Plastic Flowers in Paradise

Transparent Cuts Rewarded

Lesions painted by ideologies
Upon our lovers and their
Ghosts.

Bloodless incisions by intangibles
Write our biographies then propose
Their toasts!

Fallen Poets

Not all of us,
Not all of us
Like untenable kittens
In last death throes,
Shall select the blade
To bleed our way to fame.

Not all of us,
Not all of us
Like nodding prophets
In smug “I told you so’s”
Shall sever the thread
To change our name to Pain.

Sitting for Issac

We sit Shiva like cowardly Buddha’s.
The room is bare...not even a picture.
But Oh! In the corner a machine-gun.
Sirens wail like succubi in the night.
We sit Shiva while bombs fall all around.
The children are below.
The war lasted only six days.
It took the old one eight to die.
We sit Shiva with tired souls.

Thoughts of a Man in a Corner

That man, sitting in the corner over there,
Capture his thoughts:

I believe I am mulling over an idea
Of sun and sea...a land where I may flee
To in order to give myself a chance to
Think...an island covered in twisted wired
Palms and impressionable sand...a refuge
For a misfit.

That man, sitting in the corner over there,
Capture his thoughts:

It’s a cold country infected with quaint
Houses and stiff-lipped people afraid of
Nonexistent ghosts. The waters are grey
And the leaves from the trees fall like
Brittle slips of paper from burnt diaries,
Cracking onto the red brick roads.

That man, sitting in the corner over there,
Capture his thoughts:

I don’t think I’ll go. No, it would be a
Mistake. Besides...I can’t take the heat.
Look at that snow falling now! Everything
Is innocent again. The people are sliding
by one another at a slower pace. I’ll take
Another drink, a cigarette, then go home.

At wit’s end

At wit’s end.
The second-hand twitches then
Snaps off into the washbasin.

History: two thrashing bodies
A shot in the thick jungle
Of passion, later regret.

A diaper-pin gleaming
Blood on the tip
A crayoned children’s book
A bib
A highchair
A thunderstorm.

At wit’s end.
The minute-hand races then
Slowly comes to a halt.

History: one serious scholar
A pawn on the chessboard
Of youth, later cynic.

A rolled-up magazine
Ink on the cover
A pack of prophylactics
A comic book
A suit
A snowfall.

At wit’s end.
The cover-glass cracks then
Drops onto the maple-wood floor.

History: a diaper-pin gleaming
Blood on the tip
A crayoned children’s book
A bib
A highchair
A digital clock.

At wit’s end.
The hour-hand bends then
Lies prostrate on the faceplate.

History: one grey cadaver
A body for the massive graveyard beyond
Future soul?

A box of pills
Dosage written quite clearly
An electric call switch
A magnifying glass
A urine bottle
A thunderstorm.

The Terrorist

The bomb was fabricated from
Steel pipe and placed on a bus
filled with schoolchildren.

He watched from an alley.

It didn’t go off.

The following day he was run over
By a tractor from the kibbutz while sleeping in a field.

His kefiah blew down into a wadi.

Red
Black
White.