The Gun Of The Father Is Always

Some Of My Relatives Held On To Imagined Memories The Way Homeless People Hold Onto Lottery Tickets. Nostalgia Was Their Crack Cocaine, If You Will, And My Childhood Was Littered With The Consequences Of Their Addiction : Unserviceable Debts, Squabbles Over Inheritances, The Odd Alcoholic Or Suicide.

I Don't Listen To Music When I Write. I Need Silence So I Can Hear The Sound Of The Words.

If My Daughter Wanted To Wear A Headscarf And Dress In A Religiously Conservative Way, I Would Be Heartbroken. But If She Were To Decide To Do That And She Were To Live In A Place Where People Said She Couldn't Do That, I Would Be Entirely Committed To Her Right To Do So.

When Terrorism Strikes, Divisive Anger Is A Natural Response.

I Push Against The Tree And Run Away, Stumbling, The Unreal Night Playing With Me, Gravity Pulling From Below, Behind, Above, Making Me Fall. And I Run Through A World That Is Rotating, Conscious Of The Earth's Spin, Of Our Planet Twirling As It Careens Through Nothingness, Of The Stars Spiraling Above, Of The Uncertainty Of Everything, Even Ground, Even Sky. Mumtaz Never Calls Out, Although A Thousand And One Voices Scream In My Mind, Sing, Whisper, Taunt Me With Madness.