Who is teaching us

to weather the wound

lying that the wound is “weather,”

as though we must whether it

without asking why it rains?

excerpt from Untitled piece, 2026

-Gazi

Sand dunes incanting.

A Blooming dune.

Unsilenced.

The iris keeps watch.

Light passing through, 

Lingering, 

luminous

offerings for an infinite view.

Colors assumed.

Colors conjured.

a colossal supercontinent 

lives in their faith,

Invisible strings challenge 

time on its view of fate,

Fossils offshore.

Bones with good memory.

Coastlines fit together.

The sea between them.

Moving.

a migrant with coasts in her mouth.

Shore on her tongue.

Every fragment

looking for its edge.

Coastlines fit together,

The silent scripting of scent.

Translucent transcribing.

our lives, an allegory of attraction.

People cross oceans for a shoreline.

Cross oceans for each other.

Color me blind.

Let me recognize it.

What never 

stopped recognizing me.

The recognizing, it 

never stops. 

Precolonial sentiments seeping 

in my tea.

Still seeping.

I sip.

The heart beckons

with its needs.

I must answer to everything in me.

6/25/26

Sometimes

I love a flower

I want to pin it to my chest

like a flag torn from the ruins of a lost land

wear it as evidence that I’ve been feeling

that I’ve survived this age of spectacle

What’s with all this surviving?

I consume it like sugar hoarded during wartime

boil it down to syrup

bathe in its sweetness

let it be the first thing on my tongue at the dawn of revolution

I want to become its fragrance,

Thread it into a garment,

wrap the world in it as a silken reminder

that beauty is here within these fences drawn

Can I hang it from the highest peak?

Proclaim a new era under its petals,

Declare:

I have seen softness survived the machine.

I would sit alone beneath it,

sulking in my patriotism,

as if devotion where uniform I could wear,

as if love could make me sovereign.

A wise friend said if you love the flower,

leave it alone.

you did not colonize its bloom,

you must let the petals fall

without rushing to make a poem from the silence

you become still enough to hear a miracle

humming inside the stem

anxiety is the echo of war

still playing on loop

in the background of our breath

and we starve

because of an Earth made profitable

and love, transactional

still this flower gives

you cannot buy your way back into belonging

you must recall your name before profit had a tongue

I am made from those who fed strangers

and their existence undocumented

deed without translation

I love louder, the thump of my efforts

imprints last forever

back into the soil we’ll go

only the brave fall all the way inward

the emptied are those who become conduits

I leave the flower

I let it exist.

It’s wild boom takes roots in my reason

without my fingerprints on its meaning

in that unmaking…

I bloom.

8/10/25

-Gazi

I’m a centimeter from Divine

seeking something just to bind.


The light switched rooms,


didn’t shut the door behind.


Attention spilt,

I slip, 
still drawn to center,

by a gravity I crave to flip, 

to slay, to sever. 

Calling you by a name

that never was yours

the naming of the thing

built walls, not doors.

This house, full of absence,

a child at the edge,

just a gaze from grace,

Always witnessed.

Never fed 

But saving face.

Make me a child of yours


I’ve never been.


Let my past dissolve


in the shape of your skin  

The sun in you.

a warmth unbroken


by the frostbite of now,


I’ll deposit my love 
just don’t show me how you withdraw.

Conditional me.

Love ain’t capital.


It vanishes when counted.

8/18/25

Genealogy of the Living Wound*  `

I was born the second coming to my bloodline,

child of Ra,

North Star to a feral woman

growling softly, seeking vacation from a loveless life.

Behind his eyes…an underworld.

It drew her, Oya,

she desired a storm to unveil her own.

There came me

a lightning strike, hazardously obstructive,

a roaring cry holding mirrors to vacant tunnels,

revealing how dark it truly gets.

She would not bear to hold me long.

I was a red river, and she sang the blues,

She said: this child is a spell

and I cannot confront the caster.

Her body was already a battlefield,

and my father a fire

burned her into disappearing.

I sought for her, 

for she would be my familiar place,

the place that I returned to for refuge

where delight passed through Earth’s quiet chambers,

undercurrents spoke in curiosity,

and moss was an unbridled friend.

I used my claws to grasp the soil,

climbed rocks to meet the Goddess

in the Jupiter hour.

I bathed in the wettest of waters,

offering gratitude for its cooling,

leaving traces of sweet secretion

the first honey,

a sweetness unknown to mankind.

I was ravenous for a world I knew.

and I loved, 

I loved with soul ache,

with bloodlust toward instruments

that only know dissonance.

I walk a city where the ground splits

 just to remind us

there is life beneath it,

concrete tends to forget.

A broken soul made visible.

How easy it is to forget you are alive

when death scores your morning stroll.

Apathy

a god without altar

lives in my neighbors.

And still

the Sun, life-giving Sun,

illumines yesterday becoming tomorrow.

Yesterday beneath tomorrow’s sound,

yet I listen to today in defiance.

Here is where the lost are gently found,

where the wanderer's steps rediscover their rhythm

on the winding coast of memory.

Feet, once uncertain,

find their grounding in shifting sands.

Pleasure

dances just out of reach,

I’m as close as I'll ever come.

Good morning, my love

forbidden desire lays on me in sleep paralysis,

threatening me with a kiss.

Look out the window.

See what has become of you.

The trees have lost their bark

and still they threaten to stand.

Look.

See who’s still standing.

There is no escaping

the civilization I am mother to.

5/17/25

I long for those quiet, awkward silences that often stretch between people to become something more. A stillness where hearts can breathe together, where even the empty spaces hold meaning. Let the moments of silence not be marks of disconnection, but of deep understanding, where unspoken truths hum the melody between us. May the music reveal what it feels like to know what it is to be enveloped in love so deep that it peels back all that it is not.

