Neighbors at close quarters
and I wonder exactly
how many of us
had the same thought
perched on balconies
and fire escapes
I can’t exactly look away
as one tired woman carries
her bags and her feet
up three floors
I watch her through a narrow
hole --all at close quarters
buildings choking buildings
and on top of every ceiling
lays another screenplay
someday, I think,
I’ll write them all
all the stories in the world
I’ll visit every floor
and knock it out
find eulogies in dust bunnies
and the toys we lost long ago
in the vacuums under our beds
there, with our dreams
under our beds
because they scared us too
it’ll work when it’s meant to work
as it’s meant to work
and you shouldn’t force it
any harder than that
or it’ll lose its taste
and you’ll push it away
to the side of your plate
some things can wait till later
just don’t drop the pen
let the ink run dry
then let it run with your wet eyes
there was something in them
maybe just a bit of grime
or maybe you drove with the window down
call it what you want
because that’s how it works
when it wants to.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
Welcome world:
The pen is yet to grow cold, in fact it grows warmer
and with each movement a somber expression
becomes my face. One does grow somber
when thinking about the human race.
We tried to trace it back, but I think even Darwin
would go blank if he tried to grasp what it has become.
I thought, once, that I might be a smart one.
But I find I grow dumb year after a year
turned a deaf ear to education and left it
to the next generation, thinking they need to
catch up. And I believed my bluff.
And now, unlike them, I need a pill to get it up,
need to huff and puff badder than any wolf,
its grown tough, and I feel I’m of the weaker stuff,
not fit enough to tact and plan,
not sure whether to play this hand, I stand in limbo,
amidst shouts of choose, choose, choose!
You’ll never win if you’re afraid to loose.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
come in multitudes
come in boots, pulled up, strapped
come with hairnets, bowlers, beers
come with husbands and mothers
the starlets come, the celebrities
the politicians and adversaries
bring your conflicts
bring your problems
stoners, bring your insights
bring philosophies and religions
bring visions, or lack thereof
bring weekdays and weeknights
bring the sofa
bring reality shows or documentaries
bring the series
and bring the cat
but come
with quirks and queers,
with stubbornness with anger
with broken glasses and fists
with fits of rage, with opinions
statements, facts, figures, conspiracies
bring every one of these, but come
with your broken hearts and talents
or genius, or with yesterday’s news
with the crosswords and comics
or the convicts or the cartoons
- hell, we’ve got more than enough room
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
We’ve passed resilience.
It’s not a question of getting with it,
I’ve pushed it to the limit and now it almost feels repetitive,
this sedative motion of
Day to day,
Pay to paid,
Lay to laid,
I made up the rules to a game,
and find it played exactly like how I said it should be…
And now that you see this new light,
you also see it right to put boundaries
that might have been better well placed.
Has the student risen to put master in his place?
Are words truly used in my own face?
Your wasting empty breath,
since love, I wrote the test,
and it frustrates me to come out last.
…But I’ll write this for myself,
and cross my fingers and hope for the best.
You went east and I went west.
And lest there be no miscommunication
let me be put your equations at rest…
I was moved by temptation,
locked and loaded and triggered with anticipation,
I’ve been waiting to have a taste of this elation,
to experience a fraction of the exhilaration
that could possibly course through these veins,
But I guess I wait in vain if I ever thought my name was about me.
Just a reflection of what you’d like to see.
And integrity finds itself dragged through the mud,
and affection finds itself waiting for no hug,
like a virus lacking the bug to go and do the ***** work,
and worth depleted to no value.
Like a ****** with a $1 rolled up bill
but no will to take the line…
I find myself in suspension.
With just an occasional call to attention,
calling for attendance,
(Should I lift my hand up like this?
Would I get extra credit if I blew you a kiss?
Should I cover up or lift my skirt,
should I shut up or continue to flirt?)
- I can’t seem to understand what works anymore.
I can’t seem to understand where to go
when you’ve asked me to leave,
yet lock the door and swallow the key,
and get on your knees,
claiming understanding please…
I wore my heart on my sleeve,
but you just picked so much at the seams
that it seems I’m unraveling away...
Just a little more every day…
Did no one teach you that’s not ok?
That people shouldn’t be played with?
And now I find myself on the search for revenge,
with humanity posing as my victim,
affected with a venomous vision
of alteration of the soul.
If for a moment you thought you were whole,
we’d like to say: Who told you?
Can’t be whole if humanity didn’t mold you.
