Fuck you and John Wayne Airport and “God’s house”
He never would lived there anyway

Can I tell myself in this shadow that
There in this Cupid's paegent 
There lies no monster?

“There is no tiger”
Is a great tattoo and I'm glad it works
For you who isn't quite as delicious 

I tell myself I'm being too precious 
And on the days that wrap themselves 
In the pink cashmere warmth of the other 
I can almost tell myself that 
there is nothing monstrous neither.

In the hearts of those next to me
In those tables of numbers I hope to climb
Nor in those little boxes I help decorate

And the the thing is I honestly like the floor tiles
And the little shops 
And many other things at this airport
And even some of those people 
From the house on the hill

And if I could just pull this one temple down
And pull something else up
Then maybe I could rise
And I would have children to tell sweet lies
And be the house I needed 

We were the cinnamon in the brew,
The ones they were looking for
In the long lists they threw
Unknowingly in our faces.

We changed the flavor of the whole,
And knew it tasted true
As they told us our roles,
Only the ones that they knew.

Now some of us looked back,
But those who followed the track,
Were licked by the flames,
But felt no eternal chains.

Good luck getting me out of your neighborhood 

And your lawn

I’ll survive all your fancy sprays

And the bomb

Maybe try wishing on me instead 

Have some fun 

Watching the seeds pulled by the wind

As they run 

I meet her in the IKEA after work

wearing the same black flats.

I see her push through the bricks in the divider

And I know she smells like chamomile.

She’s the hottest soldier since Joan of Arc

and she fights for peace at home.

To the plants I downsized,
To the ducks I won’t feed again,
The cats I won’t spot,
And the laundry I forgot.

The small dogs who will never know,
Why I had to leave,
Will haunt me the most,
Along with the ghosts.

Scenes of hopes never realized,
Fears faced and never met
Seas wept, tigers tamed,
And counters stained.

On the years of yearning,
The generations in exile,
The nights gone by
In the belly of the whale

Is escape possible?
Is it desirable?
To yearn is to live.
To strive is to be.

We were marked for this,
A people known by the creator,
Known as the daisies of the field
But invisible till a crucial juncture.