A blue boat
in the Mediterranean,
seven hundred balance,
broken, silent,
an unchosen arc,
rocking hearts dulled
by a slender chance
at survival.

Bitter dread grips
those not in boats,
greeted by the unexpected,
fumbling the knot of wrongdoing.
Surprised faces
bob in peaks and troughs.

Somewhere
between the
abandonment of hope
and the next breath
lies arrival.
A remembrance of
a buoyancy,
a slender space
of kindness,
holds all refugee stories
breathing freely
wave after wave.

For three years I thought, "What's a silver spoon Mom?"
Now I know it's something people like me never have

For three years I thought, "Mom, why don't we have beds?"
Now I know it's the place everyone spends 90% of their life at

For three years I thought, "Why does everyone own a big box?"
Now I know it's a place we call home

Two years later I thought, "Mom, why are you crying?"
She pointed at the silver object in my hand I used to eat

"We're getting there sweetie", she said brightening up with a smile.

have you ever looked
at a house and felt
a crippling pain that
you couldn’t go in it?

i have
every day i see my own
front porch
and every day i see the house
still in someone else’s name
but not for much longer

the first hurt is raw
ripping and searing
through my heart
and running into hot
cinnamon fire tears
burning my cheeks

the second hurt is dull
stinging like a
badly sharpened knife
over skin or knowing
what your birthday
present is but having
to wait while not
letting on you know

i grew accustomed to
the custom of becoming
myself in this house
but the walls i grew up in
grew inward too tightly
around me to choke me

and still i have
a pillow to bury my
face in at night
a shower to wash off
the day dust
a kitchen to stand in
when i’m feeling
a bit lost

but lost is the only
feeling i have
when i’m here
in this house

i don’t live here
anymore

i live on my feet
behind counters
through the parking lot
and up the sidewalk

slipping in before
the sun is up
and dragging out
when others are in bed

feeling small
on a dull afternoon
when i can only curl
up on the couch
to think
and wait

time in between
that’s now

time between shifts
and time between living
in my house
and finding my home

it’s not so much
the waiting game
it’s the feeling
that i’m alone

that nobody
wants me

so close and
yet so far
almost there
but stuck here

just keep
the worn floors clean
music playing
and make sure
the janky old doors
are locked at night

this is my town
this is my home now

this town will take
care of me

as i’m wandering through it
halfway homeless

This house I have lived in,
for the past 8 years.
I have so many memories,
I want to write down before each one disappears.
the house where you held me,
and dissipated fear.
the house that creaks and groans,
more so growing every year.
all the spiders that scared me,
that I wish could disappear.
Those random times when you gave me hugs,
and made me feel like i belonged here.
I will miss the fun times I had,
in this old house that now make me have falling tears.
this house that was so old,
that sometimes it was kinda weird.
even when I got stung by a wasp,
right in the ear.

A peerless pearl shines
In the darkness of the night.
A homeless girl smiles,
Regardless of her pain and fright.

Lies in the street with dispair and empty gut;
Heavy tears falling from the sorrow she feels
And the dread of sleeping in the deep dark, but
Even a demon to her innocence kneels.

While others succumb to greed
And run after wealth,
The forlorn girl feels grief
Over her parent's death.

While foolish teenagers bleat
About money, clothes and cars;
She treads with her bare feet
And a body full of scars.

We care about nonsense
We even cry for romance,
While this little princess
Never had a chance to dance.

— Mahieddine Ouafi

When I heard you were dead
I was sorry
Sorry for your wasted life

I’d see you in your regular haunts
An inconvenient problem
For the world to ignore

Asking, ‘Can you spare some change?’
Change for drink and drugs
Or change the world?

Perhaps if I knew your story
I would understand
Perhaps not

dear home,

i miss you.
whoever you are.
i miss your warmth.
from you,
i’d look to the stars.
it feels like i
am missing
a limb.
there is a hole
in me,
that i cannot fill.
why won’t you come back
and fill this void.
i wonder who you are.
i wonder where you are
and how i can possibly
get back to you.

you could say
i am
witnessing a thunderstorm.
in front of my eyes
a sunflower field,
for miles and miles
and right in the middle
is my home in disguised.
a tornado between
her and i.
you and him
as close as can be,
yet you and me?
there is miles ‘tween.

you were mine
and i was yours.
you were my home,
residing my heart.
you were my light,
my shining guiding star.
you were my safety,
my protector,
my guard.
but now you are missing,
please tell me,
are you happy
where you are ?

the one and only,
muteD and homeless

Playing sax in the
entry way to
hospital-calming-green-ceramic tiled public showers at Venice Beach
With truest imaginable singin'-in-the-showers acoustic response

You're there. Explore. You can't break nothing. Jus' do
Be do be do sings the sax you can
Imagine
The rest.

Questive, eh? Holy separate day. Live and learn.
Here a little there a little first step here first step there
Right right right don't get up tight
Jesus it's that cab fare with Fred Newton telling it
Never mind. You had to be there, then.

Cell-splitting, we mentioned that right? That is real where I am. Is it real where you are?

Fine-tuning, yes,
fine squared like one extremely fine frequency at the speed of
Light squared
By birth, nat-ive-ure-hol-y-istic tuned
In you
Forever

Can you hear me now? God is. That is all now. Listen.

Still.
Still? How long?
That long.
How far?
From here to where? Or
When, one may suppose, I suppose, so any one may.
To the first position, past first, turn and go the other way
an other way.

Who knows? If one is lost, here every one begins finding and finding forever.
We never stop,
But we rest. True rest. I think that is the idea trust is built on.
True rest. The Platonic Ideal upon which trust among men is formed.
"there remains a rest for the people of light and substance"

Start here.
This can't be the beginning. Ohkeh?
Here then, at the period.
Starting over too late is common, fret not.
Ye know what? I t makes no difference who you are when you wish upon a star.
That is alluding, right? All lude and no work, in sin you wait.

Wake up. Look around. You remember getting into this book.
And now, this book is is all there ever is.
Summertime and the livin' is
Ease-ie.

I found my page, oh
my chapter, oh, more,

my volume in life's book. Fancy meeting you.