Poet From Nowhere

God of Rocks

2010-11-18T08:57:00.000-08:00

There is a story told,
to kids who aren't that old,
that when Jacob, the patriarch, chose twelve stones for a bed,
the stones all fought to be under his head.

So God, who has mercy on rocks and twigs,
decided that this is one He needs to fix.
In a quick run,
He made all rocks one
and the problem was done.
Then with powers that earned him the title "Almighty",
He made sure that all the rocks were comfortable and tidy.

Then Jacob woke up
and raised a nation,
that worshipped the God of Rocks without hesitation.
And even when that nation was being tortured and burned,
God wasn't concerned,
because all the rocks in the world
were getting along.

House of Escher

2010-10-19T07:28:00.000-07:00

I woke up and knew
that I will build my house,
based on a sketch
by M. C. Escher.

Everybody laughed,
like they did to Noah.
Only this time,
God was on their side.

The boys and girls
who kicked the sand castles of their youth
so that they can build pyramids
out of their emptied drinking glasses,
laughed to the beat of the newest music.
And the old man down the street,
who was the manager of Hilbert's Hotel,
scoffed when he saw
my Escher sketch.

But I dreamt on
those dreams that were mummified
in the drinking glass pyramids
that were collapsed into each other.

I started my Escher house,
Still following the rules.
Even Pythagoras would have been fooled.
And the guests from Hilbert's hotel
who came over to see,
didn't know what it's like to be
living in a house built
according to Escher and me.

Nobody counted my stairs
to check where it goes.
And the girl I met by the Mobius Strip
who stayed for the night,
and together we broke a gazillion rules of symmetry,
never asked about the extra flight
of stairs leading back to my bed.

And in the morning
when I looked at us
the other way,
I saw that the space between us
was the real image.

Because this is how Escher works and goes,
you turn a face upside down
and the eyes become a nose.

Conversations

2010-10-02T12:07:00.000-07:00

I once met God,

we had a long conversation,

about all his short answers.

I once met a friend,

and we spoke for a short time,

about the long time that passed.

I once met a woman,

and we spoke a lot,

about our little things.

And once, I met myself,

and I spoke nothing,

of everything I knew and did.

The Library Collection.

2009-09-19T19:53:00.000-07:00

I’m in the library

It’s where I want to be

Here I’ll find my bliss.

Between the walls lined with books

Whose covers I won’t kiss.

This place is scary,

Now that my librarian died,

I hide amongst the bookshelves

And shield myself with the stacks

Of never rebound books.

There is no Book of Life in this collection.

Just a library of struggle

And a bibliography of attempts

And a useless reference work.

The catalogues can give direction

And the descriptions can be read

But they offer small satisfaction. Because

the synopsizes are misleading

For those who are reading

The receding texts of yesteryear.

As I stroll down the isles

Judging books by their covers

My mind starts spinning

In the google of ideas.

I begin looking for the illustrated version,

With the diagrams and charts.

Who am I kidding?

By scanning the miles

Of organized piles

For the Book of the Living.

Where are the writers?

The editors? The illustrators?

And where is my librarian?!

Come be my guide, in those corridors

Of endless information.

Show me the route to my shelf

So I can see the text

That guides the perplexed

Out of this forest of scribes.

I’m looking for life

Illustrated and annotated

By the expert in the field.

But in the library nobody can hear you think.

If you ascended that ladder

You already sacrificed the matter

At the alter of blank pages and drying ink.

The smoothness of those sheets tickle my fingertips

The letters dance like a tango in rehearsal

And the books spines smile to me

Like a lover in a dream that lasts too short.

Yeah, life was an open book, once upon a story

Then it became an unfinished piece of work

And now it’s a project that still has no name.

I promise to write, I promise to read.

These commitments only made sense before I came.

The library day ends at the start of the one to come

That still gives me few hours

To search the towers

For the Book of Life

I know I won’t find.

I hear people in the cafeteria

Caught in a laughing hysteria about milk that spilled

They will never understand;

They never met

The librarian I killed.

A Girl Named Desire.

2009-07-16T11:30:00.000-07:00

She's young like me
we met in a parking lot
filled with two-passenger cars.

I told her my name and asked her hers
and like Jacob's angel, she refused to tell.
I tried to see what I can get out of her
as she was standing with one foot on the ground and one against the car wall.
She wasn't like Jacob's angel; she wouldn't even give me a bruise.

