overland park

kansas

usa

earth

milky way



am i supposed to call this home?

i live here

but it isn’t home.



my home is delved deep within the pages of my books

constantly muttering to yourself

a constant hum in the back of your head.

carrying conversations with the walls around you

this is normal mom,

leave me alone mom,

I want to eat in my room tonight mom,

I can’t talk right now mom.

Born into the place I despise.

Growing in the green,

not seeing what could be.

Suffocating siblings,

pets galore,

always wanting more.



Colorado was my safe place,

one mountain to the next.

A little spot in the heartland,

A little spot in your heart.

Where families are created,

And legacies carry on.

Where meals are around a table,

And the front of a fridge is your trophy case.

Where names are recycled,

Warm evenings -

a slight breeze with the scent of smoked ham

and cornbread for dinner.

BROWN BODIES come out when the streetlights do

FOR FEAR OF BEING SEEN,

dancing and singing to Motown.

Turning bodies into wine

Perhaps the first

Was the open sky

Infecting above the carpeted ground.

Books astray in an old wicker basket,

Just enough room for a girl to climb in.

Crayons drawing, thoughts wild; just

imagine at your fingertips

The World.

My ma says

She pushed my stroller

around the bumpy streets of

Queens, Jamaica, Long Island,

even Manhattan,

Through rain and snow, all

alone.

Finding no help from the

passengers, all ignoring her

silent plea

It’s a long way home,

miles of pavement and sky.

As we drive,

the sun chases us,

and the clock turns.

Radio changes,

melodies blur together,

making one endless song,

duets and duets of notes.

The Ponderosa Pines hunched ponderously,

Their convoluted gestures frozen

With dry, rasping limbs in stages of vexation

And narrow forearms lifted high

In savored moments of exalted epiphany.

My brother and I climbed the questions

So many people crowded into one wave pool.

All together in one container,

Yet in separate groups, hardly mingling with others.

The designers did their best to replicate nature,

But only to an extent.

Waves for five minutes, rest for five minutes,

For months, I’ve been waiting for this day. Not only is it the first day of

summer, but it’s also the day I will get to see some of my favorite bands. I

imagined May thirty-first a million different ways, and hoped most for a nice,

Winter seems like an endless calm.

When the cold surrounds us,

and the darkness makes the streets disappear,

the world’s turning seems to slow down.

You can see footprints start and footprints

stop,

leading somewhere,

going nowhere.

I sit there, in my own little world.

The fountain flows like a babbling brook as I inhale deeply.

 I’m alone with my thoughts, and nothing else.

Just me, I sit on a smooth rock in the middle of the lake.

The soft murmur of kids

At the sparkling lake,

from the early morning sunrise.

With boats at high speed ,

with skiers behind them.

From the bright early mornings,

to the beautiful horizon of the evening.

The lake is an emotion

that sparks smiles all around.

The appeal of the beach is different

For everyone who visits.

Some venture deep into the water,

Their heads bobbing above and below the surface

Of the bittersweet saltwater.

Perhaps they crave adventure,

Letting the waves envelope their bodies,

I am a minor

I have the same rights of

A Black man 200 years ago

A Woman 100 years ago

They say we are not smart enough

They say we are not good enough

They say we are not old enough

I say I am

When will I have rights?

Walking step by step to a place unknown,

people look past me like I’m a monster,

part of the disowned.

My heart is lost and I’m brought to a shadow of blue,

cheeks stained with tears,

a feeling that is far from new.

By the time the night is over,

I’m from chalky hair,

Here, pretty hair and curls,

I’m from leotards and spandex,

Here, pretty tops and jean shorts,

Where I’m from, new skills

Here, 9 x 24

I’m from, rug burns and big bruises,

Here, paper cuts

i am your (empty

dead-eyed cashier, mechanically

ringing up your nachos and popcorn;

have a great day!



weekend plans and giggling friends,

i am Maslow’s slave

face blur past, i ring up your purchase

Although I have never been,

I can smell the condensed aroma

of fresh bread in the bakery,

occupying its place in the noses of bypassers.

Although I have never been,

I can distinguish between the flavor

of black and green olives,

Laughter chirps through my ears

A forever perfect

Harmony

In this imperfect world

Sunshine frames the chalk lines

Every colorful streak

A reflection of my friends

A reflection of myself

Moving boxes carefully across the street,

Looking both ways

before pushing a small cart of toys across the street.

Today we were moving,

But it was not a long drive to our new house,

It was a simple walk across the street.

Woman.

Care-taker, life-giver,

nurturer, chef, doormat.

Woman.

Raised to believe my gender put

me on the bottom.

I am to please, not to be pleased.

I am the inferior, the weak, the

soft, the submissive.

sing in me, O Muse, the plight of the second generation american;

she is a girl with brown eyes and skin and hair,

with $300 Beats that match her silk headscarf affair.

she brings “exotic” food to school,

and cringes when lentils get on her skirt of tulle.

Mental Silence

Physical Noise

“Click Clack Clickity Clackity Click Click Clack”

The Blue Switch Thermaltake Poseidon Z Mechanical Keyboard speaks a special language to me

A language that is only understood by a certain herd of people

Headphones cradling my ears

I enter a world

Where electronic pictures and sounds

Are ever present

I take a seat

At the Twitter home page

Where people project themselves to me

Competing for my attention

I don’t want to be left out

The curtain rises,

anxiety and nervousness,

but the nerves vanish.

The lights hit me,

a warm and incomparable sensation.

Lines once memorized,

forgotten.

Few moments of panic are gone,

it’s just me and the music.

I hastily picked my feet up out of the snow to uncover a pair of warm brown boots that had been hidden under layers of white fluff just moments ago. The cold wind pierces my bare cheeks as I charge forward, breathing heavily to reveal a cloud of warm carbon dioxide.

home can be anywhere with a song

a constant melody

an extravagant sound

warmth without sun

cold without ice

feel anyway you’d like

she walks

head bent against the cold

and the weight of grief

shoving her down