the grim reaper's magical fucking unicorn

Where can I find the words

which speak an endless fountain,

a loop immortalized

for generations beyond my own

to sing day by day

when the days are difficult,

when the days are joyous,

when the days are uncertain,

when the days are triumphant,

that they may echo through

countless lips and voices

to feel empowered enough

that tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

might feel like hope

rather than a threat?

How I wish what feelings living inside

could match my execution.

The various storms and surges,

bursts of supposed brilliance,

agonies and joys,

cinematic flashes and orchestral flourishes,

how I wish they would translate

with the clarity and connection and meaning

that I swear I see behind my eyes.

I sing,

I write,

I express,

I twist and groove,

I offer a platter of my own creation

Yet what is produced

is tuneless,

is clutter,

is indiscernible,

is barely a crackle,

is lacking the flavor

is uninspired

(even as I write it now)

and any enthusiasm and skill

I once thought were there

scatter like fae undoing an illusion,

giggling at a supposed artistry

that perhaps was nothing all along.

Nice try, though.

I remember

living those glory days,

trying to catch and keep the sensation

of when the thrill still pulsed

and our lungs and veins sang

with the electric current running

through our ever-loving grasp,

that radiated down our arms and legs,

fingertips tingling and crackling

with potential of the universe

as the world around us sprang to life

with each touch,

and our existence became exuberance.

May the wind always whistle,

the sun always kiss you,

the moon always guide you,

the moment always caress you,

the Earth’s breath always take you

above the dry, lifeless plateau

that faceless, colorless men

insist to us is the promised land,

lest your own colors fade,

and you become another outline

of a human being, reduced to

chasing ghosts.

I had much grander, flowerier visions in my writing styles back then, and it felt like I had an entire world inside me waiting to burst.

Yet, it was also a time where truthfully, I hadn’t really quite lived yet.

In contrast to the way I write now. Less grand or fantastical, but no less powerful. Though I’m a hell of a different person than I once was. For better or worse, I’ve grown, and I’ve experienced. The metaphors, I’ve exchanged for being blunt and straight to the point.

Certainly there’s nothing wrong with poetic metaphor, I mean that’s part of the appeal of poetry, surely.

Though reading back on my old writings, I realize a lot of the metaphors and imagery were me hiding behind the fact that I had such intense longing for things I’d only just started to experience.

I don’t want to say age has killed that longing. If anything, I’ve only gotten more whimsical and curious with age.

I just find it interesting, the way I react artistically, hand in hand how much life I’ve lived. The fantastical view seems to have shifted to in-person now rather than in my writing. I guess I’m more eager to show my heart in person now, rather than hiding it all behind poetry. And my poetry now is a full-bared reaction to what’s happening around me.

I suppose my eyes see now, the way things are.

On the edge of another decade

Not even quite the 40

And I can’t contain this feeling

Surprised yet overjoyed

Seeing the sunrises and sunsets

I never dreamed of seeing

And it’s hard to see a future

When the broken, younger you

Didn’t think you’d stand a chance

Against the push, pull and punch

Because it’s hard to see

Past clouds that never break

So you never plan

And ride it out

And see how far it goes

It’s a hell of a road

And a hell of a ride

To where I am today

Call it living in the moment

Just to see how it plays out

Yet always funny as I age

The way I want to see more days

Without a rhyme or a blueprint

Because it’s never been our style

And I’ve seen far too many

Cut too short from their time

By tragedy or timely cause

I flicker against extinguishing forces

Long enough to know

It’s a privilege to age and change

I love and honor younger me

Though I break his heart in this:

I will not die

Till Earthly powers tell me we are done

For we have spent too long

In the ifs and fears

To tap out of it now

Survive, thrive, sometimes it’s both

With newer ways to sing and fight

If only for a while longer

But we still found the steps

One way or the other

Into the unseen forward

So here’s to us, young and old,

This unpredictable life

We never planned it

We never saw it coming

But we’ve come so far

And far yet will be the End.

I have walked the tightrope

between two homelands.

Both feet interweaving,

carrying both their soils

on the bottom of my soles.

Shaky, at times unsure,

but always,

does my stride stay forward.

I am acquainted with

Being a stranger in a strange land.

Being strange in a familiar land.

Being both yet neither.

Faces like mine

question my borrowed tongue

while losing my native.

Faces unlike mine

question my belonging

though I speak just like them.

And I question

when they question

Where my heart lies.

Where my home lies.

Where my soul lies.

The journey has led me

to no clear paths,

no finite answers,

no right nor wrong direction.

Only wind at my back,

and sun on my face

My soul has soaked in

Volumes,

Histories,

Stories,

Words,

Phrases,

Flavors,

Aromas,

Joys,

Heartaches,

Weight,

Guilt,

Pleasures,

Pains

of both.

Yet neither

call to me more than the other.

But I’ve learned in my travels

as I collect my treasures

and boons from each:

The path I’ve walked

is a path I’ve created

that is uniquely mine.