Form.

2009-06-16T08:41:00.000-07:00

I worship form with all my soul.

When I walk down the street I see forms
molded yet folded in the whirlpool of groups.
Forms fresh and old rising and falling
with the material of it's composition.

Material and form are together a pantheon
from where gods leave and worshippers enter.
In and out, surrender and escape, in an undefined search;
closer and further away from the shape.

Form is a Godless pantheon.
The aesthetic of the shrine
makes you believe that inside
is a God confined
Who in return for your sacrifice
will redeem your mind from that which led you
to the configuration of He

Materials are in the streets waiting for a composition,
to be confined to the lines
of a music sheet.
Materials burst out of mountains
in the eruptions of volcanos
and harden at the bottom of fossil layers.

Form can be a limited God
of Material and Mind,
endowing the bushes with a fire
and the anatomy with an allure
to get to the leviathans to climb a mountain
and enter the frame that promises only its enslavement on the outline
of the shore of structure.

Material is man's alley,
Naked and soft, just part of a whole
A single member of the choir.
Materiel goes on the alter of fire
polished and cut sacrificing to the goal
of an outlinning plan.

Form is no prison
you're confined when your outside
and the mistake is in your sculpted eyes
pointing to a prism whose rainbows deny the original white light.

Form is Mind and Mind is Me
I stand before Forms everyday watching as if
it's a tombstone with words to tell the by passer that which it frames,
or perhaps like an architectural feat
telling the story of the house
and the people you'll meet
inside.

But Form doesn't go so far
It tricks and licks your cheek
while stroking your back
In a storm of adrenaline.

Form is Mind
Mind is Me
formed by material
and materialized by form.

Human Like Me.

2009-05-17T13:31:00.000-07:00

They lie about the truth,

they lie about you,

they lie about proof,

they lie about lies too,

They are not ashamed of behaving like a tamed

animal in a farm, eating the shit

the farmer has to spare

from the work of his hairy arm.

Not all who tell lies are liars,

some are just the liars goat

jumping off Azazel's cliff of pointy stone

to jump on to the boat of firefighters.

They lie about me, whatever they say.

The stories and gossip for those who chew the cud they dig,

the tales are endless, feeding cattle that is

cloven hoofed like a pig.

And they tell me about abominations.

They have a whole list of don'ts and do's.

One of them being the renunciation

of their animal chew.

Why do they slither on the sand

like snakes without shoes.

Tell me, does everything taste like earth?

not to me,

I can taste so much

including the apple on this tree.

When will you see the odor of the fodder

you are being fed.

A cow is not just for the udder that supplies the butter

for the rich in bed

Don't wait till they slit

your esophagus and trachea,

At the hand of a perfect knife

perfected by generations of shechita

Be like me

the human thou shall not kill

and walk on water before Moses splits the sea and hits the stones,

surpass the calfs of gold and ride along the mill

march with me to the valley of dry bones.

Bask in the sun like Jacob, before Joshua stops it mid sky.

Enjoy the shade like Jonah, before God sends

a worm to let the tree die.

Enjoy bathing in water like Bat Sheva, until Elisha turns it into oil.

Listen to Saul's musician amidst your mental toil

If you can throw stones like David

and shake pillars like Samson

do so in front of a crowd.

Not in a spiraling journey through the desert

hidden behind a cloud.

Be human like me

Ask a question with out cheating

at the writing on the wall.

Speak to your friend

before a heavenly wagon comes to a halt.

Look back and learn

before you are turned into salt.

Walk the earth before it opens it's mouth,

Enjoy the Nidachat town.

Make your home outside a lion's den.

Until your Jericho walls go down.

Be human like me

And discover the list

that doesn't exist

at the top of the mountain

or the bottom of the sea

see beyond the floods and plagues

and pursue the days

of jubilant plays

by the kids of Amelek and Zion.

The faces of four can be your affair

take the legs of your chair

to tell the story you want to hear

not the symbols that bare

the eagle, the ox or the lion.

Morph out of the animal in the mud

stop eating sand while crawling on your belly

pretend that the sea hasn't turned to blood and

take a stand in the midst of Eilah's valley

Be human like me.

My World Used To be an Ocean.

2009-04-29T16:42:00.000-07:00

My world used to be an ocean

with sea levels above the ground.

