Feb 19, 2018

at the kitchen sink





At the kitchen sink. The mundane task of washing lettuce leaves.

Lettuce leaves! Those delicate, fragile, most tedious vegetable to wash. Each with its fine veins, and tiny notorious bulges, where microscopic mites and bugs hide. I commit to relentless rinsing, re-rinsing, and sieving. Wanting a good silent distance from the world.

Last Friday’s Florida school shooting, the eighteenth school shooting in the US this year. And on that same Friday, a second-year male law student, where I teach, was also killed. Murdered.

When we first got the news, the official story was he was in a car accident. Then details emerged. His body was found in the dark parking lot of a hospital with bruises around his neck and ribs. A twenty-year-old youth, well known amongst his peers, and professors, as promising, and ambitious. Reduced to a battered body, disposed of like garbage, in a dirty street.  

My grief is as silent, and as solid, as a cold brick wall. The kind of sturdy brick wall I want to build between myself and this cruel world, this alien like, gruesome “humanity”.

More than the normalization of violence, it is clear that men are broken, boys are broken. Humanity is a pathetic nauseating thing to look at.   











Feb 8, 2018

the whole world


It was a bright day. A pleasant breeze blew our hair onto our faces. The sky a Monet sky, a wintery blue, cool and forgiving, the clouds like freshly sheared fleece, a deliberate, artistic splash of whipped cream by mature hands.

My daughter wore wellington boots. I wrapped plastic bags around my ballet pumps! Which proved very inefficient, the jagged sea rocks quickly tore into them, and my shoes and feet were soaking. We walked into the shore, the waves had long receded. Like curtains pulled away from a magnificent piece of art by the proud creator, just for a moment, allowing us the privilege of witnessing the genius of the creation.

turning over rocks, we marveled at little green crabs quickly turning themselves into small tight fists, then burying themselves in a swift and dramatic tornado that temporarily obscured our vision of the rock pools. The Rosette Barnacles, numerous, resembling miniature volcanos that erupted long ago, that are now rusty and moldy with age and sleepy laziness. Villages, towns, countries of tiny marine creatures; Turban snails, Limpets and Periwinkles.  Every time we turned a rock, we uncovered a marvelous new secret. How many tens, hundreds, thousands of years have these rocks been left unturned? Uninterrupted? Unknow? Unseen? Undiscovered? So many lives, stories, miracles.

We touched, and prodded, and examined in awe, all the quietness, all the mystery of a superior and more intelligent world. An intelligence that existed millions of years before us, and one that will outlive us all. The magnificence and the complexity of an entire universe that remains hidden under water.

Returning every rock to its original place, I imagined the baby crabs going back to what they were doing, annoyed - a little - by our intrusion. The sharp rock edges cutting me slightly, and the salty water sharpening the pain. I looked up at the sky, another universe, a constant reminder of how enormous everything else is. Everything else?

Feeling small, irrelevant, and superfluous, I murmured to myself: there isn’t anything in particular that saddens me, only the whole world.





















Jan 28, 2018

fruit


There’s another self inside yourself. Another you

Like the core of a fruit

The flesh of the fruit is plump, juicy, sweet, filling, refreshing

The core is hard, coarse, inedible. A stone to be thrown away

and discarded. A seemingly dead thing, with a perfect tree inside it.

But the bitter stone is as much the fruit, as the sweet, nourishing flesh

It is the soul

The base

The beginning

The root

Without it there is no sweetness, or juice

There is no fruit  

There is no flesh











Jan 25, 2018

every month


Every month
my female severs the pink velvet ribbons that bind her
The quiet calm prairie, turns into a gruesome battle field
a hibernating black bear, disturbed 
a beehive, harassed and shook
She awakens in a pool of dark red blood, disgruntled
My modest breasts, two voluptuous, snarling wolves
My dormant uterus, a two-headed venomous snake,
My tender white orchid, a fierce, carnivorous flower
Sorrowful, angry, and confused
she weeps;
something like a cry of loneliness
something like a love song
something like a violent threat
her soft, placid canary, a haggard squinting vulture    
enraged and fiery, she wishes she can smash her womb
her womb
an empty vase, with no flower in it











Jan 22, 2018

the brute




6:00 pm, the day already feels old and chewed up,

like a worn garment, that’s lost its morning freshness, drab and clammy,

My thoughts of tomorrow already full of dread. Tomorrow, when it comes,

eager and uninvited, like an odious, old habit, nagging me to do this, forcing me to finish that.

The familiar, tongue-less voice, reverberating within the walls of my body, small and defeated:

I’m tired.. I’m tired..

I measure the distances, relentless travel hours, to where I wish I was

Six hours and forty three minutes to Morocco

Seven hours and twenty seven minutes to Mauritius

Nineteen hours and twelve minutes to New Zealand

While my existence grows shabbier, my bones heavier, my tread more stooped

Damn time, damn distance, damn existence

Damn this bewildering feeling of hopelessness..

And then, the final absurd paradox the miserable day manages to wring out of me  

what a powerful, ferocious a brute, a tyrant, a dictator hopelessness is.   

  








Jan 17, 2018

depression



My body is an old, stiff, corpse    

I wake up every morning to manhandle it, I am not inside it

I shove my heavy, rigid arms into shirt sleeves

I force my aching, limp legs into trouser legs

ground meat stuffed in skin encasing

I standup straight, my back complains, it wants to bend, it wants to curl

my body refuses to be a body 

feeling disconnected, and defeated, and poor

was I ever put together?

rusty daggers thrust into my brain, the taste of something metallic in my mouth

an exhausting din that will not stop, a foggy dim that won’t clear

I do my duties, nothing is delayed, nothing is misplaced, or forgotten

I’m not sure how I face day after spirit breaking day, but I do

dread, like poisoned blades of grass push through my veins, freshly cut reasons not to go on

my eyes, murky ponds that reflect nothing, the slightest light insults them

a bruised fatigued creature has replaced my heart, its beating strenuous

my will, a runover fawn, raspy breath, and wheezing, a wild eyed, dying animal

nearing the end of the day, I fall into an emptiness so vast, so lonely, so incoherent

was there ever anything but suffering?

somewhere in a parallel universe

someone sees me, someone loves me, adores me

someone understands my eyes, someone knows me

someone believes in all the goodness I carry

in a parallel universe, someone fights for me

somewhere in another universe

if only I believed in love, more than I believed in pain







Jan 14, 2018

Apathy




Apathy is a painful indifference

A lack of caring that eats away at you like a swarm of ghost maggots

Like a tree that shed all its leaves in autumn, I woke up caring for nothing

I don’t belong to anything in this world, nothing belongs to me

I’m so far from everything

A Godless hell, a phantom guilt beyond wrongdoing and right doing

People, like lifeless mannequins, I expect nothing from

My heart, a locked cold damp basement, I’ve lost they key to

The dreams that once hung from my laden branches, ripe, and heavy

fell to the ground, bruised, worm infested apples

the memory of living for a dream lingers, a faint nostalgic scent

I wish my apathy would let me laugh, I wish it would make me cry

Instead of floating aimlessly in this emotional limbo,

A starless, moonless sky,

A sunless day,

A laborious, eventless week, without rest.