We sit amongst the locals,
Rajan preaches to the younger ones
his tales from lands afar,
I'm under a tree playing a stray guitar.
More and more people make their way down here
to the river,
a sanctuary of sanity amid the bombings.
The cock-fight continues over borders and beliefs,
grown men clinging to bound paper,
claiming it of more importance than their lives
or that of their brethren.
Paper stripped from innocent trunk,
ink black as the holes that suck all life around them,
into nothing.

It's been 8 days since the bombings began,
TV says tens have been killed on this side
and hundreds on that side.

One of the younger ones is climbing the river rocks against the current,
tide is low and the rocks peek through the river white.
A girl is crouched by the shore,
her head hangs between her knees,
she's playing with the snails,
her little toes sip at the still river bay.

Rajan told me that he was hoping to be alone here,
to spend this time in quiet meditation,
but I know he's happy to see all these people
someone is sleeping in his hammock.
Even more have just arrived,
they've sat a watermelon in the river to cool.
I'd like to think that across the border, 50 kilometers north of here,
there's another group of young ones escaping the insanity by a river's edge,
but it probably isn't so.
The bombs on this side are bigger, better, more efficient,
though you couldn't tell it from looking at our gathering here by the river.
It is simply our fortune, and our misfortune, too.
For the younger ones on the other side of the border,
instead of bathing and playing guitar by the river's edge are fleeing north.
They are fleeing far from their homes in anger and in bitterness at all that is south of their border.
And in their journey they will grow homesick.
And they will heed the words of their preachers.
They will learn the words of black ink and cling to the paper bound as their only comfort.

And grown, they will return to fight to their death.
For they will always long for their homes,
as every man longs to return to his Mother's womb,
to the river's edge,
to quietly cool in the waters,
amid the insanity of this world.

June 20, 2006

this morning
my routines were bloody
out of my mouth i spat it
out of my nose i blew it
my dreams were different
they have been different
lately my nights are bloody
i fight with my body
halting habits i've decided
no longer to have
has created habits
i didn't know were to be had

my language is simple
but my talk is complex

aging is halfway up a mountain
i didn't realize i was climbing
sliding down means
i'll never get to see the top
climbing on up is exhausting
and takes the place of simply
camping out halfway up
watching the world
sliding and climbing
in defeat and ambition

looking through the trees
to the bellies
of the mountains around
few fires are lit
level with i
camps below
graves atop
i've stopped to cave
like few wise have braved
lit my fire in the belly of the mountain
undaunted by its size
respectful of its existence
complete in my journey
to have been physical to this point
to be spiritual the rest of the climb
i will see the top
with the eyes of my soul

i slouch in triumph
of man over nature
no predator in sight
i am free from any fight
able to enjoy the only struggle
left for man on this earth
gravity
my final battle
and the time will come
and i will be defeated
for the only time
in my life

at the absence of a natural predator
one becomes his own

final days of solitude
the convict is finally pardoned
collecting his things from the warden
on his way to the walk of freedom
no clue to what has changed beyond the gates
if he's lost the capability of survival

outside is a world that is a home
inside is a home that is a world

with no regard
to the nature of nature
nor the nature of mankind
the city beats endlessly
like a scratched vinyl
no meaning to sunset
nor to fatigue
the city rolls
destinationlessly
on track

who sits in the park but the caned
frozen still to benches icy
who sits in the park but i
with all my senses spicy
who steps in the park
but the toes of a sunbeam
reaching cool ground
who steps in the park but the diapered
ambivalent to all around
who in the park of labrador prints
of echoing children and boot crushed mints
who by the fountain but the mechanical bird
the washed out plastic cup and the canine turd
who sits in the park

got all i wished for
still want more
maybe less
i bless my death
every living day
i don't pray anymore
i believe in trees
leaves are my angels
my religion grows and withers
my religion asks nothing
but gives all endlessly

i'm a late bloomer
i grew old sooner
but last to understand
the demands of this world
if i ever will
i will make good use
make it a bit easier
like trees i will
ask for nothing
them who taught me
disciplined and raised me
will bring back
anything i've lost
at the cost of solitude
from those speaking
but never from those chirping

freestyle
2 VI 2003

my senses torture my silence
my eyes in darkness see clear
my ears hear distant cries
my nose scents the fresh
and the rotten in the winds
my tongue pulps at the taste
of every mineral
my fingers tingle
sometimes jingle
they wiggle worm
scorch and burn
prick, pick,
poke, choke,
bowl, point,
roll joints,
sight, write,
of everything relative
of all that is sensitive

on the way up north
final days of blocks
i'm going out to rock
tonight. single. sexual.
platonic. friendly. smiling.
"i'm happy, hope you're happy, too"
i'm crying, hope you're crying, too
no quotations, it's mine
time has been standing still
for the past month
my city life flashing before my eyes
like roaches, pals and foes squirmish
to me (in goodbyes)
i'm taking my guitar
this new notebook
designated once again for scribbles
and never before
for change.

freestyle
17 X 02

my hands are cut up
scorched and bitten
all i've written
with my hands
fingers that tremble
to explain the pain
and some pleasure
the measures of trials
attempts at serenity
at clear smooth letters
lining up better on the page
than the lines already printed
i hold trees stripped
bound debris on my lap
defecating
figuratively and literally
i have always been a toilet poet
sitting on release
knitting my peace
the fear of leaving home
is breathing
it won't cease
leaving home
is not writing
breathing being alone

1988 - 1992 : New York City

My Junior High School was in Spanish Harlem, New York City. I played the sax in the school band. I tried to play football, but since i was small the only play i was ever called for was a "goal-line toss". I'd got tossed over the goal-line while hugging on to the ball. It usually worked for the score, but I didn't much care for the play. My nickname was Shorty Shit Rock. I didn't choose it. If I were given the chance, I would've chosen something less fecal, like Al.