All I had was the surface of the sea,

and the sun above

reflecting the world,

and me.

Oh, those images on

the rippled sheet of sea,

these were scenes I won't forget

the reflective sailor I used to be.

In and on the sea

I saw the story

I wanted to tell

the world of sea men.

When my world was an ocean

there was the unchanging sea

wearing the face I put on that day.

And behind the horizon

there was always a mermaid

sitting alone

waiting

while singing a serenade

behind an embracing

sky and sea.

Then the sea levels dropped,

revealing some opaque soil

and solid grounds.

First was a light house

to tall for me to climb,

along with islands

whose language I don't speak.

Then the grounds were revealed, with their

inhabitants who speak so loud

and the mirror was concealed

by a sun blocking cloud.

And the few who take to the ocean

do so to swim, not to reflect

on the sheet of reflecting reality

they have just splashed.

The world of soil reflected nothing

of my face, but the sand did

get in to my eye.

As I trotted along the shore

of forgotten horizons

that shared a sun.

On dry land

the sun only burns

the face that looked up,

while searching for a clear plane

amidst the chaos of sand.

On the ground it's either human or fish,

and the sky and sea never embrace.

While the dropping sea levels

increase their pace.

And the sailor sits on a bench

under a shadow casting tree,

while with his shoes

he writes in the sand

a thought that will be washed away

by the tide of a low level sea.

Blood.

2009-04-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

I turned my blood into ink
and spilled it on a vienless sheet
and I sent it to through the bodiless
channels called mail.

I peeled my bruises and
shaved my scars
and put it into an envelope
with no sensory glands
as I painted my burns
on a sheet drier than bones.

But it will not satiate the vampire's hunt
For not all blood is equally blue
and not all ink is equally red.
Not every burn sits on a plate
and not every scar can be fed.

I prepared a meal,
to serve the Beast
that worships pain.
I told him of the journey
where I started with baby skin.
And the road that made me hairy
and rouged, till I lost
the soft flesh of infancy.

On the table
the one who dines gets to choose,
which bone is worth the cut.
That one will get the gift of the oven
and the height of leavened bread.

But the competition
that measures fruition
is not fair with its count.
For the ease
of taking the disease
assumes that all was peace
before the start.

For some
the scar is skin
and the flesh is a sin
that isn't told.
And the ink needs first
to become blood
that runs under the scalp.
And the bruise is the body,
and the face is a burn
of the first degree.

For those, the peeling skin is whole
and the broken bone is complete
And the pain is felt
when the limbs melt
to become like an infant child you see.

But that kind of pain
doesn't make a meal
for the diner gets to decide
which sorrow is real.
A broken bone is something to show
while a whole body is something we all know.

So my vein's ink doesn't dry
and the surgical procedures I endured
are no story to tell.
For scissors that mend
are not like scissors that cut.

All that is left is the corridor
with the feast to its right,
and its reserved seats
for those
whose blood is white.

The Wind.

2009-04-22T12:49:00.000-07:00

Every city has a cemetery,
towns have 'em too.

The cemetery is flat land
surrounded by gates,
and dead bones
unsurrounded.

The wind flies freely
above the dead
Uncaptured, unconfined,
Untrapped.

Back in the city
The wind struggles through
the walls and gates
of societies fruit.
The wind has to fight
until it reaches the nostrils
of Adam and Eve
running up a stair case
of a sky scrapping tower.

In the city,
the wind bangs and roars.
Unlike the cemetery,
where it quietly floats
above those who let the wind out.

The wind hovers
above the cemetery's field.
For there amongst the dead
the secret is told
that the night is old
And the wind holds its surprise
for those that rise
at the early hours of the day
to the crying sound of the wind
swimming through the obstacles of
civilization.
Wrapping towers
as it hugs the glass
that just kissed the wood
of the windowsill.

The wind runs through the narrow alleys
that barely have room for two.
And the holes in the walls
let the wind run through
and chill the bones of a child
as the wind whistles it a lullaby
of free flying winds
under blue skies.

Brick and cloth
all keep the wind out.
Leaving it to wiggle the young trees
whose leaves fall
into the hands of troubled winds
who have traveled through cities and walls,
choked by the scrapers in the sky.

Back in the cemetery
the wind flies freely
amidst those who lye in sand
easily blown by the wind.
The wind doesn't whistle or hymn
and there is no glass to hug and kiss.
Just space for wind and wind for space
above a sheet of soil
hiding those who have become like wind
themselves.

