Eureka!
My name is my own my own my own.
—June Jordan, “Poem about My Rights”
Here in the decomposed granite
and desertscape, a frontier town
on the horizon for me and the old
west iconography I carry
like a tissue or an old receipt.
I’m damned by the land
I love. I’m the one
doing the damning.
I’m no friend of oblivion anymore.
Every day, I wake up and feel deeply
flawed. For these, I have room
in my life: a standup comedian, a poet,
a painter, a passionate kisser, women
sitting in cafés alone
disrupting equilibrium.
Here, homes are made
of wood and stucco. But back home,
they’re stone. A big dark beautiful eye. An eye
that looks like mine.
I’m Palestinian, so I love
to consolidate. The remaining son.
This objectivity avoids
metaphor, can only be what it is.
My prayer:
May all living things
be happy one day.
But let them take their time.
Let them be bad
in the in-between and suffer
no consequences for it.
My prayer: My friend,
I hope your lover isn’t a sadist
sitting in bars in public, telling strangers
You’re about to meet your soulmate.
No, no, you’re afraid
of being free.
When I go back
to my unhappiness, I’m sure
to cook it a meal. My sin?
I care about myself
without being kind to myself.
They wanted me, they wanted
me only to idle
around idolatry like a girl
in a mall. And if it’s out there
I’m going to find it. Like hair
wrapped in a drain.
Affairs never approach
this grizzly reality.
Dirt is ugly,
but mountains?
If you love where you’re from
god help you stay there.
Here in the heat
is where I need to be.
This world is frightening;
I’m trying to enjoy it.