I carry the legacies

of mosaic fragments

to shape, kindle and nurture

my own heart and soul.

And I posses a love

far too great for myself,

and for both,

to choose between

what has both been present

all my life.

I am both

and neither.

They may question,

and they may not understand.

But it is not theirs

to try and comprehend

that which is

Simply Me.

Being Millennial,

being (formerly) Catholic,

being American

are more similar than I thought.

All come with guilt,

inherent and generational,

thrust upon you

before you can even speak.

I was born guilty.

I was born at fault.

I am in a constant state

of inescapable fault

without really knowing why.

Be it church, economy, or country,

they all point their fingers

at my silly avocado toasts and trinkets,

and any small joys deemed immaterial

that I try to chase,

that I might try to chase away the dread,

when all I wanted was the dreams

I was told I would eventually get

from hard work and determination.

Never mind capitalism

Never mind corporate greed

Never mind inflation

Never mind shareholders and billionaires

I’m just lazy and need to work harder.

Like clocking eighty hours a week

across three jobs at half the worth,

so that I could perhaps

fulfill my praise kink from others

when I brag how tired I am

from working myself to death,

playing unwinnable catch-up,

while not having a moment to myself

and wondering why.

Because the education they all said

would be my ticket to success

apparently can’t buy me

3+ years of prior experience

at entry-level.

But at least I’ve got a swimming pool

of debt and loans.

The irony of staying afloat

is you need to feel like you’re drowning

and I’ve known water far more

than I’ve known air.

Pay to be alive:

The American way to thrive.

And I watch,

helpless and treading

as the life we were promised

runs further and further away.

And I come to realize:

these systems were meant to break

the ones who don’t fit

the rigid, nuclear status quo.

God save the rich and colonized,

and the rest is an abomination,

right down to the way

I express myself

and show my heart.

At the end of the day,

I can’t even muster

one hour of energy

to reclaim for myself,

before I sleep it all off

so I can get back up and do it all again.

Ad nauseam

Ad nauseam

Ad nauseam

Is it any wonder

I’m Queer, godless, and pissed?

In the land of false gods,

there is the golden rule:

something for something.

Decreed by the greediest of men

for status,

for self-importance,

for self-worth.

“Provide me with something

and I give you something

as a means of control,

though I dictate it all,

for I cannot stand

to watch others succeed,

and succeed me.”

And so, the consequence:

These men have sucked dry

resources once readily available

and the planet weeps,

watching what it provides,

hoarded, locked, and trapped

behind a paywall,

while the rest of us die

from man-created poverty.

The illusion of scarcity,

fueled by spite, oil, and blood,

suffocating in systems

built to choke out livelihood

in exchange for power and control

because a certain few felt too small,

and in turn created catastrophe so large

from something avoided so easily.

It could have been so easy.

How sad.

How so very sad.

Divine balance wrested

from the Balanced Divine,

for a foolish few to perform

a fool’s farce at playing God.

And in false hands,

the check cannot balance

when the check is designed

to keep the balance off,

their greed-craft just beyond our sight

behind a steel-plated skyline

sold to us as a supposed silver lining.

So they watch in secure, stolen clouds,

as the world suffers and withers

in the grasp of

their lustful, voracious egos

in God robes too large

for any mere man

as flimsy, fragile, and false

as they are.

The grief,

The stress,

The depression,

The hardship,

The ache,

that feels as though it predates me

does.

It has echoed for ages

through generational lines.

It follows me,

for it knows me

and I know it.

Though it has no face

I see it.

Hidden deep in volumes,

subtle, but clear

in the mirror:

The worn expression in my eyes,

alive but tired,

reflecting my mother’s quiet struggles,

reflecting my father’s meticulous caution.

Trials misunderstood and challenging,

joys thrilling and defiant,

shared, fleeting, borrowed,

counterfeit from a culture not our own,

while balancing the home in our heart.

New, ambitious, guilt-ridden,

our sense of belonging shaken,

clutching close to our chest and holding in

a deeper, complicated sorrow

yet still daring to live and love in our own way.

I hold it all in,

and I hold it together, barely.

Disparate pieces

forged and forced to unify,

creating the smile I’ve mustered today,

painted wider than the vast ocean

that separates Me

from the Me

my ancestors longed for me to be

The disconnect is felt

between the spaces in my fingers,

reaching for what is not there.

A purpose purposefully muddy.

The voice I have, still uniquely mine

yet still hoarse from the thirst

for that which ought to nourish

my incomplete spirit:

The freeness from the shackles

that taught us to silence,

to tame,

to keep obedient,

to keep the peace

in exchange for our own piece.

My pain is not just mine.

It expands beyond my reach,

across time and space.

A ripple felt felt by my peers,

distant yet close.

We walk upon the same wavelength

echoing deep within us

repeated, yet familiar,

silently, we see, and we recognize.