Hypatia

2009-04-02T08:56:00.000-07:00

I admire your intelligence,

I really do.

All your philosophy, and thought.

all your names.

I love to discuss them with you,

I love to play those mental games.

Oh, how your ideas

blind my minds eye.

I want to hear more

I really do.

And did I mention,

you're the most beautiful person I know.

Sorry, for going off topic,

as far as your ideas go.

But I can't help but notice,

your tender eyes,

and waving hair.

They are real to me,

even with my minimal vocabulary skill.

And your gentle hands

that turn the pages

you read while you lie calmly

under the eclipsed sun.

I notice that too,

even though

I can't formulate the question

it's supposed to respond to.

I am juggling thoughts

or perhaps I'm rotating

minds.

Listening to Athena in your voice

and Aphrodite in your eyes.

Can I worship more than one Goddess?,

Or maybe I can just do one sacrifice.

I wonder how many pantheons I can call my place,

As my thoughts and visions grow to proportions

I've yet to learn to embrace.

I like to stick to your ideas

and your intellectual feats.

Directing my attention

to your novel claims

and accomplished tasks.

I hear what you ask,

I have an answer,

but I can't say it.

Because my planned explosion

has just imploded

in the frontal cortex of my juggling brain.

If you would slow down

I would follow you

to your windowless room.

And I'll look out through the

crack in the ceiling I just made.

And I'll also read some of your books

I know you are mentioned in quite a few.

I'l try to concentrate on what they say,

if I manage

not to get distracted by you.

History Stones People

2009-03-24T16:33:00.000-07:00

History stones people.

They stoned Moses, David and Linclon,

history did that for all to see

Marbel and cement,

that's all it leaves behind

of a long changing life.

Great heroes of time,

fall under the mercy

of the sculptor's knife.

History stones faces,

in a way that would make

ecclestias cringe.

History stones feet,

in a way that would make

piligrims cry.

History stones life

to always stay fresh,

yet, what is life without

the sins of the flesh.

All the radical kids

get stoned

and never change'

or even move a muscle.

All the sword raising warriors

history stoned

without blood in their veins.

You can see all the victims

that history stoned

when you walk in the park,

they got kings

and queens

hell, they even got Gods.

They are there captive

in history's stones,

never to be again what they were;

wilting flesh and

breakable bones.

People look up at them

they are victims too.

History's stones fall far,

even on to you.

Those stoned to live

are like the ones stoned to die.

enslaved to the search

for the frozen smile.

Life is a burning bush

that doesn't get consumed.

not a dead rock

or a statue of history.

It's a fusing wind

of happinnes and misery.

An exploding volcano

of courage and fear.

It is the stem of the flower

struggling through the seasons

to stand and bloom

above the drying soil.

Life is the fighting wave

you see at sea

forgotten and denied

by the stones of history.

The Mountain Top and the Soccer Field

2009-03-23T13:08:00.000-07:00

Dear Mashgiach you said it a million times,
and had us say it at least one hundred times after you.
But I only said it once.
Just once I used it to make a point,
maybe that was the problem.

Right there, on the top of that mountain
you told us, in a tune, that all is vanity.

At the bottom of the mountain was a soccer field;
We used to hear the roars of the crowd while we tried to focus
on the long text.
Its vanity,
a bunch of people running after a ball.
It's vanity,
screaming because you got someone to fall and trip.
It’s vanity.

But you know, I once went down the mountain;
I needed a cup of coffee, to keep me awake for a night full of studying.
I passed the soccer field
when the fans were emptying out the stadium.
Someone was carrying a cup and others were gathering around him,
applauding.

Did you know there is a score board at the stadium?
they write the scores there of every team.
They change the score throughout the game,
then someone wins.

Did you know that someone wins in the end?
they get a big cup
and a chance to compete again
with a better team.

But you know, Mashgiach, most people do it
for just an hour or so every week.
The rest of the time
they live their lives through comparison to the game.
For only an hour or so a week they have a controlled world
amidst the chaos they leave behind.
And find power and strength
by calling someone’s name.

They roar for an hour or so.
then they face their quiet homes.
They cheer for an hour or so,
until they get back to their silent laments
that are bigger than the whole stadium,
bigger than the whole game.

