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If I pleaded
enough would
you come and see

lord, step down
from the altar
straighten the
rusted brass
of your joints

when your titan
feet meet the ground
and the earth trembles
again with the promise
of another god’s vengeance

then only will the weak
open their blinds
curtains to the side
outside again
walking down to meet you
stare at awe
marvel the towering
form of your
angered justice

its been centuries since
we’ve seen you last
when you fooled
us that there was a devil
worse than you

now your golden light
does nothing to the eyes
the mystery gone
with years of unloving prayer

let the stench
of disparity
guide you lord
to the place you forgot
to sing beauty into
the people hated
for being, existing
they turn towards
their sorrow and nurture
it at night
their faces haggred
grey with war and soot
gray with walking and
the eyes of other people
telling them in their dreams
they do not belong here
the land is
named after
it seems to have forgotten
what it was named after
but yet take pride in
the empire they built
the blood of their
injustice still running
in their veins
they feed their children
the skin of their sins
they drink the tears
of centuries long anguish
yet my lord
they still continue
like leeches over wounds
suckling dry
the forgiveness
they receive
let me take you lord
come and see lord
come and see
old men digging
graves for the children
and the children
reaching for
your tired

as you walk past it all.
 Oct 22 The Dybbuk
shadows, lonely figures
yellowed pages, splotched ink
broken promises littering nostalgic
lanes down the river of green and grey.
Reduced to these pile of letters some drizzle later
dusty, wet, and so so bitter.
Time crawls as if crippled
Rain slaps against my window
Slow thuds of hurt hit my heart
As I cry into my pillow

I roar in restless pain
And throw off my dampened covers
I lurch towards the window, screaming
Why can't we still be lovers?

My finger caresses your name
Through the cold moisture of the glass
Praying it's all a dream
That the rain and hurt will pass

I watch the icy drips of wetness
Slither down the pane
I know there is a world outside
But I can only see your name
 Oct 15 The Dybbuk
JL Smith
It's been said,
If you love something
Let it go

So you did
And I'm free,

But I'll return

You love me

© JL Smith
here where
you found me

when I was still
younger still
and knew nothing

if i’m not changing the world
am I truly  changing
if i’m not
catching the last
train to my youth
am I
the same as the
people buried in
my veins

things that
are only seen by me

i wrote in my
the ones
littered with tears

the girl in me
that never leaves

the girl in me
that still believes
I could do
something more
than feel the
small hands of the rain
golden light
into the spaces
that never fade

life when i was young
there was always
someone to pick me
up in sleep

a world worth change
even now when
it looks at me
as if i was not the
child i was
someone who is
yet to be filled with
the hatred of
other people,

I never learnt it from
my parents
the braids in my
hair undoing themselves  

work to work
for your right
to buy
buy for your right
to die,

and dictators

i never dreamt of
anything but
happiness when
i was young

what am i to
do with the hate
that is taught?
life was young
and i saw
never the colour
of my creed
the words

no one
told me the good old
days when
genocide was publicly
were the good old days

who was supposed to
tell the mockingbird
that she was
to be killed

it was never taught to me.

I am  
the soul
travelling a mortal
not permanent
god just
her and I

just her

and the world
that keeps me away from her

a world coloured
in the blood of her
terrible horizons

when I was young
and I had yet to
the cruelty of
other people.
we are witnessed the making of an ethno state, we are witnessing the genocide of an entire group of innocent people, in a world where we will soon land on mars people are being murdered, *****, tortured for their religion. I ******* hate this place. Please sign this petition and realize how helpless we are. The planet is regressing into the old politics of hatred, progression is the pavement of humanity and yet we would rather walk through brambles. Turn towards yourself, and truly look at how we are all the same species, how we have ruined everything. If there is a god I wonder if he is as cruel as us.
I'm back in the psyche ward again.
It's my home away from home,
next to jail and the emergency room.
I sat under the bridge the other night.
It was January, and extremely cold.
I was jonesing for a drink—I knew what I had to do.
I had only been out of jail for a
couple of days for another public intox.
I narrowly avoided going back to the can today.
My nut-job girlfriend said,
"Why don't you get us some wine? " "Sure, " I said.
Shaking and sick, I walked a mile to
my favorite store that I steal ***** from.
I arrived, and had a bad feeling, but I
don't pay much attention to feelings anymore.
In and out is always the plan.
A bottle of chardonnay down the front
of the pants, and one in the coat.
I thought I had it. I was wrong.
A customer saw me and snitched me off.
I went with the manager to his office.
A cop showed up shortly afterwards.
I engaged the store-guy with talk of literature.
It turned out he was an
English major.
I wrote down the title of my book,
and slipped it to him. He put the paper
in his wallet. He told the cop that I was very cooperative.
Instead of taking me to jail,
the cop gave me a citation with a
court date on it, and let me go.
Sometimes, providence smiles on me.
On my way back to the apartment,
I was already planning the next store to hit,
I needed a drink.
The cop, from the store, pulled up along side of me,
and said,
"Your girlfriend called, she said she didn't
want you at her place anymore.
All your stuff is in front of her door."
I felt like I'd been run over by a rhino.
The cop said,
"I'll give you a lift, jump in."
When I arrived, there were two loosely
packed bags of clothes weighing around 100 pounds.
There was no way in hell that I could
have carried all that crap eight miles to Iowa City.
I grabbed a back pack, and stuffed it with a pair
of jeans, two shirts, my writing, and a copy of Don Quixote.
I went outside and waved to the cop, then headed towards town.
I finally made it back to the bridge.
I waited to get the nerve to make
my next move—steal wine.
I did it, and with no cork *****,
I opened it with a broken ink pen.
I'm not complaining, it was the needed elixir
and it went down like nectar of the gods.
I drank it quick, it was three degrees out.
Life had to change.
This was getting real old.
O sleep, what a strange mistress you can be
when I think of all our savage nights and long embraces.
I have cursed and blessed you with bellowing cries.
I hated you in the green of youth, when the backyard
was my kingdom, and the dragons needed slaying.
You invaded long afternoons in the sun with nap time.
As my years flew by, like crows in autumn and I grew
out of my backyard sanctuary, the dragons became
bigger and new beasts arrived on the scene; brutal
beasts with no mercy, and much harder to ****.
I looked for you on long, lonely, brokenhearted nights,
when finding a star in the sky was like panning for gold.
I found your dreamy kiss and silent embrace far less.
O, sleep, what a strange mistress you can be.
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
in his sleep he climbs a tree
and brushes his teeth with
white bellied bleached whales,
rotting creatures of the night
who awaken to rain
moaning, teeth yellowed gingivitis
rioting in their ivory cages
a passerby who drops memories
languidly drinking tea
at windows  the window
staring back
the abyss that seeps then into breathing
always ragged with the extent of life
lived for nothing

there they weep their tomorrows
imaging again how their mother looked at 20

writing poetry for nobody.
blind goddess
who’s  mornings bring
who’s eyeless
eyes i give
to see beauty in the carnage
to see truth
in the crying
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