May 28, 2012

The only lover who ever touched me was the Muse,
with its pornographic imagery flaunting impossibility -
but it stroked me with its asexuality
while all the other lovers were too distant
or imaginary.

And so I drowned in its song,
in the waves of insanity that crucify sound
minds along the daytime shore.
I joined it there, pinned across its T, horizontally,
remembering my future like a distant
past and cursed the sand beneath me
while the other victims screamed beside the sea.

The lover is that maddening melody,
intoxicating, a torturous mind-joined-to-heart
obsessed with ethereal births incessantly rising
and receding, windblown on the page.

But the Siren, the Muse, who subdues passion with rage
killed me on the day I was born.
Yet its music never taught me the
only thing I ever learned -
to release the million billion grains of sand
that spear into us,
to succumb to that sea, to be impervious
with glee.

Instead, it pulls my hand, obliterates lust with desire,
suffocates flesh with dust
and while time passes unseen,
I miss my life for its dreams
and the Muse continues its dance.

It is a lie, you must know by now, that Artists are
born with Chance - we are crippled and chained
from our first instant in the air.
And yet, you take my other hand, unfettered by the Muse,
although to understand only brings us farther apart.
And yet - you dare to love the absence that is me,
overflowing with the elements of rain and sun.

The worst of it is over,
for we are young,
and the Muse always claims
the best of us before we have begun.
You've undone me, my dear, but the
Must will always have my ear,
and do you think you can dig
deep enough to release me
from the Siren's sphere
that wraps itself around me in the sand?

May 8, 2012

"I am here," says the angel.
"I know," says the Little Girl.
"You should give it a try, being with people."
"What's the point? Pretending I'm happy? Turn myself into a doll with a painted face. What does it matter when it's all going to be over sooner rather than later?"
"Because if you pretend you are happy for long enough, you just might become it."
"Me? You know that's not true. You know I have always been alone and I always will be. They'll discover my corpse days or weeks later because the smell is unbearable. Not because anyone misses me."
"You will be with us by then. Scattered."
"Now would be a good time to take me. Now. Why can't you take me now?"
"Soon, Little Girl. Soon."
"I know. I can feel the poison."
"You can still choose to stay."
"There's nothing to live for. No one to come home to. No life ahead of me. I choose to go. Just make it painless. And fast."

The Incision

April 30, 2012

You are my horizon,
my brand in the dark -
a wish unreachable
but years prove unteachable.

And between us is a string
that we've pulled taut,
fragile as a life
between the scissors we bought.

April 26, 2012

"I should be used to it by now," the Little Girl says. Because the loneliness is acute tonight.
"Some things don't change," replies the angel.
"Obviously...But I grew up and things are still the same. I've been waiting my whole life for my generation to catch up, or for me to move backwards. But it's the same. I'm still alone. And there is still no one to talk to except for you."
"I don't count to you?"
"No. You are nothing more than the air I breathe and the voice inside my head."
"You know I am more than that."
"Shut up," she says. "I can't feel you."
"I cover you," says the angel.
"I know."
"You can come with me if you choose to."
"No. That is running."
"And you are not used to running?"
"I wouldn't call it running. More like attempting new frontiers. There are some things in life I couldn't live with anymore. New scenery was not a desire. It was a necessity."
"Are you afraid?"
Fear is consuming. Of course. But it is an emotion I turn off. At least it is one I put aside. Fear paralyzes. So I do what I have to do."

Letter

January 14, 2012
I often find that I write in my sleep, casting words and ideas out into the unknown. But upon waking, I knew that you were meant to be the recipient of this letter. [ -- ]

Occupy Wall Street is a symptom of American societal and political degradation and decadence. I hope that it is not the result of the country's first death throes and collapse. But the scene isn't pretty.

I hope it is the start of a proper revolution, the most American action I can imagine, but I am pressed to find enough structure holding it all together. Rather, I see scaffolding hoisted against a burned building--in other words, merely the preparation for repair. No blue print. No clear plan of remedy.

But the organization surrounding the protests of the Congressional legislation, SOPA and PIPA, does demonstrate structure. I am thoroughly impressed and proud. The organized demonstrations in protest of these two cousins of proposed law give me reason to doubt my certainty that the United States has doomed itself, buried itself alive under miles of apathy, ignorance, and (ultimately) stupidity. Perhaps there are enough of us left to organize with a purpose, to produce a concrete focus of opposition, to halt the country's race towards a fascist era that hides behind the thin gauze of democratic rhetoric. What a republic we are!

From abroad, I do my part. I sign petitions, I send revealing articles to friends and family to make them aware of the cesspool of which they are in the midst. Interesting, isn't it, how one can be just as involved in revolution from abroad as those remaining within specific geographical borders. One could argue that those involved via virtual platforms are even more potent than those standing physically on the ground--on Wall Street, or in front of the Capitol.

If the online boycott successfully shuts down Google, Reddit, Mozilla, Facebook, Twitter, you name it--this Wednesday, tell me, how is this less damaging than causing the ground beneath our feet to disappear? [ -- ] The virtual platform is more crucial to the survival of governmental and societal integrity in today's world than physical ground.

And from this position, I cannot help but wonder: Am I a coward? Did I flee? Did I give up too soon? A country is not a playground from which we can enter and exit with abandon -- I still carry the burden of my citizenship and everything that means, whether I am aware of all implications or not. The country still carries me. And now another. I possess the passports of two nations now, fully aware of the fact that with those citizenships I both enjoy the privileges and accept the responsibility of histories, atrocities, and glories of two nations.

My heart is with Israel but my mind is with America. My mind is with America's rise and fall while my heart is with the miracle of Israel's desert-turned green.

Perhaps it is time for me to come back. There is something to be said, after all, for those of us who can create real-world results. from the virtual "other side". The pen is a sword and true patriotism cannot and will not be silenced even coming from an ex-patriot.

The Modernists wrote very loudly, indeed, from beyond their own borders. And Joyce (though not American) only found home once he left.

"Happy New year," says the girl on the corner,
"Wouldn't know what I'd do without you, my love."
"Happy New Year," says the boy across the street
as he waits for the  man on the sign to turn from red to green.
"I'll be coming on over to you soon, my love."

And meanwhile, the construction crews set up shop,
place a new layer of tar under our shoes.
The girl waits at the corner, reads up on her New Year's news.

The crew blocks her view of her
boy by the light--
It's been hours now and she just can't wait all night.
So she turns, heads home,
pours herself some scotch,
only cure that works, blocks out the things she's lost
until the morning when she wakes
to the clock, singing "Noon!"

She goes down again, waits for the boy, 'cause he
said he'd be home soon.
"Happy New Year," she says, a year gone by now,
"I wouldn't know what to do without you, my love."

You asked and I answered: One times one is itself.
You answered when I asked: Your horizon is clear through the veil of wings.
You said: I will carry your doubt, the seed and the Wood in waiting,
the question and the answer unseen.
You asked: why sit in empty fields when the harvest is plenty?
And I said: A drought is a flood in waiting,
and the fallow fields a feast.