And when someone from the crowd
succeeds during the week.
She remembers the game She scored,
even when her success is smaller
than the shouts of the fans she heard,
for an hour or so last week.

The game last for an hour or so a week,
than the fabric of the crowd
falls back in to single threads
lost in a hay taller
than the grass of a soccer field.

But, back on the mountain,
the roars of texts lasts all week.
We never leave the stadium.
Nobody scores, nobody falls,
nobody gets called by name.

Nothing gets referenced to nothing,
they shaved the grass of the whole field.
You live and die running
to kick a ball you can't see,
and to live a metaphor you can't construe.

On top of the mountain the game lasts a whole week,
and the fabric of the crowd is never pulled to thread.
You don't see a guy leaving with his cup;
for there is no cup,
there is no leaving,
truth is there isn't even a guy.
There is just a crowd cheering,
cheers that can only come from a crowd
who never tried a lament.
Cheers that have no chaos
to contrast to.

I see the soccer field
It is vanity,
for an hour or so every week.
I see the mountain top
It is vanity,
for ever and ever.

Thoughts

2009-03-04T23:56:00.000-08:00

Thoughts are like butterflies in the sun.

Blinded by the light,

noticed by their color,

admired for their flight,

avoided for their flutter.

If You Dream.

2009-01-18T18:02:00.001-08:00

If you dream....

Tomorrow it may be lost to fantasy

or to oblivion

tomorrow it may be lost to heresy

or treason

If you dream.......

Tomorrow it may be found with disturb

or rust

tomorrow it may be found with perturb

or disgust

If you dream...........

Tomorrow it may be hailed as a desire

or plan

tomorrow it may be hailed as a fire

Yes we can

If you dream................

Tomorrow it may be the wished for act

or the clear path

tomorrow it may be the blatant fact

or the simple math

Tomorrow it may be,

if you dream..........................

Valley of Despair

2009-01-18T17:42:00.000-08:00

If I go down the Valley of Despair

What will I find?

Will I see the bankrupt bank

Will I find the general in the rank

Will I find the gun and the tank

Will I find that the statue shrank.

What will I find?

Will I see the meadow of

today and tomorrow

Will I see the seeds

Will I hear the rings

or just the sorrow.

What will I find?

I see my brother

exhausted

claiming he faulted

in getting the meadow

exalted.

Is this what I find?

Dreamless sleepers

on dark nights

in dry prairies

No speeding of time

or sufficient funds.

No path to the palace

where the horse runs.

No feeling for

the urgency of the now,

only gradualism

roaming around

O' valley of despair

why am I still here?

How and Why

2009-01-07T08:00:00.000-08:00

How and Why,
I really don’t know.

Well,
how, I understand.
There is all the technical jargon
and scientific bargain
to help me comprehend.

As for why,
it’s a worthless task
to even ask
without a sigh.

But the mind entertains
those mental pains
even when all that remains
are the cut off lanes.

When beautiful animation
that indulges in creation
loses command
by the touch of the hand
of its own basic brand.

If you really attend,
you’ll see that I don’t really seek to understand
the question I posed.

For who can bear to know
the secret of the show
going on behind the door
I just closed.

United Talmudical Something

2008-12-16T16:24:00.000-08:00

I used to sit in UTA
the United Talmudical something.
I used to listen to what they had to say
Trust me at that age you could've told me anything.

They taught me all their crap
from A to Z
except, in that crazy place
they didn't even do it alphabetically.

I sat on their hard benches
listening to what they had to sell
watching ticking clocks
eagerly awaiting the bell.

After a while even I
bought into the plot
understand, I was just a kid
boiling in the pot.

I learned there
about
Snakes looking for female peers
Noah getting drunk
after he lived 120 years
of getting all animals to have sex in his trunk
Abraham trying to kill but missed,
and Isaac raped a three year old,
Jacob and Rachel french kissed,
don't look at me, it's what I was told.

Lot doesn't fuck with male angels
but his virgin daughters, that shall pass
Yehuda and Tamar,
they went to Amsterdam, I guess

Then came Moses, the hero you know
with laws about POW women
that make me think of Guantanamo
as a paradise of a prison.

Those people
really molested my mind.
I was young and innocent
just as they ordered my kind.

While kids were learning
about algebra and hash
I was being fed
dark ages trash
while knocked up teens
were running for abortions
I was fed
their stupid distortions.

