She was not a thousand years ago
Damascus was the first city
Her poets nomads and between worlds
It is rubble now
It is deserted now
The gate between hell's civilized
Deseases
Syria is rubble ashes and dust

All death means nothing or at least
Not much
My death, yes mine alone
The bones and flesh
Eaten and polished
Worms flirting with lost knowledge
My bones and an apple tree
Death saw me last night
It will be swift, she said.

I'll miss Street signs

The mention of a purple eye
Residing in your ****** which awaits
Like a small window resting on my neck
Desires nothing more than all the screams
Of a deserted city after a bomb party
You silenced the almighty reason
With a proper wink and the blessing
Of an accidental discovery
And yet the horns will remain
Guarding the temple of your
Niple

I never associate the plane with a hammock
The interest of my belly wins over any such
Discussion which might inevitably turn into sorrow
But, and I speak only for the asphalt, will
Innegably show disrespect to the other functions of the brain
Which astonishes me when it wants to sleep or take an independent
Walk
through the staircase of your lap
But if your lap denies the welcoming blood
Think of the shadow preserving human thought
And immediately
Imprudently all cities might fall inspite of all false pretexts
                 your leg is the salvation of man and his cubic head
You are me in the belief of nothing but pleasure
Of the heart and eyes, of the polished sword
Of the mighty octopus clinging to your mare
Of a highly anticipated degree of fresh air
Liberty draws attempts to carry all carcasses
Like a candle
Or a pill to sleep.

Her forehead listened
To the charge of disdain
Her armpit felt the swift blade
Of an electric urchin
As it descended to earth
Bearing the gift of sight
He then tossed all burden aside
Like the precize encounter
Of a short wave radio and
A breathing dog.

The washer of my soul can no longer subside with the idea of having a sleep that dreams of all the members from the machinery of the sandalistic escape from acccaaaaccaaave said the man with the embarrassing look a look created by the style of hiding their embarrassment, but the ridicule lady knew better, embarrassment is for assess who swallow assess before diner and behave like so but when it comes to the destiny of a badly eaten pear not a single soul trembles at the thought of remembering their childhood, because my friends, the pear never decided to be there in the first place.

poetry is my remedy for apathy
strange how simple words can
cut away through my indifference

the act of creation in the written word
helps me connect to something greater than myself,
so slowly but surely my numbness subsides

poetry leads me into mystery,
where beauty can be found in
simplicity of a single moment

my mundane life flowers into
a spiritual experience,
when I flow into love and service

there is either apathy or poetry
in changing a poopy diaper,
pausing before saying a hurtful word,
and letting go the need to be right.

my life moves and quakes into new being,
and all because i let words flow in me and through me.
i am a living book bursting at the seams,
waiting to be poured out and shared.

spoken and written words break me out of isolation,
and sets me free.

two simple words cut through my apathy,
"thank you."