Didn’t scold you for what it didn’t like,
or tell you what time to be home at night,
and to say your prayers right,
Because He ‘might’ be listening.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
Zen minimalist, tool
slipping words two fingers in
and seizing hold, mixing in subtle verbs
spinning worlds, filling up voids
with a tantalizing wetness
Yes, minimalist
and less is more
so clean that up you ***** *****
and speak only silence
leave them lost in awkwardness
born from want and wanting more, like
‘I know you want this
and yes I got this
minus man or wing by my side
rising instead from happy feelings, inside
sounding wise enough to me
and maybe soon I'll see exactly
what they meant’
as we drop and rise
in two time beat
knees, bent, in, weak
quivering at the seams
diving into dreams and coming
out breath stopped, heart attacked,
jagged and off
then two scenes later, maybe three tops
jumping ahead, fast forwarding to
the quick bits
the grimy bits
the slimy bits
the ins and outs
proving what drive thru is all about-
- since there's no need to waste time
on the things we can do
again, and again, and again.
Then, reverse spin
back to the beginning, cowboy
back to the drawing board
back to the sheets
put your back in it and ride, harder
calves carved in, jump the fleet
lift arms up in victory
the downward dog days are over
and we saw them coming
inhibitions released
letting go of the sweet
and drizzling, no just
jizzing all over the God **** place
hot and flustered, in our face
rushing to encase thoughts that
had always filled the space
but still, found no place in design
rather finding the time
to bleed them out, in epiphanies,
calling them nirvanas
calling them divinities
but titling them Truth.
And swearing, on your life
that that's what it was to you
and I lay there, only trying
not to believe it too.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
Day by day I lay it down,
“All right men, here’s the plan;
you go on in, and get 7 of them
(because 7’s a holy number)
and we wouldn’t want to offend
any defender of the other inclination.
Our nation would suffer at their loss,
and that would cost too much in terms
of net profit, would disturb a delicate
balance, we wouldn’t transgress
or progress, rather stagnate,
in a backwards state of mind."
You told me you liked my poetry.
But would you really
if you could see what I
see the ladies hooked on
Turkish series and
not enough men
to count fingers on?
Our men left long ago,
got hooked on the same show we were watching,
and it was alarming how it was cut with some
breaking news, something about how Syria was
going to lose another plane, and we felt some pain
and flipped the station, where we were met with
temptation masked as the latest ads only to add
to the list of the things we’ll never have.
So much for bad TV.
Could we please see something real?
And I fear the Kardashian’s aren’t quite enough,
you see, I’ve caught onto the bluff that **** must
be staged. But that’s ok I’ll let it pass, perhaps some
movie to catch my attention. Attention becoming
another word for distraction, and we carry
that emblem all around, hoping for anything
to evolve this frown into laughter whether
humorous, devilish, or maniacal in tone.
If not TV, reach for your phone.
Anything to get to another zone,
another place, just space out because
anywhere is better than here.
Where is the end, be near?
- I want to meet it smiling.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 9:26 AM UTC
I just want to throw in the sack,
don’t want to get back on track,
flap jack, slap it on up
and saddle on
sick of this race,
since long ago
my lethargy has shifted
to let-it-go,
go with the flow,
don’t let things get to you that much
coz thoughts shift at such a rush,
every updated status
makes you so outdated,
Oh wait, you’re here?
We’re glad you made it,
and no time to let this all soak in,
off we go on another whim,
are you worried what you’re saying?
It’s all right, just fake it,
are you getting nervous?
Imagine the audience naked,
and if you can't smoke it, bake it,
just to take it,
anyway you can,
because people clang, clang, clang on
and everyone’s right
nobody's wrong,
Everyone’s dressed in hard-ons
running along for their next ****
kind of makes me thank God
when the electricity cuts,
because for at least two seconds
everything stops.
And we breathe,
and look around,
and wonder,
how’d I get here in the first place?
But not first place,
we popped out and joined the rat race,
and it takes a while to figure out
how to move at our own pace.
Hard not to get caught
up in the glitz and glamour
of it all,
in the identities and
stereotypes we can perform,
they said we could be anyone
we wanted to be, and somehow
it's to my benefit that I should be me?
You see, it wasn’t always like that.
For a long time this forum didn’t exist,
(and still doesn’t for a list of your neighbors.)
Do them a favor, recognize.
Stop criti-size-ing what we
don’t know, so much easier to sit in the back
puffing on homegrown, so much easier to
point fingers and scream “I told you so!”
Yes, we know.
But even if you do the world carries on.
Stay calm,
It waits for no one.
Who knows?
Maybe someday your bones will be
what life is made of.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
Senseless living in Beirut. Disconnected from routine, from drama. Disconnected from passion and compassion in a stagnant, stagnant, stagnant place. No reassurance for tomorrow, and definitely no reassurance today.
And it all sounds so disheartening, even to yourself. So you put those thoughts on a dark shelf, resting in the cavities of your mind, only to find them oozing out again.
Making arms feel heavy. In a city that’s the perfect size for strolling every step feels like a chore. Like why’d I walk out here on the streets for? There’s no room for me. Too many holes in the street, and I wore these sandals coz they feel light on my feet, but they keep ripping. Dog **** low-class spit, and high-class **** It’s **** I tell ya. No room, nothing.
