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-**** 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.

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.

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.

I gotta get this **** out.

I may have taken a little too much,
and my cheeks,
with their inborn heat,
flush as some rush,
struggles to escape,
get out of the way,
releasing today
what was once caged.

Yet to say caged isn’t quite ok.

It was more of an action happily placed
taught to look, not taste, not touch,
not feel nor enfold, or kneel into this,
was too much for one person to handle
a collapse of dismantling thoughts with
no start, no stop.

Let’s just call it pause.

And we press pause…just because,
(nobody really knows)
or chose to watch this channel.

So I channel my beats
to follow one note,
with **** after ****
I’m staying afloat,
hanging on to the last hope
of something worth or other…

I almost wonder, why even bother?

Why satisfy one urge and ******* another?

Oh brother,
I know this selection be confusing,
because it’s tongue tied twisting
thus exhibiting a real moment
caught in Time.

Almost like real TV
with the selected viewership of me,
in 3D.

But to be honest I can’t see ****,
don’t have that third eye perspective,
and can only tell it subjective.

My shoes are at the door.
Even I don’t want to wear them anymore.

I’ll meet the day with a smile on my face,
I’ll remember the things I forgot yesterday,
I won’t let anything stand in my way,
because I said

tomorrow,

I’ll make sure I begin with the right start,
I won’t let things in front of me get too hard,
even if I have to drive there
no distance is too far,
it’s too important to be put off till

tomorrow,

If I swore I’d do it I’ve taken my first steps,
action is easier than a life of regret,
which I know is bound to happen if I let
things pile up

tomorrow,

I’ll handle every detail with care,
I’m sorry I forgot, really, I swear
there were just a million things to do
building up there,
but my heart is in the right place,
and I’ll prove it when I face

tomorrow,

because you see tomorrow
is the tomorrow of today,
what difference does it make
when they meet midnight anyway?
It’s already

tomorrow,

Really you’re the top thought in my mind,
I’ve been meaning to show you
just haven’t had time,
would it be fine if we got back
to this sometime

tomorrow?

I meant to get back to you but got distracted,
I had nothing to do it with it,
just the circumstances,
my attention is yours and nothing
will be retracted

tomorrow,

or tomorrow or after tomorrow,
next week, in a month,
or sometime this year,
my intentions are heartfelt
and truly sincere,
just let me prove it

tomorrow.

I might inspire you
to stay here longer,
take that moment,
take a left to ponder,
at what I might say.
My head it moves
so fast these days,
like handwriting
on the page,
Y’s make room
pave the way,
more and more
letters are to come.
Acronyms,
and then some.
I sit confused
and look here
glazed,
a million letters
across the page,
try to make some
sense of them.
But with every line
they come undone
more and more
confusion.
“It’s complicated,”
I shrug and say,
just like the tab
in front of me,
I file it under
nothing.
It never really mattered.
I’d rather think
of something
else, get
some wine, get
some coke, get
some decadence,
tell me something
worth hearing,
tell me something,
about spiritual being,
about energy,
about matter,
about beyond,
and know that
if I yawn,
it’s only because
you did too.
At least, that’s
what they said
on Google.

Tum Tum Tum!

“Ladies and Gentlemen,
            We welcome you aboard to take flight
            and soar in a melting *** of degradation.
            Where we file you by nation and
            take elation in your degrees,
            specifically those on bended knee.

Your angry plees will reach deaf ears,
            and no amount of tears
            can move
            the System.

So sit back and listen to safety procedures:
            The seat belt is fastened such,
            in order to crush
            against dignity.
            The overhead oxygen mask will drop
            if engines stop
            and we need to crash,
           the freshest air always comes last.
            
Lifeboats offer the final cruise
            until red sharks *****
            on your blood.
            And turn cell phones off
            so we don’t flood
            the System.

We’re not done, so kindly shut up and listen:
            The ability to lunch is an epitome,
            simply a costly accessory,
            just hold your gut,
            and allow us to degrade
            some more.

We implore you to understand,
            for we do not.
            In the System you’ll find
            no heart,
            simply an enigma,
            no end
            no start.

All lights will be turned off
            for the duration of the flight.
            Tough.
            The enlightened can switch
            the overhead lamp,
            if you can reach
            as far as that.

To encounter turbulence is a must.
            For those who do not trust
            in us
            must be shaken
            and rattled.
            After all,
            eliminate the fight
            by eliminating the battle.

We hope you enjoy the flight,
            and know you will soar again soon,
            from noon to noon
            we move in unison,
            frequent fliers of
            the System.”

Tum Tum Tum.