Tucked in the backseat, right-side of a ‘99 Camry.
My perch, my fort, a kingdom of my own.
Keys jangle in the ignition, rousing it from sleep.
Sometimes a guttural purr, low and lazy.
Sometimes a lullaby, sung off-key and fading.
But always sputtering like a heart skipping a beat.
My chubby cheeks press into the cold glass.
As we drive, I flip a storybook— each cloud a page left behind.

Wait, are the clouds drifting, or is it me?
To this day, I don’t know.

Cirrus, altocumulus, stratus…
The names when I saw Rubin’s Vase.
Circuses, alto saxophones, strawberries…
The names when I saw Rubin’s Face.

Could I ever reach them?
To this day, I’m still plotting

07/24/16 To-Do List:
1) Trade the cow-shaped cloud for magic beans.
2) Plant the beans in my backyard
3) Climb the beanstalk to reach the swirling clouds.
4) Feel their softness? slickness? sharpness?
5) Taste their sweetness? sourness? saltiness?
6) Don’t get tempted by the castle!
7) Bring some fluff for my sister?
8) Flee before the giant awakes.

My sister cranks 98.7 on the radio,
Justin Bieber, One Direction fading into my left ear,
Above, the horizon unspools a tapestry of tales,
When I wanted humor,
The angels farted
When I sought adventure,
Dragons uncoiled in the sky
And ships sailed in the treacherous sea,
When I marveled at nature,
Forests were rich with blossoms and fruits,
Deer pranced playfully.

Is that a duck or a flamingo?
No, it's a duck’s head with a flamingo’s body.
To this day, just a cloud.

Now, I stare at the sky— its life withers.
The clouds wisps, too scrawny to hold their shape,
I plead with the sky for just one more story,
But the angels haven’t eaten.
The giant is asleep.
The dragons are fossils.
The ships have docked.
The flowers were monocarpic.
The fruits gone rotten.
And hunting season begun.

Did the clouds grow old?
To this day, only I have aged.

But on that right side, I am always the kid.
The kid chasing stories like fireflies in the dark,
The kid who clutched onto the stories like treasures,
The kid who wore the clouds like a crown,
A crown spun from imagination and creativity.

The most important day of his life. Trevor had been waiting for this day ever since he first laid eyes on her. She was stunning, like nothing he'd ever seen before. The way she shone and how gorgeous she looked, how it took his breath away. He knew the world was envious of whoever got to have her. And now, he'd finally get to make her his, show the world who she belonged to.

He got up, feeling giddy for the day ahead. He'd been planning this for months, the perfect location, the perfect timing, the perfect car to drive away with her after. Trevor finished knotting his tie and beamed at his reflection in the mirror. He couldn't wait to start the rest of his life with her by his side. Trevor got in the car and pulled up to the venue. It was decked out, every inch of it covered in extravagant decoration. He cast his gaze around the crowded room. There she was. Impossible to miss. He grinned, and strode toward her. She was so beautiful.

Trevor pulled out his gun and fired it into the air. "Give me the diamond, and everyone leaves alive."

I am a fish, I say.
Swimming in your absence.
I am a fish, I say.
While my gills struggle to breathe through the plastic rings of your ignorance.
I am a fish, I say.
As I float up, instead of down.
I am a fish, I say.
As you pull me down, instead of up.
I am a fish, I say.
Whilst your hands squeeze the life out of me, your fingers removing my transparent coat of protection as I silently plead.
I am a fish, I say.
As you see my heart right through me, pumping gallons of washed away love.
I am a fish, I say.
As I sleep without motion instead of consciousness.
I am a fish, I say.
Until you decide to flush me away.

I was a fish.

privilege.
to refuse to see
or to stare idly, half-lidded
as the waters lurch forward—
not here though.

the sea laps insatiably at foreign doorsteps,
but our streets glimmer in pure opulence.
we sip from greed-rimmed glasses,
while frail hands elsewhere wring out floodwater
from the fabric holding their very lives.

we do not fret—
for we are shielded by distance,
by steel and glass called arrogance.

privilege is to have
the indulgence of waste,
to glut then discard,
to lay waste to a world
already gasping for breath.
to cradle abundance in silver-plated hands,
while others claw at the earth for scraps.

we sit back,
stretch our limbs
beneath tainted "broad stripes and bright stars"
on chairs built on the backs of those bent double.

privilege is to believe
our decadence is divine,
our hunger is dignified,
our smoke is ours to exhale,
though it snakes its way across the sea.

but the tide does not tremble before borders—
it saunters in, uninvited.
floods rise without a passport,
pollution spills forward, indifferent.

the land beneath them sighs
exhausted from the weight of debts
it never incurred.

privilege is to take,
to pluck, to seize, to gorge,
and feign innocence.

to have the luxury
of turning a blind eye—
that is,
our nation.

I’m like a little kid waiting at the door.
My crayons gripped tight in my hands.
My paper finished, yours half-done.
I check my watch waiting for you to get out of work,
already the clock has hit seven and you’re not yet through the door.
I reach for my phone to ask when you’ll return,
although I know deep down you’ll never answer my call.

People tell me to pray.
They say god will make me feel better.
The more time passes the guiltier he seems.
Instead of praying to god, I pray to you,
‘cause lord knows he’s never listened to what I have to say.
Does he know it’s your St. Christopher’s medal around my neck?
He has no claim on it.
He has no claim over me.

If time reversed could I have saved you that night?
Had we gone to church that day,
would I have woken to your warm touch Monday morning?
Might it be my fault for forgetting god?
Were my Sundays simply too empty?
Should the blame fall on me for your early departure?
If god gets my promise once again,
will you come back to me?
Can he truly cast me aside
because you believed in me more than I did him?

