DECLARE!

Hot Cheetos and Takis...OH SYRIA...

Not much to report other than the fact that I have been OBSESSED with watching this video of some Minneapolis youngsters wrap about their favorite snacks, which are relevant in the title. Part of an after school program that rewards kids with recording their own music for good schoolwork, these kids are little bosses, and I think that this should be a #1 hit on principle alone. This shit will have you singing..."SNACK, SNACK, SNACK...CRUNCH!"



The poem below was one that I wrote a few months ago after a particular incident that took place in Idlib, Syria where a car bomb claimed the lives of five people. Of course, if you've followed the news, you've seen that more lives have been claimed, and the struggle is still ongoing. I submitted this piece to the New Yorker, and it generously got denied, so I thought I'd self-publish it on here.

OH SYRIA

Oh holy light,
Your cursed shell ignites a spark
Within the boundaries of my village.
You search the remnants of burned buildings,
A dead child wakes, gasping for one more breath,
Or a drink of water.
Yet, he falls fast asleep
And breathes no more.

Oh dictator,
How you have created a divide,
Those to the left, those to the right,
One fist can strike a fine blow,
But one blast can steal a million voices.
Though he tried to steal Damascus,
The emblem of his wavering flag
Cutting the wrists of those who wouldn’t drown,
Would not go down
To the sound
Of troops carrying fire-red guns,
One bullet to take them all.

Oh Muslims,
Thine hearts made of metal,
Struck with the shrapnel
Of soldiers unnamed.
They smile at the bloodshed,
Wipe their sweaty heads,
And dance around the graves
Of lost children.

Oh Idlib,
You are remembered,
One bomb, five lives,
One shot…
…can shake the earth,
But who will be there when she gives birth
To a day when silence has no need
For the breathless yell of a thousand feet,
That march toward your new-born ear,
Uttering the quiet prayers
Of those who were born to fear.

Oh Syria,
Your body lays to rest
On isolated waste
Of gutted cities
That feed on the ashes of burned-down tenements.
And we lay out on scraps,
Feeling the roaring of another explosion,
That engulfs our mothers and fathers.
And when the ruins of this land
Fall toward its knees,
One more entreaty will glisten
Under the fiery sun,
Set in motion by the rhythm of
Their fateful march.
“Guardians of the homeland.”
Let down your shields,
Your tattered tresses,
And remember the will of the silenced,
The prayers of the scorned,
Who only wish to be born…
Who only wish to be born…