love poem for denver

I could be quiet for you.
I could be your open cup,
your student,
your Daniel San.
Mr. Myagi me, Denver.
We could speak in broken bodies,
street steam and heavy swallows of
mountain air. No need for slogans.
Pull the tags from my hip and claim me.
I will let you wet my tongue with splendor
and gulp you down like secrets. No shouting.
No banners. We move the same.
I, too, am a wilderness of street signs.
Teach me how to hold a yellow light in my
palm as easily as a sparrow,
I will slow down for you.

I know others have made promises.
I’ve made plenty of my own, but me and my land
fit like high water pants and its getting awkward.
I want to learn your rules.
Your stop/go method of breath.
Every step I take inside of you feels like the
break beat laughter of a monk. Your finger
runs along my rim and I am a singing bowl.
We make a good fit. We make nice prayers.

If only you would look at me, like you
did in that one parking lot moment. When
winter floated in like used dryer sheets, when
the day had been too long, and you were tired
of carrying the weight of hungry people.
I think you were honest when you said,
“I want to go on long walks with you.”
I think in that moment you were asking me to
drink from you. Like maybe our mouths were
the only lesson plans we needed, the only
place we actually belonged.

spiritual response to terrorism (marianne williamson)

With your thoughts, you can help build a system of spiritual quarantine for terrorists and would-be terrorists.
You don't have to know who they are. The Creator does.
Just do this.
For a minimum of five minutes every day, meditate in the following way:
Pray that anyone even thinking of committing a terrorist act, anywhere in the world, be surrounded by a huge golden egg.
The eggshell is made of the spiritual equivalent of titanium. It is impenetrable. Any malevolent, hateful or violent thought that emanates from the mind of the terrorist cannot get past the confines of the eggshell. Before the violent thought can turn into violent action, it is stopped by the force of this meditative field.
Energetically, the terrorist is quarantined.
On the inside of the egg, see a shower of golden Light pouring from the eggshell into the heart and mind of the terrorist. Pray for your lost brother. See him or her being healed by the force of divine Love, wrapped in the arms of angels, reminded of who he truly is.
Five minutes. Every day. Tell everyone you know.

rapid eye movements

You used to move so fast in my dreams.
A superhero blue, a blur of tongues.
You moved like you wanted me to chase you.
I would run along the dream conveyor belt,
past the drag queens and dancing owls, hoping
to find your waiting mouth.

At some point, you slowed down.
Your skin became warm. Your melodic snores
became Barry White doing Tai-Chi.
We would float in our sleep. You moved like you
wanted me to know you. I awoke feeling like I had
just painted a mural inside your cheek.

I think my dreams became too loud for you. I think
you snuck out through my eardrum, to find someone
who sleeps less emotionally. You move like you have
an apology to whisper. Like it sits in your throat waiting
for me to take it with me, into my vacant midnight.

bismillah

i awoke to a flood
of vowel sounds.
cursive, satin tongues
as fluid as our last kiss.
a scorched earth song
that opened me like a gift.
i couldn’t make out the words
i just knew it was You.

You are the root word
that all of our names come from,
7 billion syllables whispered
in our sleep. some days it’s just
static in our radio hearts.
i want to know a hunger so deep
it turns the dial to Your frequency.
i want to know a language
that sways like the humble tide.
my every breath is kalimah.

(i’ve never felt the need for a broker,
but i’ve never met a prophet i didn’t like.)

fashion an altar that smells
like September, a quiet veil wrapped
around my swollen lips,
cement eyes, fragile ears
the only thing i can lay
before You is questions.

why would i rather count the hairs
on his arm than the jewels in your throne?
why does his voice fill me like iftar?
Insha’Allah, i will crave him no longer.

strip me down to my longing
until it is only Your name i can pronounce
write my sins across my tattered stomach
and remind me they are all just invitations
for salvation