breaststrokes
power me
through nebulous
clouds of stardust.
push through the pain,
echoing in the chasms
of a brain deadened.
bypass the past
that clings like detritus,
beyond the black holes
gobbling galaxies
whole. onwards.
eyes set on the horizon
nothing lies beyond:
dancing along
the razor's straightedge,
an eternally
expanding cosmos.

your hair sprawled out
across my bed
as if it swam
upon the surface
of the sea.

you looked up
with coffee-colored irises
and asked me,
"how on earth
do you fly?"

you giggled breathlessly,
as if your mirth
were a brook,
bubbling eternally.

we both looked back
up at the screen.
a tiny figure
in a red cloak
and hijab danced
aimlessly, flitting
across the sand.

a scarf twisted
over her shoulder
in the wind, drifting
with the twisting koi fish,
glowing. her journey
was only beginning.

a hooded figure,
all in white,
came alongside her.
his scarf seemed
to stretch as far
as the eye could see.

he'd been here before.
fallen down an abyss
of his own design.
died and rose again.
he returned
to lead a friend,
hoping she'd find
her own way out alive.

as they soared
wordlessly, they seemed
to skip across the skyline,
their scarves intermingling.
alone, they'd remain
trapped in a daze,
lost in a maze of dunes,
trudging endlessly.
but, together,
struggling—surviving—
they somehow made it out
in one piece.

we sit amidst a haze
of marijuana smoke,
chasing esoteric ghosts
on the front-porch
of your abuela's house.
the rest of the city is asleep,
but these streets still remind me
of painful memories
i thought i'd left buried
with the ashes of the bridges
i'd burned and friendships
i'd left in tatters.

2:00am comes and goes
as you pack another bowl
and we shoot the ****
and reminisce
about the old days—
back when we were naive
and still believed in god.
how we'd sneak
through rich,
white kids' lawns
and sit at the docks,
bare feet spinning
in the lukewarm pond
as we traced the Big Dipper,
contemplating the boundless.

now we make reverse-suicide-pacts
and promise not to **** ourselves,
if only for those we'd leave behind.
we share a laugh.
there's not much else to do.
contrary to popular belief,
dawn may bring a new day,
but things won't suddenly be o.k.
and we're learning how to live
despite that fact.

they whisper in reverent tones
on the television,
hushed, in awe,
struck dumb
by the images
of fifty-nine tomahawk cruise missiles
a flaccid, wanna-be-strongman
just launched at Syria,
a country whose refugees
and babies we'd rather see
washed-up on the sands
of foreign lands than safely
at peace in our homeland.

Brian Williams calls
the spectacle, "beautiful."
sociopathic pundits in ecstasy,
spewing meek excuses
like babbling baboons, buffoons
lusting for an **** of nihilistic violence.
they invoke their dead gods,
beseech the "Almighty" to bless
their bloodstained hands,
and say this is how a demagogue
acts presidential.

beat the war drums in quick succession.
about face in a new direction.
left, left, left, right, left.
it doesn't matter who sits
in the Oval Office, war
makes America great again,
boosting administrative approval ratings
and corporate coffers, revenue soaring
like sky-rocketing jet-fuel.

we cannot pummel the world
into submission with munitions,
but that won't stop us from trying.
planting early graves
like seeds in the ground,
bearing fruit that spoils
and keeps this whole sick joke
spinning perpetually around.
we **** people who **** people
because killing people is wrong.
what i'd give to wake
to a world not torn
apart by war.

there's something serene
about waking up
at the beach.
the heady drone
of the waves' ebb and flow
induces a gentle hypnosis.
the Atlantic
pulled back
and forth
by the moon
flirting with the Earth,
two lovers
who never quite touch.

saturated cumulus clouds cling
to the ocean's surface
as far as the eye can see,
a downy duvet
laid across the planet
for warmth and comfort.
as the salt breeze butterfly-kisses
sunburnt skin, a hazy lethargy
invites you to sink
beneath, an anchor
lost at sea, and forget,
if only for a moment,
the world's weariness.

you keep your lighter
sandwiched in a niche amidst
the Spirit cigarettes
you carry, a spark
hidden in the breast-pocket
of the jacket you borrowed
from me several months ago
and neglected to give back.
like Prometheus, pilfering fire
from the gods, you stole
the warmth from the stars
and built a hearth
in my chest, a warmth
nurtured by the mirth
that tugs at the corners
of your mouth every time
you laugh at my expense.
i'll cherish your candle close
to my heart, even when life
inevitably tears us apart.
everything ends eventually,
but at least we lived
as if we'd never burn out.

i feel a phantom vibration
where my phone usually rests.
i hear the Mockingjay chime
each time, as if i've received
an imaginary text.

weeks have passed. still,
the moments creep past.
no word. i wonder
what you're up to.
are you feeling any better?
when can i expect
to see you next?
i miss you.

i'm afraid my last letter
might've been misconstrued,
so here's the truth:
no higher power exists
to protect you. the 12 steps
cannot save you from the ghost
of addiction. i'd resurrect god
just to **** him again if it meant
i could help you. but i, too,
am powerless.

you've got two hands
on the steering-wheel.
white knuckle vise-grip.
liberty or death,
this or the apocalypse.
only you can save yourself.