Counting Time

Is it all then just a mystical vision?
A self-flattering conceit of impossible-to-understand men?
Sarcastic rebukes, slithering glances, disagreeable questions.
The dead body that moves by the soul of its own propulsion.

Walking along the river banks, letting the life-blood of memory rush by--
Glancing carefully at the time on the yellow digital clock,
Hoping you won't be late for dinner at Jenny's.
Forget the disease; pain will never kill you, although
Love cries tears that wrinkle your silken overcoat.

An Itch on the Back of the Head

All the leaves are brown --

So said that man whose hat was a

Better way to understand him.

I understood him,

But then I lost him, and forgot all about him.

One day, a letter arrived, dirty, crinkled --

packed with dreams from that man --

smelling of cigar smoke, cheap aftershave, and

a rolled newspaper left on the porch after a boring sunday afternoon.

Here am I, friend – oh but I -

Almost forgot you were a flesh and blood composite, not

A mold of a problem best left unseen.

The Red Cross

It is a mountain of dried skulls and bones of the forgotten.
A man in a yellow fleece jacket stands watching without
Crying or blinking or breathing, hands jammed in dirty cargo pants.
A sickening sound protruded from the remains of a thousand
Voices, their sounds still prancing off the dark ravine walls.
The figure climbs the bones, splintering and smashing.
Screams release from those killed in random slaughter;
Or rather, in a slaughter completely mindful, firm, decided--
Aimed at promoting a vision of tomorrow free of fear and death
And filled with terror, empty windows and muffled cries.
Rainbows dipped in blood, an enchantment with pain, or the
Glory of the silenced pistol. The man in the yellow fleece gathers
A handful of bones, but then they disintegrate into ashes, and
Slowly drift away. He cries no tears; he hasn't done so since sixth grade.
The sun beat down on the heads of the revolutionaries with the yellow
Bandanas, so certain of the buzzing confusion in their minds;
Obsessed with the goal of a lifetime of significance, drenching their
Hands in the blood of mother-kin, and leaving only the bare minimum of
Human survival.
The man in the yellow fleece has dark brown eyes and a narrow mustache.
A vulture swoops through empty skies, but finds nothing to digest.
Perched on the grave of mass graves is a golden crown;
Its rubies and emeralds shine too brightly, as though its
Sovereign grace could rub away the wounds of a generation.
The only person to visit this mountain since it started is this
Morbid young explorer, a withdrawn observer, patient and unyielding
To the epic reality of a picture torn from its frame, and left
Fluttering in the breeze, empty of sound or color, but only a
Shred of what once was, and will soon be forgotten.
The man in the yellow fleece jacket takes out a camera, and then
Throws it away. This is no way to mourn the forgotten.
Cut the tape, its too long, we need to leave room for that footage--

A Summer Fine Day

Softly he alights on the wide oak branch, balancing carefully.
He peers at the group of chickadees in front of him,
Hopping slowly over to his betters,
Hoping to find a touch of certainty.
Hogwarts spots him, spreads his wing,
Bounces on his spindly legs twice.
"Young one, so good to see a
Bundle of fluff not yet flying."
He stands awkwardly, scratches his chest with his beak.
He notices his plumage lacks the black-white contrast
Of those who are older, wiser, and
Inevitably wanting to teach him,
The not-yet-having-done-anything.
"I just want to fly", he says.
Looks he over the horizon, beyond clouds and wind,
At the great forest, caught in a heavy summer heat.
The green leaves stretch out in every direction,
A maze of interlocking and shifting perplexity.
The Others stand back and stare, smirk quietly,
Enjoying the moment of superiority, of haughty
Glances. Ended only by the guffaw of Hogwarts;
Epic man, his black head plumage almost gray,
Having fathered many chicks, found many nests,
Traveled to the winter resting pond--
Fought bravely the howling jet stream to lead his birds onward.
"You," barks Hogwarts, "Better stay on this branch."
"Its only a thin green strip of wood--but its safe.
"You hop off this ledge--and you'll fall through the floor
"Of this forest--of everything you can see--and never come
"Back again. Bid your cherished dreams, your tastiest maggots,
"Your splendid nest of bent twigs, your fondest thoughts of your mother--
"And even--fly!--hah, you will still probably die."
Young bird that he was, he stopped and stared, up and down Hogwarts.
Then he opened his wings as the Others watched, muttering,
Scared, realizing that it was not what they wanted, rather, to hold him
Still, not letting him flee, keep the alive under the foot of the dead,
The dead in the soul. One hop--and he was off on the thermals--soaring through
A joyful congregation of beeches, hobnobbing with their friends the maples,
Cheering him on--"Fly on! You weren't born to die".
As he turned and watched the Others quickly speed out of sight,
His old world, forever lost and vanishing, he realized that one idea
Could never be let go of: whoever made this; it was not for him.
It could not be owned by any living thing.

