I need to exist beyond the necessity of my existence: Oyevh.

November 30, 2013 § 1 Comment

we have become pawns played against each other in a sea of interested persons.

your face is ours. our face is superimposed on yours.

our histories will be used as weapons, one against another, by a people without a history.

them. their interests. they drive our one trajectory, against each other.

we are desperate to reinvent the invention of one another whilst denying the pain of the other.

we cannot see it, because we see through one another.

you are the four thousand year old fallacy imagined back from the impossible grave: how can you feel pain?

how can you feel pain if you accept the name of a long-conquered giant?

how can you feel anything beyond your own willingness as a pawn, as an extension of those who wish our ending?

how can you feel anything beyond the self-invention of yourself from the image of extinct men?

recognise it. recognise you are accepting within the image of yourself from without. recognise.


and yet your dark face wet with anger is a slap on mine.

its image stains my cheeks with esther’s guilt.

a foe by any other name would bring this dread. your one bullet

denies me coexistance in the one fact of my existence: your reinvention shames us.


it is not the Land I cry for, nor being denied peace within this space,

but being made a warrior of, a woman of.

He has ordered me to grieve as I struggle to belong to the land, the land that does not belong to us in this lifetime.

let me belong to the land, if I cannot belong to Him.

ani l’dodi.

November 30, 2013 § Leave a comment

a poem to the wife of my love

because lovers do not write poetry to their wives

nor make love unmechanical-

the wives of our minds are silent with madness, white with impossibility

Hiram’s schiavo greco, or worse, towering

until toppled over, and re-imagined as former ghosts

of themselves. because lovers do not write poetry

to the women who bear them children

to the women who bear scars of loss under spinner bands

to the women who would drown over and over and over in mikveot

for a touch, to women, women

who don’t cry out when made love to silence

is not a virtue. when she writes, her pain is a butterfly’s under glass-

palpable, crushed.


a poem to the wife of my love

because lovers do not write.


November 29, 2013 § Leave a comment

art that remembers itself into the marrow of my mind

as I am commanded to forget myself

will not be my saviour. let no man deliver me from

or unto myself. war, war against the passage of time

that defends itself against the study of souls

until everything is lost to it; you, me, Watchman.

not every memory I have begins at Genesis.

october. sixteen. eight pm.

nesting as I sleep out the storm I am

living an ontogenetic dream in

which wings are wings, nothing more, or less

and on parting, every memory I own begins

at Exodus

art that reminds.

November 29, 2013 § Leave a comment



November 28, 2013 § Leave a comment

wilde said

all bad poetry springs from genuine feeling

my bad poetry is a measurement of my inability to hate.

my bad poetry is a measurement of loss,

and a testimony to my silence. my bad poetry

is the firstborn of Grief and Memory, my

bad poetry, springs

jours, mois, années passent.

November 28, 2013 § Leave a comment

I, la madonne des mal-aimés?

no. six days and already you

are bicycling into the briars of tomorrow’s

encounters. I am nothing to you

now. ‘Fly away.’

and as you demand my departure you are binding my wings with words the size of promises enclosed, a whole circle, you might say,

a ring.

macaya sud.

November 27, 2013 § Leave a comment

haiti: no one sees you bleed, beyond their headline

more volcanic than a mountain: still and silent

on waiting for life to grow and surpass

the question of itself

so you should fall over yourself from the outside in: haiti

no one sees you bleed.

no one sees the earth open, and the water swallow you whole

for the sea knows there is such a thing as too much pain

and the sea knows there is, on touching night, a point of

no return. haiti

for all the creole moons that headlines like sunburn forced into scarring

for all the creole moons that remembered themselves into the passage of time

only by the tail of their whiteness, haiti

for all the stars named and shaped into the image of the fallen, for every star in focus

there is surrounding darkness. defined only by the presence of the stars and moons and bright, beautiful creole things

the stuff of dreams and folk

tales. haiti.

no one sees you bleed.

why travel past the stars into surrounding darkness, necessary to the story of the stars yet not worthy

of naming, haiti. haiti.

no one sees you.

winter, or, how easily you forget me.

November 26, 2013 § Leave a comment


א. עַל מִשְׁכָּבִי בַּלֵּילוֹת בִּקַּשְׁתִּי אֵת שֶׁאָהֲבָה

November 23, 2013 § Leave a comment

down, citta alta

into glacial morning sun

nothing speaks to my mind like the empty piazza

della libertà

nothing moves but my heart replacing my feet

already I am stretched out

on the shul floor, battering my fists against the wound of


no soldier sleeps in me.

I have been sleeping, but my heart is awake

it does not belong to my body’s

seasons; while I winter

it sings and I sleep

atah ohev oti’ and I sleep

lips drawn heart


lose your siren.

November 22, 2013 § 2 Comments


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