The modern myth,
the urban legend states of a continuous path of travel
where submerged roads cause hindrance, not peace, and
peace is vaguely considered a constant state of happiness,
and happiness is from sunsets, valleys
and parks and music,
here, we all forget the cultured disgust, the
lies we’ve proliferated in the name of scientific research-
our blood is boiling for the approval of bigoted critics, my lips are sealed.
there’s been monetary accusations,
there have been rats asked to leave and forget-
why do we need ourselves to be explained?
when will we learn to learn that the production of imbalance
is the balance that we need to find hope?
the incredulity of mistaken identity-
is this the parallel of definitions
that have lined our grenades?
this country is burning, this identity is at stake, and yet
the refuge is lost on our lips-
we don’t sell love here
we don’t sell community
but there’s buyouts on Etsy, tell me,
is this what your care looks like?
is this what love feels like in this country?
these broken land lines are mines of defeat,
this movie hall will never turn bright, and this tape will never stop reeling
our eyes are taped open and the learned men can only tell us two things:
these lies are true, and there is no truth to be told
so what can our children believe?
we talk in languages we cant speak
listen to the words we don’t understand
and call it home, call it comfort-
how do we share knowledge when we don’t want to understand?
are we welcome? or is intrusion an excuse?
is this what home is supposed to mean?
a bloodbath of exclusion and shame? of unfortunate love-
is this the family we chose when the Lord didn’t show us any mercy?
we don’t pretend to offer gratuities as we walk down the same halls, anymore.
we don’t look up from our broken shoes, anymore.
In this city, we make parachutes out of screams
and use big loud bangs as excuses to create capitalistic chiasms.
the pertinence of reinforcers overshadows the quiet of the light,
September is so close to our skins, when all of it sheds and
we trace linings of pressed leaves, hoping
the memory of something better, someone better, will freeze in the winter,
and we’ll find it in the summer, and forget about it when
the wildflowers grow on our porch again,
and when we look about, like women who’ve lost their lives to
dead men at sea, dead kids on the street, to any
form of love in the green-
we steal water, milk, sugar and tea,
burn boats so we can’t escape,
trim hedges so we can’t see the way of the wind,
burn fingers and cuts in lemonade,
hoping someone’s words will be knives,
someone’s knives will be the things we can’t say,
and on this island with riches and fruits and gold,
we’ll find holes to dig into,
to reinforce the soil into our mouth, our noses, our lungs-
hoping that buried in the dirt, we’ll feel a part of something again,
hoping to see grandma in the silence of the water
as we drown ourselves in this potpourri of patriotism and love
as we forget to call our homes and plant trees in these cities that never sleep
never questioning, never answering.
we don’t know how to speak in simple terms.