Death Talked to Mr. Ackinsaw

Blood poured on top of empty sweat, dripping.
Man covered in dirty blankets, eyes listening.
Don't know why he hugged the blanket, gripping.
I saw the concerned dark shadow, blankly staring.
Wish I didn't have to see this--trouble forgetting.
Odor of spoiled wild flowers scattered, unsettling.
Their eyes meet, flutter, dart away, threatening.
Mr. Ackinsaw's chest opens as he watches, trembling.
The creature extends a firm hand, welcoming.
Memory of last year's 4th of July flood in, startling.
Vivid images of an open grill with flames, glowing.
The patient opens his mouth, aghast, barely breathing.
Children dance around the bedside, laughing.
A warm breeze peels away the white walls, cleaning.
Sunlight lights up Ackinsaw's wisps of hair, blessing.
A bold sparrow coasts through the air, dancing.
"Away," says that black one--angrily swiping.
"Redemption?" asks Ackinsaw, hesitantly nodding.
"What is surface is only dust", shadow says, unmoving.
In the old man's hand he grasps a butterfly, loving.
Pats he the head of his oldest child, reliving.
Anger pours inside his chest, reviving.
Wrinkles tighten, fists ball up, combating.
"I never sold my self out", declaring.
Pleasantly smiles death, patronizingly stating--
"Neither does anyone own you"--overpowering
His empty sayings of a better life, dying.
So I leave the room, and make sure to close the door--
unbearable weeping.
"... although he dies, yet shall he live."

Brass Plaques (a Pantoum)

The metro is a train that runs in the eternal night;
Transporting us who go towards its invisible ends.
We faceless body of our own clever invention--
Gaudy suits and ties, clacking heels with black stockings.

Transporting us who go towards its invisible ends--
A snake burrowing underneath a world composed of
Gaudy suits and ties, clacking heels with black stockings.
One trip is five minutes of lost memory, empty silence.

A snake burrowing underneath a world composed of
Memories of a better future free of disease and fear and
One trip is five minutes of lost memory, empty silence.
When I take his business card, I know I won't call him back.

Memories of a better future free of disease and fear and
The inevitability I will eat chicken tenders by myself tonight.
When I take his business card, I know I won't call him back.
Oh disaster, strike us, perhaps! Shatter the illusion!

The inevitability I will eat chicken tenders by myself tonight
Destroys whatever health I gained from jogging this morning.
Oh disaster, strike us, perhaps! Shatter the illusion!
Judge us, and let us see our faults, and our dirty lies.

Destroys whatever health I gained from jogging this morning--
But then again, there is no love which could hurt my self-esteem.
Judge us, and let us see our faults, and our dirty lies.
Next time I step on that metro car, and must stare at the wall--

But then again, there is no love which could hurt my self-esteem,
And I sat in a hearing today in which my tie matched so well.
Next time I step on that metro car, and must stare at the wall,
I'm bringing earphones and a store of songs I could never sing.

And I sat in a hearing today in which my tie matched so well,
We faceless body of our own clever invention--
I'm bringing earphones and a store of songs I could never sing;
The metro is a train that runs in the eternal night.

