I could end where you begin
Kerala Dust

some mornings there is a dawn in me
and there I begin, I look at things
and they don't look back
I rehearse your name with different whispers as if
I rehearse the pulse or a pirouette of silence
You give birth to I, I give birth to you, a strange happening
some mornings  I disappear into a satin breeze that carries my almost thoughts
that's how I call your name, my almost thought, only the body knows
there is a fresh dawn and there I begin

Empty pocket and empty plates;
safely locked it away still it dissipates,
a climber of corpses climbs high to something great,
and the rest of us are buried standing within this fate.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
it seems to lose a lot of magic when you lose alot of money.
Life’s a ***** but isn’t she powerful?
It’s time to eat the rich because we weren’t born full.

The people’s scale is forever weighing
basic human rights against complete anarchy.
The right choice seems obvious to me, obviously,
but the indecision’s crazy with the lack of priorities.
A climber of corpses climbs high to heights we’ll never see,
I’d rather be a stone than those doing the stoning.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
I think that I’ve had it with their vinegar disguised as honey.
I won’t make another stitch in their golden wool,
it’s time to eat the rich ‘cause we weren’t born full.

A bullet in the street shot from behind;
validated and woke up millions.
No retreat and not changing their minds;
vilified for targeting their billions.

If they really cared they’d ask if you could buy morality,
though typically they’d see if they could find it on sale.
The funniest part is that they could acquire it for free
but it’d be just like giving an atheist the Holy Grail.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
it seems to lose a lot of magic when you lose alot of money.
Life’s a ***** but isn’t she powerful?
It’s time to eat the rich because we weren’t born full.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
more bills; they stack it and the weather stays sunny.
Rock bottom in a ditch, dazed and in a lull
now it’s time eat the rich ‘cause we weren’t born full.

a world in motion and who would,
who could guess the next rhyme
bliss, hope, and horror
tyrants falling, resisting, raising
fresh terror in sheep's clothing
these are mental wars, fake news tsunamis
feasting in our blood in our sweat in our tension
the invaders possess our minds, our souls
these are reality games, the most dangerous
who cares about facts or consensual reality
humiliation, helplessness, loneliness
manipulated in the transition between nothingness to utopia
an acid destroying the human form and social body
they can feel again after a long apathy the call to heroic action
let's not be afraid, the tyrant is inside and we kind of know it
I look at the face of nothingness, of dread
no power no reason no words
dread is alive too

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                            Somewhere in Syria There is a You

Somewhere in Syria there is a you
Pondering all the existential questions:
What is the meaning of life? Is God real?
Can you get to your job without getting shot?

Your notebooks were hidden from the old regime
Your notebooks are now hidden from the new
Is there enough food for today, for tomorrow -
Rough men with guns are beating on your door

Somewhere in Syria there is a you
In the next few seconds – what will you do?

eyes have ears, ears have eyes
on self-absorbed nights
the tree of knowledge murmurs in my veins
and poems rush through me with their wild letters
I chase them away with a smile
I am smitten beyond illusions, delusions and other demons
by a 4 am wave, you know
by a 5  am undeciphered dream
by a 6 am reverie, by a letting go
oh, what a sweet incomprehension,
life´s creativity,
your hands anticipating mine

from East to West a pain without name, something inescapable, like the girdle of caskets, like a corpse. we struggle with what seems to be mostly an idea - the dimensions of the body, with the memory of the skin, with the history of contracting our bellies and puking our dreams. this world covered by layers, textiles, invisible armours, self-imposed absences. tears crushed by violence, by laughter, after all it was not that bad, they say. we carry so many tears that we are heavier than air, lighter than our tormentors, sillier than our dreams
crushed words, crushed voices, empty meanings for the unraveled selves. i write only a chronicle of this time devouring its fragments

Because nobody cares
About anybody.
It's got dull, cold, and bare
Like in a movie house where the movie's over.

Where are the girlfriends, kind as fairies,
The friends who come in a hurry when you call?
None of them gives a hoot or a cuss,
You can't even weep.

Life's been orphaned and grown thin,
Frozen to death like the village movie house,
Because nobody cares
About anybody.

1990

by Vladimir Kornilov from Contemporary Russian Poetry,
translated by Gerald S. Smith

nights revolve in imaginary loops
I am captive inside my lips, inside fingertips
so that I see everything half and half
waves, tears, apples, words
half for me, half for not me, but the other you
I have to keep my hands for myself cause
you have sunshine tattooed on your skin
words are this space where I can breathe
when your hands get concentric

By the sea, by the dreary, darkening sea,
Stands a youthful man,
His heart all sorrowing, his head all doubting,
And with gloomy lips he questions the billows:
[...]
The billows are murmuring their murmur unceasing,
Wild blows the wind, the dark clouds are fleeting.
The stars are still gleaming, so calmly and cold,
And a fool waits for an answer.

Heinrich Heine, Questioning from the North Sea cycle

White, black, green, and red,
Waving a flag.
Let the world know
There is a right to be alive—
The people of Palestine have,
In their own olive land.

my cells have their own theories and fruits of dying
even porcelain dreams
when I am with you I enter the tunnel of vision
I can see better what happens with fused from confused
me and him trapped in the asylum of gestures
somnabulists through our own skins
while they are busy scrolling
God forbid to hear the sadness of a time
that is getting darker and darker

a soul history is like the caligraphy of dunes
the psyche toiling its dark materials
sketching shadows from imagination
the cabaret of desire contemplating all the wonderful trivial terrible beings you can be. a wave in my mind you are
between the visible and invisible man the wisdom of the shamans

I walk on streets, I see things, I touch hands suffering from imagination deficit disorder. sometimes I have thoughts in reverse
but I cage my heart in this shrine of memory while
I am looking for you dawn by dawn, bird by bird