Written for a writing activity. Summer 2005.

Bugs Bunny!
What’s up with your teeth yo?
You be chomping on these purple carrots
like it ain’t no thang!

Wha wha what’s up Doc?
You be showing that Elmer Fudd
ain’t no ghetto superstar
with your schemes
and it’s tricky – uh huh – it’s tricky.

Exclamations of -
I taught I saw a puddy cat -
I did! I did!
warns you of Fudd’s chronological mistakes

Cuz Bugs is a balla! Shock calla!
He may stumble but that ain’t falling
He just brushes it off
and keeps on performing those
facetious
fillibustering
feats.

Elmer has nothing on this rabbit.
He be chomping on carrots and
Fudd still tripping over Bugs’ traps.

His big teeth can never be chipped
cuz he still be spinning those 20 inch carrots
like it ain’t no thang.

Fudd can only holla
I wish I could be just a lil bit talla
cuz penisheads are whack and
Bugs just can’t handle that.

He be saying -
the day I saw it cried
was the day I almost died.

Cuz you know Bugs’ really has a big heart
He just don’t want no solider hunting him down.

Written on 8-20-07.

I had a dream about you.
I wanted to paint my ceiling of a sunset
to always remind me of you
My subconscious made me cry
for us, for me,
for something my conscious self won’t allow.

I want to say…
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for those unspoken words.
I’m sorry for the spoken ones too.
I’m sorry I can’t wake up next to you.
I’m sorry that I can’t touch you again.

I miss you.
I miss you so much that it fucking hurts.
So much,
my insides are between a rock and a hard place
squeezed.

I want to cry when I hear random love and lost songs on the radio
I don’t know how I got here.
I don’t know where to begin and and where to end.

I love you.
in my own sickly masochistic way
in my own insecure tender way.
I love you.

And yes it was real.
It was so fucking real that I wish it was a dream
One that leaves you awake
One that still lingers
One that creates longing.

But to know that all it was…
was a dream
So I can let it pass.

You, it, me, us, you
were more real than my badly skinned knee
more real that my mom’s spicy sate fun soup
more real than these mosquito bites
more real than mint chocolate ice cream
more real than the sunsets that remind me of you
more real than this pain that cripples me.

Now, I’m up past the midnight hour
Working on your CD
This masochistic process is helping me deal.

I love you.
I hope to see you in my dreams tonight.
The only appropriate place.

I challenge you to be uncomfortable.

Why?

Because:

Comfort breeds complacency.
Contentment breeds complacency.
Complacency breeds stagnancy.

For us, for you, being comfortable
is easy
passive
secure
and safe

I challenge myself
I challenge you
I challenge us
to be uncomfortable
because

because suffering still exists,
because people are still dying from AIDs,
because New Orleans is not new,
because poverty still exists,
because 48 million people don’t have health care,
because children are still dying from hunger,
because labor organizers are still being murdered,
because women are still raped,
because youth are still incarcerated,
because workers and families are still unjustly deported,
because our country is in a constant state of war,
because compassion is rare,
because bombs are still being dropped in Palestine,
because mother earth is crying,
because living in dignity has not been attainable,
because we live in a state of terror,
because sex slavery is still being used,
because hate is still being preached in Christ’s name,
because education is not a right,
because apathy is deadly,
because Ward Connerly is still alive,
because Tibet is not free,
because racism didn’t end with Martin,
because women are still paid 75 cents to the dollar,
because colleges are so blindingly white,
because the KKK still exists,
because people are still in the closet,
because homophobia is violent,
because Amerika is a hegemony,
because oppression is real,
because my back can’t carry this world,
because we all need to if we are to survive.

So…

Are you ready to take the challenge?

i speak this poem for you

these words to give release from
watching my mother too sick to walk  
but still goes to work
scared to get fired,
her tongue stumbling on words she can’t pronounce
scared because without this job she can’t get the doctor visits
she needs so desperately
her kidneys failing her body, her heart, her spirit
it’s hard for her to walk now
her cries of pain when her feet kisses the floor
her feet refusing to comply to her will 

i don’t know what to do now
doctor visits yielding no relief
each time we go it gets harder
finding some new disease eating her body without remorse
eating away her strength, her will, her smile
leaving suffering, pain, and fear in her heart
she no longer laughs

 i speak for my father
           who wakes up at 3am everyday
just so he can make it to work by 4
bending his back carrying boxes for 12 hours a day
seeing the cracks in his hands
and how my tears can run through them like a river 

his far-off stares taking him back home
to heat so dense you can take a shower in it
to food so pungent it wakes up your inner self
to trees so tall you can touch the sky just by climbing it 
his cigarettes light his journey back
each puff a new memory
each pack an obsession

i speak for them
i speak for me
i speak because no one else can
because no one else will
i speak because healthcare is a failing priority
dropping like my mother’s blood count
i speak because a living wage is not talked about
silent like my father when racist fuckers spit misstep words back in his face

i speak because my anger is too much for my 5’4 body
anger so deep that my bones scream
anger so red that only the blood of Nanking rapes can portray
anger so full that i can only cry 

i speak because 

because

because

because

beCAUSE!

i sleep to forget
i sleep to dream
i sleep to live
i sleep to live in my dreams
i sleep to understand myself
i sleep to see myself
i sleep to console myself
i sleep to hide myself
i sleep to runaway.

don’t be afraid that someone is reading this
quit caring what others think.
this is for you
this poem is for you.
this poem is for all those tears you couldn’t cry
this poem is for all that pain you harbor in your gut
this poem is for everything and everything.
this poem is for your mom that’s slowly dying without that kidney.
this poem is for your sister who possesses a greater heart and spirit than you will ever have
this poem is for your dad who can conquer the world with his kindness and smile
this poem is for your tragic inability to cry in front of people
this poem is for you and only for you
this poem is dedicated to your spirit.
this poem is dedicated to your unwavering hope in people
this poem is dedicated to your compassion
this poem is dedicated to the unending pain and loneliness that you feel.
this poem will cure all of that.
this poem will end it.
this poem is not a poem
this poem is just the ramblings of a inconsolable and neurotic insomniac.

but i write because it cures.
i write because it helps.
i write because it’s the only thing that ever has.
other than sleep.
sleep is just the mental runaway from yourself.
writing is the face-to-face contact with yourself.
with your emotions
you get to touch it
you get to slip your words into its messiness as you pull up sentences
in the middle of the night.

night time. the moon rises. the moon stays. the moon shines.
words seem to only come out best when the moon is watching overhead

it’s as if the emotions jumbles itself into indecipherable tangles that can only be unwound at the supervision of the moon
sentences tumble out as the jumbles uncrumbles itself
and lays it self on this page
fragmented
needing stitches to make it comprehensible
to make it real
to make it part of me

this poem
this piece
is not really a poem
or a piece
it’s more of a stream of thoughts
that can never stop

i am a nomad.
i am the runner.
i am the constellation that is not formatted and positioned correctly.
I am in motion.
I am in a
constant
consistent
perpetual
perplexing
rambling
rumbling
wondering
wandering
state.

I leave poems unfinished because
my mind
my words
cannot grasp the incompleteness of my being

Maybe because finishing poems are just like saying goodbyes.
each one a little more awkward
a little more sad
a little less desired. 

good bye
good bye
good bye