This Alien Is Real and He Has a Name You Won’t Bother to Remember

Ten year old boys from Nepal

are all doped up on Risperdal

just to control

their fear.  Getting suspended

from school for sharing

the chewing bark his father

gave him to feel something from home

in this landscape named after Misery. The poor

child was afraid of vegetables

having learned early, in his short life, anything

growing from the ground around the camp is

toxic, and here is

no different from there when you have

witnessed the horrors this child of the Himalayas

has to drag with him through the broken

neighborhood, just missing the drive-by shooting

from the high school aged kids.  Death toll

is rising.  We are all losing.


Everybody Down

Each page reveals little by little

meaning for the tears from Love hating

you.  Salt shed from one set of eyes

for another pair of a dried up carcasses

with traces of crusted puss.  Welcome to the Alien

Nation where all citizens blindly follow directions

to regurgitate belief in denial pointing fingers

at everyone but themselves.  It’s too simple

to see it.  Staring at walls we never see it. We gaze

right past it clicking to something less

depressing. Lackluster boy of three, death shining forever

from his eyes, in the high hot sun covered up with a blue

pom-pom hat.  His name is Muhamad. He is three, not the Trinity

three, more only three years, or months.  Another mother-less

child.  Would you, could you even let yourself care?  Is it

too much to look?  Right here, right now love a dead alien

child with not documented papers?  Such a simple

question of whom believe to be human.  We have

displaced all of our own species.

Places on the Continental Cradle

Soapboxes screaming into sound

systems, “Who would you die


for?”  Time taken away from you

for Money, and all you want


is some more moments

with your Honey.  Who would I


die for to keep my own

sanity?  Now, I am my own


causality.  Out goes the system, long grows

my hair like a handmade hijab.  Hear each rock


of salt crashing on the fibers of phantom

women.  Yell into megaphones, “I’m here to die


for the Base, the Uneducated, The Proletariat.  Live

off the fat of Big Pigs.  It’s time to Rriot!  Come march


with the Untouchables.”

Mortal Morality

Truth is, all of this is so, sad,

scary, superficial, and so fucking


stupid we don’t see it.  It’s the little

Syrian boy whose eyes glazed so much


his hat was positioned over his face,

because your own boy is around


the same age and think how

lucky you are.  People seem to forget


people flee when staying is no longer a choice

if you want to live.  All these wars-as inhumane


as they are—compare not with the moral obligation

to cry over the death of a motherless child.

Understanding of Failure

Being the medicine for chaos, she moves

along the unanticipated path.  Everything is


felt inside: a reflection of what lies

before her.  She appreciates tearing


because she is that thing between Worm

and God.  The existence of being


exists in reflection of closed eyes. Tunneling

into the earth below finding all the roots


to all that grows, then her hands unfurl into wings

with feathers to break free from all paths


ascending to the cosmos through her own

lacerated channel.

White Rabbit Is the Only One with the Time

No one else can say this.  The illusions

handed down to you from your public


education with a Catholic

upbringing were transparent to you even


then.  You were the captain of fucking


cheerleaders who refused to pledge allegiance

to any flag.  Only cheering for your friends


who fought for the game, while secretly

hating the principal for lies he told the day


your classmate was stabbed to death

in front of you.  Handing out Easter cards—a bunny


nailed to the cross with the caption “Get off

the Cross.”  You serve rabbit stew to you family


during Lent and you need the wood for fire.

In the Neighborhood

Shots in the street.  Where I come from

it’s never called “friendly fire.”  Gunfire


is always meant to take life in the streets

where I come from.  Even


when shots are showered on you

from an old school-yard friend, it is


never friendly.  What war is

friendly?  We are living in civil


war that no one wants to

admit it because of Money.