My dear sister, I’m sorry I wasn’t there
When they call you names and harass your crown on the street
When they tell you what you should or shouldn’t do with your body

My dear sister, I’m sorry I wasn’t there
When they pluck your honey against your will yet they tell them you enjoy it
When they touch your skin yet they left it bleeding and bruised

My dear sister, I’m sorry I wasn’t there
When they want you to cover your scars and pimples because they don’t meet the “beauty” standards
When they forcibly ask you to shave your hair because it doesn’t potray cleanliness and hygiene

My dear sister, I’m sorry I wasn’t there
When your rose is blooming and the moon is come but they show you their cold shoulders
When they make fun of your shape and laugh it off but they refuse to make a clean breast of it as an insult

Thus rise, dear sister
—for your pain is mine to carry
—for your wound is mine to mend
—for your war is mine to fight

My mother never gave birth to a girl
Neither did her and my father ever raise a daughter
Yet, they raised a wolf—wild, fearless, strong, and resilient

They told me to howl at everything I found misfit;
to bark as a warning sign,
to riot as an act of resistance

i.

i am stone,
a bandaged angel
in the middle of hell
where the lightening lifts
the dark night from its gloom
and stars no longer shine.

ii.

i am a skeleton of flame,
death’s child of an ugly
war, and all the love
in the world can’t change
the past like a rose pressed
in the dust.

iii.

i am the living,
seeing the soldiers come,
and i pray to god and the angels,
on this broken road,
that the darkness is not real
and the angel is not stone.

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┃                             ­                 ┃
┃                                             ­ ┃
┃                space                     ┃
┃                                           ­   ┃
┃                                              ┃
┃          ­                                    ┃
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╰ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ╯

My brother did.
I haven't.
Others have, going back.
Forward, I will;
But today isn't the day
For theologizing on the mysterious,
Unknown will.
I won't squander away,
Vicariously,
Beneath  indiscriminate winds.
I don't get it.

who is / is this in circulation? / this being is / as a tree stands / here / is / she / I / I — / I am so / this is who / in / being somehow / in some so / am I / connected to each other / oh — / oh here / come to / being here too / now / why must you / you return again / thinking / on such / behalf? / end it / who it is / and which / it will not help you / go on / (come on / lie to yourself) / again, waiting — / nothing / nothing will happen / I blink again / thinking every — which / nothing / now / it’s over / I / I love / it is so demanding / to point in / to map out / it perhaps / each corresponding / is rather impossible / yet / situation / in it / we attempt it / in some cases / I do not know why / I come back to / and I’m sorry / I’ve lost you

Blue Conservatives...
          well, they've saddened us;
Red Liberals...
          have angered us;
Green Democrats...
          I'm inspired.

It is a convergence
of classical cords
and caffeine
along with
the depth
of another
writer
who inspires
dormant desires.

I let the breath
of silently whispered
syllables
simmer in
the ocean
of my unconscious,

as ivory keys
percussively
pound little wooden hammers
against vibrating strings.

I am searching,
seeking
the speaking
of some cosmic being
that lives in me.

The utterance of
unnatural inspiration,
the soul of creation,
not a god force
but chemical particles
dancing in a storm
of confusion.

Dissonance
and novelty
gift me
each word
and verse's length,
but beyond this
I am still searching.

Still searching
in hopes the heart
of art will find me
successively
each day.