israel
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The Paragliders like ravenous vultures flewto southern Israel to predate on soft targets.Like swarms of bees, they snuck, raped, maimed, shot, burnt and slew.Terror did every man's fragile conscience becloud.
Chosen, to be a living canvas,
Blood stained, and tattered,
Painted with earth shaking victories,
Hundala turned his back,-
A Middle Eastern Banksy
Who stood for peace
And got the grave.
If only we could have
seen his face.
By the rivers of Babylon,
we sat down there,
We wept there,
When we remembered we have abandoned Zion.
Why are you lying to yourself?
You know that lies don't last forever.
The truth needs to be told.
When I was a boy
I crossed the sea
My wrists rubbed raw by chains
And the seabed was soft
Beneath sore feet
Oceans came down like rain
And by the light of the waning moon
Do we not bleed too, or are we the only ones to blame for spilt blood?
Are we not a land of many peoples and pasts, minorities and majorities, harmonious and chaotic?
To the land of wandering
and stories that ancients told
Leaving us to pondering
The memories of travels old
To the land filled with dust
Eroded from histories stone
Listen now, youngest of us.
On the edge of ruin, I am wiser
And perhaps, you shall be as well.
A crimson silk carpet runs beneath
The house, unmoving and unwavering.
They were brought down
Down to the pits of the darkest spectrum
Beyond a trace of relief, a glimmer of hope
They were menaced, chided, and turned
Beaten, battered, and burned
In the world you live,
there are villains,
There are villains who call themselves heroes,
they're given your rejection,
attempting to eclipse the shining truth with deception,
Raw land, ancient,
sloping and wild, untouched,
orange in the dying light,
just rocks and sand.
Like the finger paintings of God,
an animal song frozen into sand,
The Jerusalem in my mind
Is like the land of a dream
The old city
Full of mystery
History
And beauty
The Jerusalem in my mind
Is a city in the clouds
1.
Home.
That is where the heart is.
So I hear.
The footprints of my people
Long lost on the winds of time.
Intolerance. A beauty that is unjust.
When can the flame be dampened with the sweetness of your tit? Your honey bunches of oats.
You’re racism, sexism, and you’re holy holy holy holy holy holy holy holy sacrilegious holiness.
I.
There’s a club in Tel Aviv
near the dolphinarium.
I know almost nothing
about it— except one
thing— about a decade
ago, twenty-one teenagers
died, when a man I know
even less about decided
