I read my poetry to my mother
and she falls asleep
“You fell asleep.”
“No, I wasn’t—I was just resting my eyes.”
“You were snoring—it only took you 10 seconds to go under. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“I’m awake. I’m awake.”
“You were snoring!”
I want to wake up the world, but first
I need to start with my mother
I bounce ideas off her, and I get the same ball
“Interesting,” she says.
“But the poem, what did you think?”
“Was there any recall?” I ask.
“It’s true. A prophet who arrives in his home town is greeted with contempt.”
“No. Your poetry is good.”
I just wanted to hear her love
is a combination of will
and being willing
to endure pain.
If you can turn your suffering into something
you are nearly there.
isn’t the ambitions of an adult, involving a fat salary
but the dreams of an adolescent, becoming a reality.
Winning, is Woke telepathy.
Often, I worry about wasting my life
thinking about winning.
Love, is more important—
though, I’m not sure which one is more difficult to do
I have trouble with both.
I’ll wake up