My mind was touched in the most uncomfortable places
by those teaching freaks they paid
I'm sure he wouldn't of hit me that day
if the night before he had gotten laid.

While other kids
were watching condom covered bananas
and flat maps of the spherical earth
I was learning
what my teacher said I learned
before birth.

I was just a kid
listening to their voices
but, fuck it,
they are just teachers
I don't need their choices.

I'll never forget you,
United Talmudical something.
after all we had a hell of a time together.
but, maybe it's not you just me
that thinks people deserve better.

What Is A Dream?

2008-12-10T08:28:00.000-08:00

Tell me, what is a dream?

Is it
a possession of mind,
perhaps it's a currency
of some kind.

I've heard people talk about dreams,
like blueprints they read.
Maybe that's what dreams are,
a guide as to how to proceed.

I've met dreamers
others call illusioned.
Come on, you know who they are,
you see them everyday
pushing shopping carts.
Is that what dreams are,
cavity fillings of the heart.

What are these dreams
that a drop of rain
makes you refuse,
yet with just a small sign
can be set loose.

I've seen people speak happily about dreams,
dreams they had in the past
dreams they don't mind you to hear.
Are all dreams created equal,
do all dreamers start out fair.

So many people,
so many minds,
so many happenings.

Tell me,
what is a dream?

Abraham אברהם

2008-12-07T17:12:00.000-08:00

ויבא הפליט ויגד לאברהם

וישמע אברהם

וירק את חניכיו

וישא את עינו וירא והנה שלשה אנשים

וירא

וירץ לקראתם

ויפנו משם האנשים וילכו סדומה

ויגש אברהם

ויאמר האף תספה צדיק אם רשע

ותאמר לאברהם גרש את האמה הזאת אם בנה

וירע הדבר בעיני אברהם

על אודות בנו

ויאמר קח נא את בנך את יחידך

וישכם אברהם בבוקר

ויחבוש את חמורו

(translation)

A fugitive brought the news to Abraham

Abraham heard

and he mustered his retainers

Looking up he saw three men

he saw

and he ran to meet them

The men went on from there to Sodom

Abraham came forward

and said 'will you sweep away innocent with the guilty

She said to Abraham 'cast out this slave women and her son

the matter distressed Abraham

concerning his son

He said take your son your favored one

Abraham woke up in the morning

and saddled his horse

Sand Castle

2008-12-07T16:28:00.000-08:00

Susan was building a sand castle

by the water side.

A castle where she herself will reign

where there will be no need to hide.

She was molding the place

She wished she knew.

The place she saw with closed eyes

the place she wished to be true.

She took sand

and built the final tower.

Oh, what a kingdom that would be

where unity will be the only power.

Then the tide came

and washed the castle away.

It washed away all the sand

and all the molded clay.

The tide was so high

that it washed Susan too.

Her sand covered hands

and fingers too.

Now you can't see a castle

just plain flat land.

And nobody looking at Susan

could tell that she ever played with the sand.

In The Blink of a Cosmic Eye

2008-12-01T18:09:00.000-08:00

In the blink of a cosmic eye

The cosmos and

the essence,

came to be.

In the blink of a cosmic eye

I lived

I wondered

I created

I blinked.

In the blink of my eye

I saw nothing.

Between my blinks

I saw the sky

the stars

and the flies.

Before blinks

I destroyed

I cried

I lost.

After blinks

I stepped forward

slipped

got up

grabbed

and spoke.

Amidst my blinks

I sang

I heard

and saw.

In the blink of a cosmic eye.

Young Alan

2008-11-20T07:54:00.000-08:00

Young Alan had a question
no one dared to answer.

Not his grandmother
not his teacher
not his freinds
even the wise man
down the block
didn't dare.

Because young Alan had a question
no one dared to ask.

Imagine Climbing a Tower.

2008-11-20T07:48:00.000-08:00

Imagine climbing a tower
with a telescope on its roof.

Imagine the corridors you'll pass
the people you'll meet
the rooms you'll stop by
along the way.
Imagine the glimpses
you'll get,
imagine the things
you'll overhear.

Imagime climbing a tower
with a telescope on its roof.

