A Bright Movie* The saris go by me from the embassies. -The Woman at the Washington Zoo by Randall Jarrell Whilst gadding about and on the way back this long story started to end as it should in the middle. Stopped on a corner, saw the same one-legged old man there sitting on the curb. In a country like this no one has a sign: Will Work For Food because that would be just too crowded. It used to be that he'd stand on that one leg to collect alms for himself but now times are tough he has to wait to be called over. Not like the guy in the wheelchair on the East Side who gets out onto the macadam between twelve chaotic lanes, God Only Knows How (probably dropped off by a taxi, must be). Not like the kid up by the Phoenicia whose hands were burnt clean off who smiles and earns so much for that smile. His job is easy. But a one legged man has a different problem in a bad economy. Standing on one leg for hours isn't what you'd call easy. You don't do it for nothing. So I stopped and called him over, I'd passed him by at least five times in three months to avoid pissing off the guy in the rear view mirror. This time though I called him over to hand him a fiver. Five times one thousand equals roughly five thousand. It was good and I noticed the girl behind me doing the same, dragging coins out of the purse that must have been in her lap. It felt good. I knew that if I hadn't stopped she wouldn't have either. I lost her near the airport tunnel. You know how it is in the subterranean tunnel that goes right under the Hariri International tarmac. I was just about to enter when I saw everyone coming out the other way, HCE. Turn around. Lucky today it seems because once you get in that tunnel and there is an accident, you are in there. Full of exhaust and exhaustion, pushing and shoving until two lanes turn into four. You smoke three cigarettes that you didn't need. You get tired of listening to the Eagles sing about Winslow Arizona ONE MORE TIME. You get out and head back up the wrong way on an exit ramp but that's okay, in Lebanon everyone knows what you're doing. They would do the same. Like yesterday's fender bender in the Ouzai. Not paying attention and wham! Right into the back of a taxi. The driver gets out and he's mad. I'm ready to fight it, to say he is a taxi driver and I'm ready to do that when a thirty kg kid squeezes between me and the city bus. "What are you doing there kid? Move away, you are going to get hit." He was just trying to help. In Lebanon the kids settle disasters too, they've seen so much and damn if they don't have the audacity to tell you how to handle a fender bender. The boy did what I told him to do and seemed rather pleased that I'd thought enough of him to tell him to get out from between me and the bus. The taxi driver is there at my window. I just ask him, instead of fighting it all, "What do you want from me? Is twenty bucks okay?" Sure is. I know once I drive away he would have settled for ten and he knows too, he could have asked for thirty. A deal is a deal though and we drive away pleased. Some poor man leans in my window and says, "Hamdu'la sah'lahme" which to me sounds an awful lot like Thanks for the salami. But it means, Thank God you weren't hurt. I agree and he reminds me, "Haram, he is a taxi driver." Means that twenty bucks is like thirty customers and worth a bit of bent chrome. I left the scene of the accident feeling pretty good. Today as I avoided the tunnel wondering about the bodies that might have been there, the ones I could have seen had I had the time for the Eagles and three more cancer sticks, I cruised through the old airport road that starts right by Fadallah's Mobil station, a station that gives everything to orphans (reminded myself to go there next time to buy gas) . I enjoyed the following like popcorn at the show: carcasses of sheeps and goats and cows still bleeding into the gutters plastic balls in net bags voluptuous Shia girls some covered and some not taxis stopping every few meters letting out little old men and haggard old women muffler shops and bread stores until finally I saw what it was I was after. A sign that read: The School of Opulent Knowledge, a little run down but all the same, extravagantly fufilling. **This poem suffered under a horrible name. This weekend while in South Lebanon I watched the movie Syriana with old what's his name...from Ocean's Seven....and boy! What a bunch of plotless bullshit. And the parts about Beirut...so out of context. Since the movie takes place now...post 9/11 and in the Era of so-called "Oil Wars" how is it that in Beirut the stage is set with Freedom Fighters on buildings with machine guns? Now...back in the early to mid eighties there were a few of those but mid to late 90's? Nope. But that is the point of propaganda......to make you confused. Never was there a more beautiful depiction of confusion. But the great part is the hero (in the end) just goes home like Bilbo Baggins with some kind of 'knowledge' ring...we are supposed to believe and that knowledge is that there is no POINT to these things that people do in the Middle East to each other. It's just sort of a crazy game played by oil tycoons. ZIONISM mentioned in the plot? Oh sure...I guess you could call it that "protocols of zion" type of thing and they flash on some old newsreel of the Rockafellers.....right in the beginning. And that's it. Nary a mention of the single most IMPORTANT cause of the crisis in the MIDDLE EAST. A type of racism and bigotry and all out HATRED of a large number of people called: ZIONISM. There you have it. And yes...see the movie. It is worth a scratch on the head and perhaps one in the crotch. (You know Arab men are always scratching their crotches and thank the Lord this is never portrayed in movies...God only knows what devastation that might provoke in the 'civilized' nations...you know the ones...like American that support Zionism and Christian Zionism to the tune of several billions of dollars yearly).

What About Mars?

No more problems says the package
the cure came in, no more
warning labels and the price tag
no longer legible. It began
with flashy children and fast cars
then people started talking
about the leftover stuff
after the move out,
wondered what would happen
to the crystal ball and Japanese flag.
Where to put Mars now?
Whose house next?

Promises promises promises. Yes...Francie's story is not over. She was the Maid of Honor (and I mean honor) at my famous wedding. There were few witnesses that day. Before that point is achieved however we must venture some into the tales of the Lebanese community of Douglas and the flash point that became so many other things involving the court system, the Civil War in Lebanon (and just WHO came up with that misnomer! a Civil war...what kind of war is that!) and on and on like that. Just like the old days when you'd wait for the end of the story and Paul Harvey wouldn't give it to you. One of my favorite Paul Harvey's is the one about the guy who disables a nuclear disaster...a young man. Who, at The End Of The Story turns out to be?

Jimmy Carter.

It is that kind of story but the story is Neverending...so it seems. And the wait is truly long. I usually tell it so fast that the important tangents are missed and I do not want to skip a beat this time. Not a single one. Francie, where are you? You were there that day 25 years ago...yes. You were there.

Damn Fine Poetry Blog...very no nonsense and low key Midwestern.....yet, yet....absolutely unusual. Go here:

http://atticofficewritings.blogspot.com/

Backgammon in Byblos, The Baalbek Valley

Backgammom in Byblos
Originally uploaded by radiann.

More virtual tourism by Radical Ann.

It is only TOO bad she doesn't want to come back here. I keep asking and asking and asking...

...there ain't no war here. Come on over! That's just a lot of talk...er...well...I think it is anyway.

The juice man

The juice man
Originally uploaded by radiann.

A juicer in the southern Lebanese City of Sidon...or Saida as we call it...a beautiful woman.

Image stolen from Radical Ann.
Because I can.
I'm her biggest fan.
We've a great big plan.
We are going to go
to old Mexico
to see the Aztec ruins
some monumental hewin'
the size of the WTC
or the Pentagon in DC.