Unless you’re on a list. Then you’ll find endless place for you, and mix with commoners on the dance floors. Rub shoulders with those struggling artists and hidden talents, photographers and such. More images, much.
But still that’s not enough…. if you happen to make it, that is… still not enough. Because that kind of comfort is tough on the soul, and it hurts that you didn’t just go home and save it. You know, save your money, save your time, save your self. Not become someone else. Not finish the night rolled up in bed and thinking over those million things you said, was that the right thing? Perfecting social awkwardness by living it again, but alone. Just let it go, the past is dead.
You think, ‘let me think.’ Let me sink into the things that stimulate my mind, that I find interesting, revealing, revolutionary. And re- re- the process. Reanalyze in a new frame of mind. This isn’t that time, it’s now. I’m all so much more grown up. I can deal with the higher material. My envelopes carry essays, and my mirrors reflect mantras. I use my blade to cut Mongolian chicken. A unique recipe I found on Pinterest. I’ve got several blogs I read…I’m sure you don’t know them, they’re avant-garde…and I dedicate a hard process into selecting the right documentary, something that’ll illuminate me further. We apply this fervor into knowing more, only to realize how little we can move with that knowledge.
Killer of dreams, Beirut is. This murderer of hope. Like even if you got home, and plugged that DVD in to get your mind off with a laugh and a lay, the electricity finds its way to blast through and ruin a perfectly good evening for you. See it was feeding off your ****** energy and ran a little too highly, and now your wires shot. And somehow it burned through your generator heart. Could we somehow spark the cables with some electricity again? I don’t know…let’s check the trunk for monkeys.
Senseless. Not seeing, not feeling, not tasting, hearing, or smelling of sense. Honestly, just pushed beyond the limit of decent respect. Rather ****** crass, crude, no sense to reason, only nonsense, like gibberish, a terrible two tantrum, nothing to pacify, no milk of poppy or anything else. The alcohol is hit so we can’t rub teething gums. Instead plastic BB guns, manufactured with lead, which I’ve read shouldn’t be given to children under the age of two. But still, this is what we do in Beirut.
I want to root for a winning team. Something that’ll keep me on the edge of my seat so I can leap at the final score. Give me a winning team to root for. Instead divided, and individualistic, the secret to the American dream, that didn’t seem to work. Or collective, and fanatic, fundamentalist and bat-shit problematic, because of loss of self. Now, what’s the fun in that? If those are the teams, don’t put me up to bat. Let me stand in the back, and please pick me last.
Senseless and fast. Each day merges into next, and Lebanon is an eternal vacation. Cheap time chalets and happy time oil rubs. Under setting suns that morph into other ones, instagrammed and timeless on HD…not very revolutionary if we think within the context of things. But still, we never seem to, think.
Rather reignite the old patterns of thought. The ones that brought pearls and Switzerland’s, French nights and Brazilian beats. Ones that won’t have us marching on streets, but rather cater to the revolution of our hearts. It’s called the revolution of love. But I hope you don’t mind I’ve forgotten my glove in the other room… don’t worry baby…I’ll pull out if I feel that I’m cuming too soon… uh oh…(boom).
Was that a bomb? Or fireworks coz we were looking in each other’s eyes? Hide nonsense with senseless pastimes, de-synthesizing further. Falling deeper into this cataclysmic abyss, that leaves no space for sense.
Give me a tissue to wipe it. Clear it away. There’s another day starting and I want to forget that even happened. That I tapped into something and remembered to care. That would make no sense, it’s senseless back there.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
Words have a silly little power. They make stuff.
A lot of stuff.
She’d been told in the fourth grade never to use the word stuff, because that’s what you filled teddy bears with. But in her opinion, words were like that too, because that’s what you filled yourself with, stuff.
And that’s what you kept around you, stuff, and words, so that you could communicate more stuff. About the stuff you have in your home, the stuff you did with your friends, the stuff you had for dinner, and the stuff you’ve got on your mind, stuff.
It was much easier then to deal with stuff when everything was just stuff. And that kind of thinking suited her fine.
It wasn’t like anyone really cared about stuff, because they're just stuff. Making stuff easy to keep around- Never amounting to any more (or any less) than stuff... so as long as you stuff, why get rid of it?
Because if anyone ever took away any of that stuff, she would only too soon realize, that stuff was ever only stuff.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
I find myself,
without any heads up,
awake, and thinking of her.
I almost believe,
no, in fact I do,
that you just got up,
in the other room,
getting dressed,
and in a moment or two,
will come back to rest,
your head on my breast.
It’s as if the Elizabethan sonnet never went out of style.
It’s as if Stein’s abstractivity makes you the window and me the tree.
It’s as if you know what I’ll write before I write it.
It comes as such a shock when I see you’re not
there. Walls bare, and glaring, patronizing,
defying my thoughts, and curtains drawn
closed, devoid of your touch.
I wake up alone, staring at my phone, hoping it’ll say you hate me.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC