How many times has the ugliness inside all of us
filled our flesh with pain dangling like skeletons in our minds
prayers become a fancy name for a suicide note
for the body’s pulse - too often a gorgeous metaphor,
life is still trying to understand.
I rhymed safe with poems lingering in the deathly hallways of a familiar ugly.
But how I was kept alive by the beauty of language
a love like water sprouting from the rock of my heart
the stillness of its composure
a masterpiece of scars embroiders my love map
it leads to everywhere i’ve called home
if a rose can grow from a concrete
then surely can’t a butterfly blossom from a roach?
can’t a father come home and hug his children?
can’t the right to one’s own body be more than just catchphrase?
can’t a field of buds split the earth into a melody?
how we talk ugly, yet still live beautiful
turn hope into a wishing well, rather than furnace
mirrors are not demons of glass
but portals to greater love for self, pristine tangibility
in your bones - a necessary celebration to your unrelenting will
to never stop pushing...bursting open
like a glee club of fireworks, colors painting the sky in a new color
of unapologetic and a joyful joyful noise:
the undeniable ruckus - of being alive, and dancing
to the volume of your worth, and how the world
will have to brace for your impact.
Akira Toriyama convinces me that Majiin Buu is actually a Metaphor
well for starters, he is pink
in his head lies the ability to transform you
into something to be devoured
his strength is appropriated
from the people he absorbs
he was made from a group of magicians
an illusion made flesh
people don't think he exists
he kills everything in his path
even those that created him
they just won’t realize their death
until it is too late
in his greatest form he is a child
catch them young, before they learn
the vitality of destruction
you kill him and he comes back
because in the end
that’s all he wanted to be
to become what he has always feared.
on learning america’s english
Johnny Bravo, Dexter’s Laboratory, and the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers
were some of the best English teachers a francophone immigrant
could ever have. Their curriculum riddled in laughter,
impossible exploits, and the daunting task of saving the world
from the aliens.
My accent is a Saturday morning cartoon. It often riddled others
with laughter. Coiling into a language not its own was an
impossible exploit. Trying to find strength to transform into
something powerful to save everyone else
from an alien
and the shame that came from being made to feel so different.
That my accent, my culture, my breath was too unreal
and did no
a Kwabansa for Green Lantern John Stewart
You are both light source and body
how mighty, to be most will powered
even without a tool to amplify spirit
Now ain’t that some radiant black magic ?
to swallow bullets and spit out flowers
to conjure all you imagine like praise
to be a joyful creation always, willin’