Newcomer without Stories

I arrived here
exhausted after
spending my
longest day inside
a flight across
the Pacific
along with my hopes
of better life
and a handful of
naive notions
about snow.

Amidst extensively
long goodbyes
from friends and
other loved ones,
I forgot to bring

that the global village
find amusing,
sparkling with universal appeal.
Instead of submerging
with superheroes movies and
rock music, I should have
written down
the stories my
grandmother candidly
told us beneath the moonlight,
outside in the streets
since the power went out
third time that week.

I didn’t have
a privileged childhood
ruined by radicalized
having utopian dreams.
Believe me
children are eaten
even without revolutions.
It must be
the people
then, strife and backwardness
hardwired to
their souls,
repeatedly vomiting
and democracy. A lot will agree
with this logic on both
sides of the globe.
Far too many.

Nada. I have nothing.

It’s not too late though, I can
Write about
life as an immigrant,
exiled from the homeland,
seeking a voice,
an identity.
but I see no such drama.
There is no intergenerational
struggle between
Tradition and modernity
whatever those words mean.
My folks just want to get by,
pay the rent or mortgage
and bills, send
money home perhaps,
deeply once in a while.
Dull matters even if
written in
fancy sentences.

So what do I
have to offer?
Life isn’t better
here or there,
the world’s countless faces
are turning into one
but more and
more minds
are demarcating spaces, looking
for a better home
secretly knowing
deep down
hope is created
not found.


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