I always felt you, 
as someone dangerous. 
And now, 
I’m in deep shit trouble.  

Angelic curls, 
intense eyes. 
You are the devil in disguise.  

Yet, I’m ready to walk, 
into the flames of hell to be with you. 
I don’t give a shit if I burn. 

RESIST diaspora.
quell EMPATHY.
SAFE SPACE for hegemony.

(images from yelp/words hanging in third street stuff)

A lone man stands

In front of a line of tanks

Is he mad?

Already hundreds perhaps thousands

Have been killed in months

Of protests.

He climbs up the tank

What does he say to those inside?

When he is on the ground again

The first tank maneuvers

To go around.

He moves to block it.

For a moment his steadfast resistance

Creates a stalemate

Then he is whisked away

The watching world breathes again

But cannot forget the

Man in Tiananmen Square

Who stood fast

tiredness engulfs
while the sky leans toward gray
I’m looking to develop a summer rhythm
therefore not permanent 
early to rise, not late to bed
investigate the neighborhood’s blooms
       practice peace
       pray for health and freedom from what consumes
       take a walk, read a book
     land    
 like a butterfly, therefore lightly
until summer yields and all is spent
then I’ll return to my usual pattern
the grind of normalcy
unless I find a way to make this joyful alternative
exist long term
and truly, why not?

I wonder if you go to therapy now
to help you deal with your upper class life.

Do you complain about how the job hunt is going?
Vent about how much you miss your family?
Do you revisit the trauma of your ex girlfriend accusing you of sexual assault?

I wonder if they’ll make you realize what you did
or if they’ll just affirm how you already felt about it. 

Therapy or no therapy
accountability or apathy
you will always be my burden to bear.

No sleeping beauty

or princess aching from a pea.

We are sweltered insomniacs.

Still, we dare to dream

of a cocktail

to melt the clinking ICE.

We stay to witness the fall

of the scorching orange sun,

before we can finally rest.

The back porch came to the house
after
the two bedrooms, the living room
and the kitchen.
It came after the outhouse closed
and was replaced
with real plumbing and pink tiles.

The back porch room has always been
my playground-
a safe room
for me, the cats,
my grandmother’s spade.
It’s where I did my best boy band ‘woohoo’
and belted showtimes to no one, in particular,
pausing to bow
before the piano,
the dusty crooked windows,
and ceiling tiles that would eventually
fall down
around the ceiling light from a roof
gone bad.
The gut of the house, its politeness
lives in the back room.
Always has, always will, I suppose.

Metallic dust settles on
on my tongue, my fingertips
after sorting through boxes,
and for a moment,
the old shelves have returned-
shelves filled with books,
seed packs with past due
expirations fill my memories.
The magazines, sheet music
and hurricane lamps still gather dust, too.

But the moment passes
-as moments do-
and I am shaking the weed eater free
from the hedgetrimmer,
sneezing from a combination of
dried grass and old wood.

In the confines of my classroom

Here, no troops, no tanks, no swagger.
Here invisible people line up for coffee, a snack.
Here, a woman sits, surrounded by bags of clothes,
        asking for something in her size.
Here, my Navajo friend, smiles toothless, says
        “Long time no see…since Monday!”
Here folks need toilet paper, hygiene kits, socks,           
        nothing gold-plated, thank you.
Here a man, bent over with fentanyl,            
        struggles to find words for what he needs.
Here the woman gets the extra-large slacks and flowered shirt,            
        returns the gift of gratitude 
Here they line up for the bathroom,            
        queue for food,            
        accept a burrito,            
        focus on what’s needed
        speak a street-truth.
Elsewhere there is marching,
perhaps good trouble and civil speech,
and here:
light in brief moments,
adding to a larger radiance.

in dozens of cities nationwide
protesting a forty million dollar largesse 
and the need for one man to be above it all.

This isn’t the U.S. I grew up in,
where compromise was expected
at the end of day.

The fracture of ideals between 
mindsets, a stark divide
between haves and have nots.

The city streets crack under
the weight of tanks rolling past
the dictator-in-training.