October sixth

Whether through giant, pre-historic trees that dwarf

The big strip-mall-people

Or great rolling deserts,

sleeping in parking lots

or in hammocks by the sea..

You can take sweet California

and these strange metal boxes that

sweep us in high-speeds across vast places:

The greatest leaps occur in our strange hearts.

Swallow some madness,

let smiles invade those stony cheeks

softening the curve in your back

until you melt, brain first, into

the sea of rolling trees and stunt-man-madness.

Wait until we are curled up, purring at

the feet of some Sea-God

feeding us the golden grapes of Eden…

murmuring stories of the Ancient East…

Let the elves run over our naked bodies

Let us lie to the dawn, draw straws,

Take turns turning back the sun.

Jerusalem

It's true, Jerusalem. I said those things
when I thought you couldn't hear.

And now that I sit in your streets
(wrapped in purple poncho)
drinking dark coffee (it's ok,
but not great),
praying to the gods of yogurt and honey,
doing my best to ignore your stubborn winter chill
which has occupied space in my fingers
since I stepped off the plane,
I am not embarrassed; I do not take them back.

I drink some sun and listen
to this old man in a white hat
strum Bob Dylan songs in French
and wonder politely about your madness,
and my own...

We always hurt the ones who love us,
Jerusalem,
we are too chilly and
nonchalant,
and you don't even have a good scarf.

I don't mind the cute way
your people, confused, disembark
from the train just as they do everything else:
The system is "there is no system."
Push, shove, ignore, throw
garbage on the streets

because you've got bigger fish to fry.

But what happens, Jerusalem, when the day comes
you're tired of frying fish?
You'll just sit here in silence
with the white-hat-man and his covers
of songs from the sixties
smoking stolen cigarettes
from Palestine.

I am not your prophet, Jerusalem.
i will not hold vigil, smudge your walls with sage
or hummus, pour coffee grinds in your gutters,
unlike you, Jerusalem,
I will just go.

The streets line up
with empty cars, with that exquisitely blank
stare,

blinking, I try to gaze into the heart
of that grey and concrete path.

I ask the painted yellow lines for directions,
am faced with awkward silence;
pine cones roll across tarmac,
hoping for some more fertile
landing pad.

the path is not so straight, nor so fraught
with
blinking red and yellow lights.

Open your eyes and drink in the sweetness
of making your own map,
of being your own great compass.