Yet a pain so ancient, so ancestral,

though it may stay with me till my last,

I hope to break,

little by little

with the time I have left,

until it whittles to nothing

so that no future children

may ever have to carry the weight

of generational ache

As I lay crushed by the weight of societal expectations sculpted and carefully designed by white heteronormative hands Starving for something more than food (though a bite would probably help), Seeing red not in my own eyes, but from pints of blood drawn by the predatory capitalistic maw Two acrylic nails chipped off my fingers picking at my skin barely keeping me together Aching in the bones and joints that have lived a lifetime of wear and tear Floundering in the unfinished trappings of my own art Seeking a reason to continue creating when all it seems the world is made for is violent consumption (though validation/compensation would probably help) Between dreams and nightmares, both equally as promising and threatening as the last Living with nothing by my ideals, a small but tight fistful of hope

I sometimes ponder, eyes glazed across the pond, Wondering if I had taken the easy route The road more traveled, If I'd given in, Studied harder than I should have, Gotten that steady job, Worked where my mom said to, Married, Had kids, Bought the house, Ascend the tax bracket, Hustle, hustle, hustle Submit, succumb, sacrifice to the so-called American Dream

Then in my delirium, I find myself swimming back Partially by choice, Largely by nature, To tumultuous but familiar shores The waves and salt lick and lap, stinging by many wounds Gasping for air as I soothe the fatigue of my sore, strained muscles Averting my gaze from the seemingly sunny horizon as I fall face up onto my own gravel, rough, coarse, comforting, home

Don't mistake me

I regret not a single decision that has led here

Though the grass is always greener in the most difficult of trials Yet in my heart I know, my soul would never flourish there And to lose this life's precious gifts from enduring the path I've taken, People, experiences, scars, and all I would never forgive myself

Still, in the storms that come and go, once in a great while

The If lingers

One spark One rage One light One hope

It flickers, it weakens, it strengthens, it almost fades, but it never does

One spark One rage One light One hope

It fights, it takes a blow, it retreats, it wants to give in, but it never does

One spark One rage One light One hope

It loves, it aches, it burns, it nearly dies, but it never does

The world may exhaust me, try in vain to extinguish me,

to convince me I am weak, poor, ugly, worthless, too much, not enough

but it never does because with

One spark to ignite another flame One rage to keep up a righteous fight One light to banish the creeping darkness One hope that kisses my eyes to the morning

Every day is a rebirth Every ember a new promise Every color a pulse of prismatic brilliance

In the ash of this wake,

I will always rise again

My feet blister from improvisation My mind cracks at the sleepless anxiety My heart aches for equilibrium My breath chokes as the air escapes, faster than I can find it within myself

Surely, the body and spirit were not made for this Have I been fooled? Into thinking this is life? Certainly not It cannot We were not made to be cogwheels When we are all water In a cosmic nest of star fragments

We are more than struggle We are more than being defined by how we survive When all we want is to live

Certainly, this cannot be it

I miss you

I miss us

I miss the way you make me feel

I miss the fearlessness I felt

I miss the way you made it all melt away

Pierce the veil, puncture the dark

and show me the sun again

Show me how I felt weightless

Whenever I’d start my day with you

I can feel clouds coming easier

Though everyone says I look happy

Maybe I’ve gotten better at hiding

When those clouds tend to stick around

But I miss you

I miss us

I miss the way you make me feel

I thought I would be better

I thought I could be better

I thought the wheels could come off

I thought I had found balance

But my mind is closing in on me

My body doesn’t feel the same

God please don’t let me sink again

I don’t want to return to there

Sinking to the nether place again

And I can feel clouds coming closer

Though I’m fighting for the break of light

Because I can’t let myself suffocate again

I miss you

I miss us

I miss the way you make me feel

Do I?

(It’s probably all just in my head

But it’s so damn hard to shake

So I keep on dancing and singing

Till I survive the so-called drama,

Or die goddamn trying)

To whom it may concern:

We build your structures

We clean your clutter

I don’t know how else to convince to you to

We pay your taxes

We follow your rules

I don’t know how else to convince to you to

We exist in our own space

We live in our own lane

I don’t know how else to convince you to

We keep our beautiful tongues

While you force yours in our lips

I don’t know how else to convince you to

We pray for our survival

You pray for our downfall

I don’t know how else to convince you to

We sought your shores for freedom

You answer with steel cages

I don’t know how else to convince you to

We cry out for equality

You shout out for warfare

I don’t know how else to convince you to

We burn with hope

You burn our dreams

I don’t know how else to convince you to

We bleed the same colors

When you cut us in every way

I don’t know how else to convince you to

We are here

We always will be

In the face of fear

Eye to eye with adversity

How do you placate

An Ice-hearted beast

When it only sees hate

And a hunter’s feast

You expect our silence,

From your state-sanctioned violence

All I have is my heart,

And all I know is this:

I fight with my art

And if I must,

My fist

I’m tired of trying to convince you to

Love,

An immigrant