In 1989 there was a minor earthquake in New York. NOTHING was destroyed BUT the roof of my Junior High School. So, they moved us deeper into Spanish Harlem, to squat the top floor of a public school complex near the East River. Right around that time, a famous model got raped and cut up while jogging in Central Park at night. It was part of an urban trend called Wyldin', where under-privelaged inner-city youths would run around at night and demolish everything in their path. The cops came and arrested some kids from our school.

In high school, the first Friday of every school year is denoted as Freshman Friday. A Freshman is a newcomer to the school, fresh-meat. I was a Freshman at a good public school in the Bronx, which was good academically but still in the Bronx. The tradition is, that on this first Friday, the elder students play pranks on the newcomers. Pranks like putting Vaseline on the hand-rails, selling Freshman "pool passes" to a non-existing pool, rolling Freshman in a garbage can down the hill towards the inter-section and throwing eggs. Two years before I arrived at this school, one kid got an egg shell stuck in his eye on Freshman Friday. Now, with his one good eye, he was the famed day's organizer. I tried to convince my mom to let me stay home that day. I told her about everything that was waiting for me at the end of my bus-ride. So, she gave me a frying pan. She told me to waive it around at anyone who threw eggs in my direction. I managed to make it through the day without buying a "pool pass" or getting rolled in a garbage can. When the final bell rang I stepped out to the courtyard, where eggs were hailing all around and I pulled out the frying pan from my back-pack. I got a lot of good laughs, which I learned to be my best protection.

in manhattan, where i grew up,
we lived in a pre-war building on the upper west side
it was a 9th floor apartment and home to some of my oddest physical mishaps
it had a long hall that led from the living room to my parents room
passing through mine and my sister's room
the hall had a long wooden parquette floor
real long and thin glazed wood lystes
and one light hanging in the middle
it was lit by pulling on a dangling keychain
a ball and wire chain, like the one used in army dog-tags
i was just old enough to reach it on my toes
and whenever i passed through the hall
i would slap the chain in accomplishment
sometimes i would gallop up and down the hall
like in the sound of music, whacking the chain each time about
kids find the oddest things entertaining
my mom told me that when she was growing up
they would chase a hoop around with a stick
i can't imagine that entertaining
my step-father, who grew up in an overprotective austrian home
i'm told, would climb up and down a wooden stool
i found the light's chain entertaining

important note leading up to the physical aspect of this story:
i had horrible teeth as a kid
my "pre-dental work" mouth was a mysterious cavern
stalactites hung around and out primitively as teeth
with one tooth completely facing backwards into the mouth
as if ashamed by the others, bashful to the world it looked away

one day, me and my mouthful of ruins were galloping down the hall
slapping the chain and singing made up songs
when the chain falls back from the slap down off the ceiling
and hooks under and between my two front teeth
i was in full gallop at the time and high on my toes
meaning that i caught the chain pretty high up
and couldn't come flat down on my feet
again, to paint a clearer picture:
i'm on tip-toes, head back, mouth open, hooked on a metal chain connected to a light bulb
and every time i try to come down on my feet
the light switches on and off as the chain pulls me back up

my folks probably heard the struggle and noticed the strobe light from the hall
my step-father picked me up as my mom unhooked the chain
and they tossed me back into the water ...

All I need is a glimpse, a glance, even through the window of a moving car. I sense the stems that connect to the pit, while so many are drawn to look at the cherry. Like in numbers, patterns appear at a glance, a face like a phone number is easy to break down to digits.

In second grade, I had a girlfriend. We went to a reform Jewish school in the upper west side of Manhattan. So reform that our homeroom teacher was Christian and Gay. At the end of that year, she and her family moved away to Connecticut. Still, I felt her presence strongly. I told my mother that we were communicating telepathically and that I had ESP.

Growing up in New York City was not fun. Coming from a second generation holocaust torn home was not fun. Being abandoned by my father at age two wasn't that bad. It was only much later that I credited that fact to the patterned traits of my own lifestyle. Traits that are embedded within me, so any attempt to fix them would be dishonest, as to mend the lapel of my late grandmother's jacket, where a yellow star was once stitched. The jacket is long gone, but my early grandfather still keeps the yellow star in a box by his bed. Every time I visit him he asks me if I remember her. I say yes meaning no, and he smiles meaning to cry.

By talking openly to many people, I've struck upon many differences between them and I. In tears, for instance, most people are specific, appointing tears to those they love. Even in anger, their tears are in love, for they care enough to signify their rage. My tears are ever-flowing like sap, ever-healing wounds of the bark, a salty shine, sweet with time. My sister's eyes sap like mine, though her wounds are younger.

When I was seventeen I met a women slightly older than me with a glowing daughter. They were a roaming pair and I joined them for a while. We all moved into a big apartment in the artsy part of Tel Aviv town. Her journey was different from mine in physics but resonated similar in energy. She had a picture of herself stuck in the frame edge of her mirror, where she's wearing a silver bikini bottom, with her motherly ankles wrapped around a metal pole on a dim lit stage. We had a fridge that stank the house for hours any time anyone would open it. Our fish tank was stolen when we moved. It had three barely golden goldfish and was full of joint roaches. I hope whoever stole the tank cleaned out the roaches and fed the fish.