A Line in the Sand

The hills surrounding Jerusalem are exquisitely carved, like giant brown sculptures, enticing the eye of the observer. They flank an often clear blue sky, with little on its clear beauty, and a sun that beats down mercilessly in the summer. Palestine is, after all, a Mediterranean country, and not too dissimilar from the far-away Italian and Greek shores. For those who have to travel through these hills often, and who have been traveling for far too long, they only seem to stretch on in monotonous patterns. The heavenly city can be a city of dirt and grime for those who go there for commerce, not to worship.
Alphaeus, of Jericho, was but one of the hundreds of travelers along the two-tracked road winding its way through the Palestinian hills. Many of them were pilgrims, coming to offer sacrifices in Herod's temple, but Alphaeus was a date farmer, a hardy occupation and one that required long journeys when the harvest ended. Today was as rotten a day as ever--Friday--to be walking market, in Alphaeus' opinion. He kicked small clumps of dirt along the road as he slowly plodded on. His dark brown robe, which had a sizeable ring of sweat around his neck and running down his back, swayed back and forth in a regular rhythm, keeping pace with his aching movements. His donkey carried four sacks of cured dates, from his own palm trees at his house near Jericho, and he hoped--oh did he ever hope--that he could fetch a better price than last year. The half-shekel for a sack of dates he earned last year was a pittance in a home with four children and a hard-working wife.
Granted, Alphaeus thought, living off his olive groves, vegetable garden and date palms secured each year the food for the table--it was rare that his family ever went hungry. His land had been his father's, Ben Ached, who had given it to him, the firstborn, at his marriage to Lena, his second cousin on his mother's side. His brothers, of which there had been three, had to move off the land to seek their fortunes in other trades, and all of them were now living respectably, if not with great abundance. A blessing, Ached thought, if only he could make it work so that he had enough pure hard shekel to add something of worth to his residence. So, for the tenth time that morning, he rehearsed again in his mind exactly how he would go about ensuring the highest price for his dates. He hoped for three-quarters a shekel per bag: such a gain would enable him to walk home with a new shawl for his wife, or a new iron handle for his plow, or even a small bag of sweets from the famous Jerusalem bakeries. Just one blissful day--one glorious day of plenty--was all he wanted. He would have to take two more trips besides Jerusalem to other town seeking to sell his dates, but Jerusalem always promised the highest prices since there were so many who came here, faithful Jews, seeking to worship God.
The problem, of course, was the traders. Mean, grubby men, who held spots in the central market that had been handed down to them from their fathers, they controlled trade with the farmers who came from outside the town. Alphaeus and his friends always complained over their selfishness and miserly prices, but there was little that could be done about the matter as any of them who dared sell their goods directly to passerby in Jerusalem was likely to be reported to the guards. With a small percentage from the traders, the guards were more than willing to make sure that only the Jerusalem traders sold dates at inflated prices to the spiritually enthused pilgrims.
Alphaeus spat on the dirt. It made a small wet mark, and was quickly gone as he plodded unsteadily on.
"Ech, Alphaeus, who will you go see first at market?"
It was Ben Hadad, a neighbor of Alphaeus, though not quite a friend. He was heavy-set, with grizzled black hair kept very short on his head. Ben Hadad was known for having a temper that could blaze easily and for little reason. He was both an asset and a curse in dealing with the merchants in Jerusalem. He could bully and get better prices than most, but he could also get himself and his compatriots in trouble with the guards. Alphaeus had spent a whole day in stocks once because Ben Hadad had called one date trader's mother a Roman dog.
Alphaeus thought for a moment. The gentle breeze that was coming on as the afternoon was wore to a close ran through his matted hair. Alphaeus was sure that in only a mile he would be able to see the top of the heavenly city in the distance, floating above the hills.
"Ya'achel ben Rabin."
Ben Hadad looked at him with a smile curling his bear-like face. "Ya'achel? The man who always forgets your name and pretends like he knows you?"
Alphaeus turned and smiled, briefly.
"Ah Ben Hadad... I don't need him to know my name. I need him to buy my dates. He can call me the son of a Greek prostitute for all I care..."
Ben Hadad roared in laughter. It did not take very much to make him laugh.
He put his hand on Alphaeus' shoulder--a meat-like blob of fingers whose weight Alphaeus could feel distinctly.
"Ben Hadad... you must remember that he owes me. If he remembers. I lied to the guards when they wanted to know who had been buying spears and shields."
Ben Hadad became very serious and stared straight ahead.
"He says He is a Zionist," Hadad muttered gruffly. "But he could care less for us... the real Jews... who have to spend the day before the Sabbath walking to on our own feet to sell him our wares that he pays less than he gives the Romans for taxes."
Alphaeus looked at Ben Hadad.
"Honestly, Hadad, he could be the rear end of a camel and I wouldn't care at all. I just want him to buy my dates and give me enough shekel to last to the next feast."
This time, Ben Hadad didn't laugh, but stared down at his own feet. Up ahead, the walls of Jerusalem were just coming into focus, the fortress on a hill.