Mourning your loss as the sun rises.
I stare blankly at the freshly dug dirt,
forever stuck in place like your headstone.
Faith cannot overtake the sadness filling my days.
I wonder was this some form of karma on me?
When my world came crashing down,
I felt it was right to be with you again.
Is this truly what we deserved?

I no longer blame you for leaving,
honestly I don't think I ever did.
Things have become easier now.
I’ve returned to find the dirt has grown its own grass.
and now the vision of you in the sunset replaces your goodnights.
The sky provides endless colors that I'll use to finish your paper for you.
While holding our medal, I say this to you, Dad.

Enter, if you will.
A home of shattered dreams,
disguised by the murals that clutter the walls.
Chipped paint,
serving as scars that honor all the abandoned memories.
Outside world,
gazing at the vibrant colors with glossy eyes.
Only for the children,
to weep at what used to be their microcosm.

Watch as the children who do not belong,
bite their tongues and gasp for air.
Watch as the children who do,
shield their fragmented mindscape under fabricated smiles.
Immaturity bounces off the walls,
laughter striking like a dagger.
Slurs released from poisoned tongues and juvenile minds,
intoxicating those that beg to overflow with knowledge.

They beg you to witness.
The empty hallways,
once overrun with joy but forced to be scarce.
The blaring alarms,
releasing the tension swallowing their body.
The weary woman,
favoriting those who bear their arms.
Only for the young,
to learn that they cannot come as they are.

Watch as the outcasted,
color their pictures black and white.
Scribbles of what was once a dream,
erased by the inferior vibrancy of their desire.
Their minds run rampant,
tongues bleed, urging to be freed from their everlonging curse.

Dull crayons,
plastered with wrappers, overwhelming the conformity hidden underneath.
Silenced coyotes.
howls burned into their skin, irritation converting to violence.
Flamed desks.
exterminating brilliant minds, replacing all they knew,
Zipped lips,
deleting identity, purging opinions.

A harbor of dreams,
Collecting dirt.
A safe sanctuary,
Obliterated by confinement.
Locked away,
By my lost memories.

i see starlight from times
life has not touched
i want to hear your secrets,
reach out and run my fingers through
galaxies
like a mother’s hands
through a child’s hair

i see starlight from times
life has not touched
could i
know who it shined for?

who placed their hands on the atmosphere
and pressed their face to the glass?

who saw their future in the light of polaris
and tapped out patterns of
morse code in the constellations?

though you cannot whisper your
wisdom,
spill all your tortured memories
like dark ink against old papers
leave stains on my desk

tell me how you’re
empty, aimless, begging to scream
you have no tongue, it’s been cut out
you cannot taste the bitter poison
of your slow, creeping disease

hiding secrets in the scrunched
fabric of the cloth
crisscrossed by rockets,
patchwork sewing
but no one’s hemmed the edges
yet
and they're
showing

place your weathered palms over mine
teach me to
touch a star, touch a heart,
stare into the resigned face of a stranger

and ask them about the
light that they might have seen through the cracks
but i still wonder about
the light we leave behind
if atoms have memories, cracked open,
could they
know they shined for me?

i can almost hear it
when every star has bowed
to the quiet heat death of its own
imperfections

how it would ring through the universe
if only a dying light were a sound.

The world is so flawless, so smooth like glass.
Streets whisper silence, 
faces pass with emptiness,
emotion is muted.
Happiness and sadness are incomprehensible in nothingness,
for how could peaks exist in a perfect world?

Clouds do not shift in the dull blue sky;
stillness sticks to the environment.
No one leaps forward;
thoughts beyond the already known remain nonexistent.
Perfection is the bane of fulfillment,
for why press against the smooth glass of reality?

Creativity is chained by order,
existence is already painted grey,
color cannot be found even in dreams.
The essence of humanity is trapped behind those smooth masks,
for why be different when indistinguishability feels flawless?

Under the sterile earth,
something finally stirs: a faint push,
yearning for imperfection,
for clouds to rage,
to crack the smooth glass.

My foot touched the ice to feel it crack, and the water brushed my toes;
There is life beneath everything, even ice, I suppose.
If I let myself sink further, I could die tonight,
Played out by fading birdsong and a sliver-moon spotlight.
I cannot say it wouldn’t be a beautiful way to go,
But there’s so much left to live for and so much more to know.
Moss and lichen color green the felled and dead brown trees;
Soon the ants and beetles will call this bark their feast.
I can’t stop thinking how life flourishes from decay:
Mushrooms, moths, wildfires, and tomorrow’s day.
I grow older, though not eternal, not like all that’s here;
It cycles on and on again, still will when I’m gone next year.
Ironic how these plants commune better than we do,
Their bodies ancient and voiceless, ours clever and new.
Our language fails to capture the splendor of this land,
For how could I begin to describe something so immensely grand?
In these woods, I won’t deny I’m natural and never alone;
How could I be, when, like all else here, I call this place my home?

You're my everything,
You're the lights and the dark
The morning and the night
The quiet, the loud and everything in site.

My calm, my storm the pause in my breath,
The sun, the moon the heart beating in my chest.
My demons, my angels when night starts to creep
The music, the chaos, when I fall asleep

The rain, the breeze as summer gets warm,
My photos and drawing as my thoughts swarm
The stars, the planets, the light in the sky
The happy emotions, that makes me cry
And you're the world's greatest miracle,
But yet, you're everything and more