The Horizon

The horizon,
a string that hangs freedom around its neck,
a siren upon the heavens of the earth,
far away from this land.
But he runs
forward,
Because his home became the mouth of the sea.
And freedom is this simple joy,
to be covered in soft sand,
alive.

**Even as I do support national security, I do believe that extending empathy to those in the heights of war and tragedy is necessary. I do hope this poem touches some minds!**

"Bells getting louder, louder in here."
"Bells getting louder, louder in here."

But is not loud in this head of mine.
Only flesh, ripping out of a chest,
As pieces within me sink
while I am still stable,
standing
Foot on dirt,

But I am sinking.
I am sinking.
Foot through the dirt.

Which is to say
Grief is an imperfect theory,
a useless syringe
and science cannot perfect it,
You see
It can suck the life out of him
But I cannot squeeze it back

So I am sinking.

Because one minute it was a spot in your chest,
The next,
Doctors turned it into a bullet
Poof.
What miracle that a godless being
turned holy.

While I am still sinking.

Here God,
Take it all.
Everything I've laid my eyes on,

And I'll be
weightless in this euphoric
silence.

You tell me that the streets cannot talk.

Does not the silence of stained concrete scream volumes?

Bodies lying, cut down on street corners,
bags over heads over dirt over breath,
and you change your path,

walk where the marble beams cleaner.

I tell her my eyes are small wrinkles.
Mom tells me, no, my eyes are beautiful.

But I look into the curves of her crease,
A lid that runs so smoothly like almond milk,
it cuts deep into her folds,
a measured centimeter down into her bones,

Mine are almost admirable,
the stubborn skin that refuses to curve.

I tell her my eyes are small wrinkles.
Mom tells me, no, my eyes are beautiful.

And I wonder why they cannot be both.

And Ivan says,

It is easy to claim, harder to practice.
It is easy to love thy neighbor as thyself.
It is harder to love he who rests his head next door.

And Ivan says, "I think that if the devil does not exist, and man has therefore created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness."

And Ivan says, 

God created man with Euclidean geometry, 

created man with limitations, rationality, 

as parallel lines that can only clutch divine in infinity, 

in the non-existence of the mind. 

And I wonder, 

if man created the devil the way God created man, 

mathematically, 

with science, 

with an exactness permeating atoms above air, 

Did man add its wretchedness into the reaction to act as a catalyst, 

And is this the conclusion, 

the explanation for the beast hidden under molecules of skin, 

stomach pumping for pleasure, 

for evil, for the release of dopamine under the scent of iron, 

And is this biology holy?

And is this biology the conclusion for oppression,

for murder, for torture without meaning?

Because then I demand a conclusion 

for why the arithmetic in human nature is flawed. 

You cannot create rain and wish the world dry, 

you cannot create sin and wish the world good.  

The symphony plays tragedy

I am afraid of what will happen to you,

One foot in the grave, the other across the country

Will I be there when the news hits, 

Will the sound of that word that has been built up inside of me swallow me when I finally hear it, 

.

Abrupt like the end of an orchestra. 

When a word has the power to silence a whole audience, 

she clings on to the music, 

she builds distance, 

measures uncertainty in the octaves of short breaths in between their laughter. 

Life is different 

when it is
fleeting,
like rain running down car windows, 

evaporating. 

When it is

Stay.

daddy likes to dance with the devil

On July 7th you purged yourself in clean air,

promised me a new tomorrow—tomorrow, you will save

yourself.

That night I prayed in the name amen. I used to

paint you godly—or

whatever a young girl’s metaphor for a dad was.

Used to paint you righteous,

but nicotine has a way of craving for sin,

has a way of creating angels out of fathers.

Your job was to put food on the table, but long nights called for bad habits, for

famine in your lungs, starving for the seductive taste of fire,

for the burnt barbecued pieces.

On July 8, I watched you light your pack like candles,

like you were lost without her light. Her sensation ignited

you, burnt your

body up into flames,

slowly,

symphonically,

wrapping

you around her arms,

you hold her,

romantically,

because she wants to grow old with you,

wants to steal you from your lover,

your family,

and dance with you

under street lights that radiate like

multi­colored malignancies.

She refuses to let you leave her,

will always come back for you,

promises eternity.

You cannot live without her.

You will die together.

Nicotine wants to show you Hell,

make it feel a lot like Heaven.

If you could, you would crucify yourself,

bleed out all your sickled sinful yesterdays.

let your body become a church again—

holy.

Reincarnate into a man worthy of forgiveness.

Daddy, I forgive you.

I do not know what it is like to worship your own killer,

do not know what is like to have a gun cocked into your mouth,

Please Daddy,

she is not your savior.

The gun is in your own hands.

Do not pull the trigger.