whipped my face. I closed my mouth because it was annoying me again. 

My friend took a long sip from her drink. She told me I looked weird, which I found weird because I was only standing there. It reminded me a lot of how everyone else acted around me. 

Expectational weight felt rather heavy that autumn evening. I was remarkably unmotivated to do anything except stand there and watch the sky, so my friend turned in for the night. I gave her a wave as she left. Her father followed her inside, and I continued to stand there underneath the everlasting sky. 

My fingertips had calluses from practicing music, and my knuckles did too because I had been working out a lot that month. My calves were killing me since I had gone out for a run that morning. I had run a lot. Because I was angry, I think. With the world. With myself. Both, maybe. 
I remember the feeling of anger because I have the same anger now. An effervescent mixture of cola and vodka, hot tears blurring my periphery, and barbed wire tight around my larynx. 

The sun has nearly dipped beyond the horizon. I hadn’t noticed.

It’s weird, isn’t it? Time goes by, minute by minute, and everything is the same, but then another second passes and suddenly

Everything is different.

How do I change a broken world? I met someone, once, who told me that we 
All began this life with a purpose. 
Sometimes, we lose sight of our purpose 
And our vision is clouded with what we think is 
Our purpose. This is how we are controlled. 

I was never distracted. 

I am certain of my purpose. 

I must change this broken world. 

How do I fix this grieving home? 

Trash is tossed over the wall. 
Furniture, stuffed toys and people — 
It all blurs at some point
When it gets tossed over there
Over there! 

I am different, though.

I can see what the adults cannot.

I must hold together my grieving home.

How can you lie still in a crumbling land?

A cyclone spins through this planet.
Whirling winds whipping and whishing — 
At the cycle’s center lie the hearts of martyrs.
They fall. They are torn; they rise; they walk again.

I am not a patient kid, but

My purpose holds me still.

To win, we must wait.

How to change this broken world?

Do not raise your arms in surrender.
But rather hold still
Watch closely
And wave a slow, muted goodbye.

Then turn, and walk onward.

Let go of the wheel. Ease your foot off the pedal. 

Even though you’re in the driver’s seat, you have no control over where this vehicle is actually going. Your tires shudder to a stop, and pink and purple soap fills your vision. 

You roll forward grudgingly and a monsoon rains on your roof while great rubber rotating brushes slam against your sides. You feel very, very threatened but you sit still. You know you can’t possibly back out now. And anyways it is silly to be frightened of a car wash. 

As your car is relieved of the thunderous, fat droplets raining from the heavens, light begins to filter through the puddles on your windshield. Powerful air dryers roar hundreds of water droplets up your windows and you make an imaginary race between them. Up they go, as if the laws of physics and gravity themselves had been upturned. 

The robotic female voice tells you to leave, and you do. As you blink into the bright sky past the green arrows, you think you might emerge a better person driving into a better world.

Watch the olives fade from the trees
See as the topsoil goes flying
When there are no roots to hold it in place
Grasp the barren ground with a blood soaked hand
There are no olives in the promised land.

Listen as sounds of birds drop from the clouds
Wings bent in odd shapes
Sleek metal, explosive
At it’s base, a familiar brand
No more birds in the promised land.

Smell the sharp scent of iron
Flinch at it’s unrelenting sting
In such a great quantity,
Flowing in rivers on the loose sand
How do you persist, promised land?

Feel prison walls trembling
With the remembrance of screams
Greatly envied, this home so coveted
Boots fall just how they were planned
How can you subsist, promised land?

When will the killers of olives, birds,
Shedders of blood and missiles
When will they fall, O Promised Land?

Home on all sides of the globe
My suffering reflected with yours
A missed land, a promised one

This Promised Land:
When will my spring come back to you?