Thursday, December 08, 2005

Starry Night

Another flash on the skyline. Israeli planes in the black sky firing missiles, bing bang boom on Ramallah a thousand miles away in my mind, six miles as the bird of war flies, lighting up the horizon as we do shots of Absinthe on the roof of our apartment.

Absinthe tastes like licorice, like electric liqueur, gets you lacquered, that’s for sure. Better than Israeli weed, that’s for sure. Makes you forget. I lay back and hear the thrum of missiles in the distance, and with each vibration shaking through the eternal city I see the stars blur and coalesce!

Van Gogh! Would that you had kept your ear intact! Or wouldn’t you have traded it for Dayan’s eye? For his foresight? For sure not. Where is your mutilated face now, o’ God of the poet warrior? In those stars? In my bottle? In those nails embedded in your O’ rock of David?

Zion! Mighty mountain top twisting streets screaming sirens red eyed teens in tight jeans cavorting then boom dying then boom crying then boom drinking absinthe on rooftops, watching the blipping lights light the sky with vengeance.

Jerusalem! You twelve tiered tribal palisade! You violently shuddering sandstone gleam in the eye of whose God?! Would that Moses or Mohammad moved a little to the left! Your stones twirl tonight beneath my gaze. Stop!

Solemn prayers for your loss. You sad bloodstained tennis shoe. Electric Body parts picked, picked apart and put together by neon jacketed black and white Hasidim like bees in latex gloves, bees with mouths moving in prayer, sidelocks and sad eyes.

Pasty faced Hassidim, black hated, coats in summer, smelling like stale sweat and good god, hurry through the city to the old wall. Always hurrying, sidelocks flying behind you on your bicycle, you blond and blue eyed German Jew. You freckled red headed son of David, you dark skinned brother of Ishmael.

I’m sorry Ramallah, tonight on the roof top I can’t see you. I can’t see through the burnt busses and biweekly booms that mean someone somewhere is slipping into those oblivion stars in a painful blast of boiling nails and shrapnel is a word of war and warriors but not poets.

Good bye sweet sunburnt village streets of Ramallah. Little children pointing sticks like guns as we pass. Little soldiers, little martyrs.

Goodbye sweet Ben Yehuda Street. Muddy khaki night street traversed by doe eyed pilgrims. Spiky haired discothèque pilgrims. Little soon to be soldiers. Later martyrs.

Peace unto you, o’ Jerusalem! Peace unto your quarreling cousins, peace unto your hilltop youth, your valley girls and yeshiva boys. Your ratty haired, yellow skinned crazy sons, who walk the streets at night believing they are the messiah. Too much acid and too much god on these cobbled road, neon and sandstone, and praise Allah! we are all your prophets!

Come to the wall and pray, then. Pray to God to restore his eternal house, his official edifice, his office, where You can take all our queries at once and respond to a thousand souls in a Booming voice. But be careful god, please be careful with your booms.


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