Beautiful שיין

2008-11-19T03:36:00.000-08:00

איך האב געזעהן מיידלעך

.שיין ווי בלומען אין א זוניגע טאג

.אבער איך בין געבליבען שטיין

איך האב געזעהן מיידלעך

.שיין ווי א בויגען נאך רעגען

.אבער איך בין געבליבען שטיין

דערנאך האב איך געזעהן א מיידעל

שיין ווי דער אייביגער גאט

אין איך בין געלאפען

אין געלאפען

.אין איך בין נאך דארט

(translation)
I have seen girls
beautiful as flowers in a sunny day
bit I stood still.
I have seen girls
beautiful as a rainbow after rain
but I stood still.
Then I saw a girl
beautiful as the eternal God
and I ran
and ran
and I am still there.

Future

2008-11-18T18:14:00.000-08:00

My future is

my greatest motivation.

After all, it's my presents

destination.

The mist around it

gives my life breath.

Yet that very mist

scares me to death.

It's a time

I enjoy visualizing.

Yet the thought of it

can sometimes be agonizing.

Yet, I must

face the reality.

That the future is nothing

but uncertainty.

Dreaming about it

doesn't change it in any way.

Yet the dream of the tomorrow,

is an inevitable part of the today.

(8/01/07)

They

2008-11-18T18:05:00.000-08:00

How many things I didn't do,

for they might see.

Throughout my life,

they has tortured me.

Whenever they was near

we had to start running.

We always feared

they was coming.

Men, women, and children,

they tortured us all.

Throughout history,

they watched our downfall.

They has made our lives miserable

without guilt.

In every war look how many people

they killed.

There is just one question I'd like to ask

if I may.

Who is this all time

evil Mr. They?

(7/22/06)

Warmer World

2008-11-18T17:53:00.000-08:00

There is a boy in a dorm

that slipped through the guards

a picture of a naked girl.

Everyday he looks at her

and his body is warmed

he looks at her eyes

and dreams

of a world better than the one he knows

Miles away in a tall building

inside a gadget filled room

a naked girl holds a camera.

Behind the lens

she imagines

a pair of eyes

that warm her body and soul

warmer than the world she knows.

If only we can take away the miles

the loneliness

the guards

the two would be making love to each other

staring in to each other's eyes.

And would come to know a world

better and warmer

than their present lives.

Color

2008-11-18T17:46:00.000-08:00

The color of sunset,

creating that beautiful sight.

And the sound of the songbird,

singing at the dawn of the night.

Your color and sound

appear to be so deceiving.

As we reveal

the horrors you are concealing.

With all the pain, tragedy,

and all the sorrow.

How can song and color

represent the tomorrow?

Over the span of our life

we begin to realize.

That in the tomorrow,

only hope lies.

At a close look, the tomorrows

are represented as they belong.

That confusion and mixture of color,

that quiet broken song.

(7/11/06)

Song

2008-11-18T17:14:00.000-08:00

I once wrote a song,

you know, about my life an' all.

A nice and complicated song,

like the ones you sing in a big hall.

I included my whole life,

in that special song.

I wanted people to hear me,

loud and strong.

But somehow

that never occurred.

For some reason

my song wasn't heard.

Even for those

who tried hard to hear.

My song

came across scrappy and unclear.

My song got stories

you won't find anywhere.

It's a song, you got to be me to write,

you got to be me to hear.

(12/18/07)

Paradise

2008-11-18T17:01:00.000-08:00

From the first paradise on,

where man and women came to be.

There was always the serpent,

lurking behind the tree.

Yet every time we left,

to experience a paradise anew.

It was destroyed by the snake,

who came along too.

We cannot convince it to do wrong,

so it should have to leave the meadow.

For the one who convinces,

also has to go.

From paradise to paradise,

with a snake along the way.

Man and woman

search for a paradise to stay.

Along the way,

a different paradise did suffice.

And the snake itself,

became the paradise.

(7/26/06)

Nowhere

2008-11-18T16:49:00.000-08:00

Man, have you ever heard

of a place called Nowhere?

It's a wonderful place,

I think you should go there.

It is beautiful

not a place you can't go to from there.

I love that place Nowhere,

it kinda takes you anywhere.

But, young man, be careful,

Don't stay there for long.

This place called Nowhere,

is no place to belong.

Keep your eyes open

and look around.

Nowhere,

has a dissolving ground.

From Nowhere you can take any road

except for one.

It's the road back,

that's forever gone.

It's a weird thing,

this place called Nowhere.

If you understand this paradox,

you are already kinda there.

(10/26/07)