If I am to embody the change I yearn to see, patience must be my compass, my guide. Without hesitation, without shame, I embrace love as the salve for all wounds, the balm for every ache. I know that love, when poured freely, will crystallize into everything I need, and in its overflow, it will become the source from which I can give to others. There is a strength within me, an unyielding force that grows ever more potent as I recognize that it is love that sustains me, that fills the vacant spaces, that grants me the courage to face each new day. It is love that has shown me who I am, and I have found that love reflected in the eyes of those who see me with grace, who hold me in my most fragile and radiant moments. In their presence, I am reminded of the truth of myself, and in their love, I have learned to be whole.

How rich and complex this world is, a swirling dance of contrasts, of beauty and decay, of joy and sorrow. I am too filled with contradictions. There is such disparity you see wealth hoarded by few while others are left to sift through the dust of their forgotten dreams. We are shaped by what we hold, and yet so often, what we hold is a hollow thing: empty words and heavy hearts. The division cuts deep, yet there is beauty even in the brokenness, in the fractures. I tread carefully in the space between, accumulating the texture of every hand I’ve ever held, the warmth of a palm pressed against mine, the roughness of calluses earned through hard labor, the tenderness of a touch meant to comfort. I carry the depth of every gaze I’ve ever met, the sparkle of eyes filled with hope, the weariness in eyes that have seen too much, the fire in eyes that refuse to be extinguished. I am marked in the colors of every story told. The ones spoken softly in the dark, whispered between old friends, shouted in the face of injustice. These textures are the fabric of my soul, and with each one, I come closer to understanding what it means to walk between the extremes, to seek the middle ground. But how do we find it together? At once, in a moment? How do we meet one another in this place when we are pulled in so many directions?

The sentiment rings true: people love in the ways they need to be loved. We pour ourselves out in the ways we are thirsty. We pour from vessels that are both brimming and bone-dry, depending on what we’ve known, what we’ve lacked, what we’ve craved. The need to give is bound up with the need to receive, and in this delicate dance, the one who observes becomes the greatest lover. The observer, steady, patient, able to witness, they are a keeper of truth. Their gaze is a sacred thing, capable of digesting the rawness of existence. They do not flinch from the wreckage. They do not look away. They stand steady in the presence of sorrow and joy alike, able to hold the fragile beauty of it all. And so, there is a dying world before me, a world bruised by neglect and worn by time, with a quickening heartbeat yearning to be carried back to the forgotten song of its first dawn. I do not flinch. In the past, I’d miss the cue from the prophet disguised as a beggar. So now, I live reminded I am in a world gasping for its breath and exhale my longings.

How can I turn away from the planet gasping beneath the weight of our indifference?When will we, the makers of change, choose to love as our fate and at the hands of free will? How many lifetimes must we live before we understand that the cure for all this is nearer than we dare admit? It is not far off, not a distant dream, nor a far-flung hope. It resides here, within the space beneath our skin, in the rhythm of the blood that courses through our veins. If we could only see it…if we could only choose it…love would make all things new.

12/18/24 -Gazi

And I’ve found

myself most identified

with the tear,

a soft traveler down my cheek,

gracing me

with the holiness of shrinkage.

A baptism in smallness.

It’s only here

in the narrowing

that your breath reaches me.

like wind making a song

through the bones of my spine.

You hum me whole.

There is no place

where we are not,

your presence curled

in the hollow of my ribs,

my breath

a prayer inside your mouth.

Still,

I scramble

for a border

My shadow studies the script

of a well-lived life,

reads it aloud

to the morning light

that spills like grace

across the foot of my bed,

as wind chimes

speak to me beauty.

I think of you then,

Your absence

shapes my wanting

into worship.

There are days

when the longing

feels like union,

like desire

has your fingerprints

and there still pressed

against my skin.

And maybe

this is the cruelest kind of intimacy,

to be sculpted

by what will not come back.

Good grief,

you were never in vain.

You are

the quiet

I have been answering

my whole life.

9/4 11:11pm -Gazi

She is plutonic

grasping on to the depth of all

hoping that she won't fall out of place,

and expose the lack of grace that surrounds her existence

Is it that eye fear leaving the abyss?

knowing that the surface requires me to exist

without pain

you might call that the mundane

but my ability to see all that is restrained

is the very thing that keeps me

welcoming the rain

and the toxins in the water keep the illusions the same

manifesting cycles to remind me why I came

to learn love, not the depicted complacency

that has me running from experiences

that are anchoring me

hoping to try on skins,

eye emerge from diving in,

there's something about a union

that forces me into my yin

but the echoes of my life,

make me cultivate that within

scared exchange with my past

I've gained from what's been

my essence you cannot pin

I'm burning down to break in

I'm a product of my roots

the world was birthed from sin…

6/1/19

-Gazi

She slipped straight past my defenses.

The sea stretched

its blue never settled into certainty,

streaked with brown

and pale threads

of foam that curled

and unfolded

they held stories that included my name.

Above them,

the sun finds its way through a cloud,

scattering loose ribbons of orange and rose across the sky.

The nearer I stepped,

I found myself at my knees,

she who tickled my fears,

Before I was folded into her depths like I had always belonged there.

Some days I tell myself I am searching. Though I assume direction, the ground keeps dissolving beneath it.

But as day one hundred and twenty two approaches, that belief is morning light mist. .

Yet amid there is something that feels strangely familiar.

I drift because she intends it.

Gazi, excerpt from 2019 Neptune’s song