so far from home he withers lonelinesses
weathers united statements of this is not your country.
he only buys clothes that fit like black fits night. his hair used
to shine halos and raven guides for his travels into cozy
loves resting with inun-unan in the provinces so
he misses the ugly of home, his hothouse
where fellow muslims are pockets like anthills. even
filthy manila provides welcome and alms in its
fallout from dust and exhaust from a bastard history of
being owned by most of the western world
more welcoming than this crab-apple home the land
of the free trade rapists keeps us all scrounging for a way
out of the peering eyes of the city (if you see something say
something). except for moments of connection and mutual exchange (which is
don’t ask; don’t tell)
can we ask to go home, can we tell you to leave
ours. we all want to return to our eventual homes.
newyork keeps us sweating, keeps us spending salvation
like forging bleeding chains that bind
us to the city. but we indomitable search for escape
though feels like gnawing through iron.
every natural law says that systems like you tend towards chaos.
surfing the waves of immigration and visas perched on the board of ed
i imagine newyork in any shade darker than mcdonalds and wall street.
wilting. folks he finds buried under western tongues
dreams hegemonic america, draws blue prints of turning
district 32 into cebu
i can feel delhi’s dry itch in the corner of my mouth, my own need for revival
when he talks of people coming to stay,
that in our places we don’t wither but grow
upright to understand a stomach pat or a handshake that
lingers upon finding each other: a natural dialogue
that causes me to remember that newyork
is a place where we are the miraculous.