​lull me back to sleep
and maybe the nightmare will cease
toss me, rapt in blissful unawareness,
back into the mouth
of the slumbering beast

lay me in the cradle
of the puppet masters, oh
maybe, from that naked vantage,
I can remember what it is
that comforts them so

lull me back to sleep and maybe
the vice won't feel so tight
and I'll convince myself
I'm being swaddled, cuddled
safely in bed at night

drift me to a field of dreams
right off of freedom's end
and in my intoxicating somnolence
take all that I've
vowed to defend

lull me back to sleep
a hypnosis satisfyingly sweet
where the battle is fought
in a field of poppies
to numb the bitter blow of defeat

for if I must surrender
and here my body must comply
then let my conscious soul
slip gently, back to the stars,
back to the sky

​warfare was the womb, and
the womb was entrenched, and
empire, amniotic, saw you nourished, and
comforted by sated stomach you settle,
soothed. soothed, so you embrace your god
-given birth right to remain silent;
how ungrateful would it be
to bite the hand that feeds you?

to bite the hand that feeds you
would cast you into the dark, and
lest you find yourself among the dark
underbelly, home of the ungrateful,
you say nothing. nothing, because
you're afraid to starve, and you
know the food will always come,
as long as the war continues.

as long as the war continues
you will cherish the fruit of lies, and
because the devil is in the details and,
where the devil dwells thou shalt not dare go,
you say nothing. nothing, lest
you venture too close to the truth, lest
you find the corners of your illusion
singed by brimstone and hellfire.

singed by brimstone and hellfire,
those heathens knew not your god, and
since salvation is reserved for those
who deserve, then clearly those people
were ungodly. ungodly, because
otherwise they'd be immune; the
circumstances of your birth are holy
when warfare is the womb

when warfare is the womb and
the womb is entrenched then
someone has to starve to
feed the beasts who make the bombs so,
you say nothing. nothing, because
someone is going to starve but, empire,
amniotic, ensures that you are nourished, so
that someone will never be you.

​two eyes
​gel-glossy globes, slit-thin and
crimson-rimmed and spider-webbed
from terpene-topped tokes of
sweet sensi smoke,
green grass grown gas -
inhale. now
feel the verve, now voluminous,
now vibrating in your veins
now buried in blood and bone
now settled atop soft skin
now, I understand
why I get lifted off your lips
why your finger tips
feel like a god
is making music through you
and I am muse
and melody
and microphone
all in one.
i thought it was the weed
but
it's your love that gets me high.

​What do you do
when a poem isn't enough?
When the weed is ash
and the flute is dry
and the sky is despair.

and the leaves have folded into themselves
seeking a way back into the earth,
and the wind sucks dew
from your skin?

and the ground craves water
but you're too bitter
to lend any from your eyes.

you've forgotten how to cry
anyway.
and you're not sure if
it was ever worth it
to give that much of yourself
to a world hell-bent
on consuming itself.

and the tree stands stoic,
mocking the wind,
and it offends you,
the way it stretches
laying claim to all of the sky
with no regard
for whom
the sunshine disappears.

Go away, go away !
They want us to go away.
Dilapidated ghettos, rot and blight
Gunshots ring out in the middle of the night
Cop's bullet, but he says he didn't do it
Though the blood is red and the body is dead,
Go away, go away,
To the morgue, go away
(So we don't have to face ourselves    
anymore.)

What more do you want?
We owe you nothing
Stop asking for handouts
We owe you nothing
We didn't bring you here
Why the hell should we care?
Go back to Africa!
Go back to Africa!
(So we don't have to face ourselves
anymore.)

They want us to go away
So they
riddle our babies' bodies with bullets
and sit aside to watch them bleed
build asthma factories
that pump illness and death
into the air our children breathe
And when the little ones are hungry
they eat McSorrow
and artificially-flavored disease 
because the freshest thing
in the goddamn supermarket
is the bottles of Febreeze.

They want us to go away
so they smash us like mirrors
they can't bear looking into
lest the truth finds its way
to the surface
and eats them alive.

So they shove and push
and glare and stare
and infantilize
and discipline
and punish
and jail
and abuse
and judge
and mock
and kill
and kill
and kill.

Go away, go away
Haven't we given you enough?
Why won't you people just go away?
(We can't stand to look at ourselves
anymore.)

​Have you ever wondered what happens
when hope disappears?
Whose eyes ache from the fatigue
of one too many tears?
Have you really and truly considered,
or do you find it to be a joke?
Those backs concaved and weary,
from one too many yokes?
Has it even occurred for a minute?
Do you at all recognize?
The cruel hand that paints the darkness
under heavy-lidded eyes?
Does it bother you at all?
Does it ever disturb your slumber?
That millions of tiny bellies
are being besieged by hunger?
And are you drowning as well?
Or are you immune all the time?
To the raging waters that douse the flames
of a ripe and brilliant mind?
Or are you blissfully unaware
of the acts done in your name?
Do you sit comfy and unbothered,
as the world is set aflame?
Maybe hope has never left you
and for this, you'll claim you're blessed.
Well if there's a god by the name of Privilege,
then I'd say you are correct.
But beware the traps you set,
because one day you'll wish you cared.
There is no true place to hide
when all the world's ensnared.

You treat love like a virus, airborne, carried on words whose sincerity you're unsure of. The "I love you"s and "your beautiful"s bare jagged teeth. Their untrustworthy brightness shoots pain through your eyes. Because hugs can be sharp and kisses can burn and evenings, drunk with laughter become frozen, hungover mornings, and unlucky for you your brain hangs on to every. piece. of. memory. from the night before. Except now it's grayer and you shudder at the sharp angles and dark shadows of the exoskeleton the moment has left behind. It is fear. It is fear and it is pain and it keeps you tucked under your quilted armor on Saturday nights while the rest of the city builds altars to Jack and Jose and Mary and Molly and you? You just can't be bothered to pretend like there's anything good out there for you anymore.

​There's so much sexy in our skin.
Something sensuous about the way it
radiates lifetimes
of sunshine absorbed.
There is celestial romance
inscribed in our hues,
myths and fables and folklore
of erotic affairs under the
cloak of the cosmos.
We make love in stardust
whenever our skins touch.
Me, melanin-soaked mocha,
and you, earthy mahogany,
with a kiss of
midnight.
We are animal and superhuman,
dangerous and divine,
from nowhere near here yet
still very much so of Earth.
For when we are entangled,
we are sunshine
and dust,
and wave, 
and storm,
and lava.