What the Thunder Said About Exemptions
Home again home again, jiggity-jig. No place like home said the little piggy all the way back to Kansas. The buffalo roam where the heart is, I did not leave it in San Fran.
Lebanon. Like visiting an unrequited love in the state hospital, just to make sure the right choice was made. Oh, it was but parts of my heart ache all the same.
Hoping against hope that one day, yes, one day. If only one day they'll invent a cure for chaos. Knowing that all the same, there is such a thing as natural law.
Natural law creates outcomes, buries the detritus alive in present perfect tenses and continuous infinitives. Natural law restores order and the meek shall,
they shall no matter what, yes. They shall.
they shall no matter what, yes. They shall.
I'm Sorry I Love You Said The King
The fog's already burned off. He declares it is to ripen the figs. I'd rather not say. Causality.
Miles and miles of tossed and torn plastics, miles and miles of one after another. Pharmacies next to butchers, beauty shops alongside old tires. Laborers, Syrian refugees.
There's just no plan, all so random as if time has finally taken over and won. Here in the wake at the back of the boat,
cancer is killing everyone. One at a time by the dozens. The post-coital run-off is in the gutter, part animal and some of it fog, the color of gray in hell.
The same ice cream truck interrupts the maghreb every day. You can hear change falling from their pockets as they rise from the rugs, the sky stops there,
holds down the putrid steam below as night turns figs into fall.
Miles and miles of tossed and torn plastics, miles and miles of one after another. Pharmacies next to butchers, beauty shops alongside old tires. Laborers, Syrian refugees.
There's just no plan, all so random as if time has finally taken over and won. Here in the wake at the back of the boat,
cancer is killing everyone. One at a time by the dozens. The post-coital run-off is in the gutter, part animal and some of it fog, the color of gray in hell.
The same ice cream truck interrupts the maghreb every day. You can hear change falling from their pockets as they rise from the rugs, the sky stops there,
holds down the putrid steam below as night turns figs into fall.
Lights On
At the Magrheb an ice cream
truck enters the din of six
or seven hilltop muezzin,
the perfect punctuation,
such a blend!
We are already discussing
the amount of burghul,
the weight of the kishsk,
the cost of the kind from Baalbeck
versus the bah'ledi.
I've already used next year's
supply of hyssop, the kind
that immunized the first born
on the passover.
I knew that the ice cream truck
was due to stop by though,
a little sign from the heavens
at the Magrheb, a little
snowstorm of sound at dusk
in the fog as well as
on Sunday just past
what used to be called the Sabbath.
I've seen many such things before.
truck enters the din of six
or seven hilltop muezzin,
the perfect punctuation,
such a blend!
We are already discussing
the amount of burghul,
the weight of the kishsk,
the cost of the kind from Baalbeck
versus the bah'ledi.
I've already used next year's
supply of hyssop, the kind
that immunized the first born
on the passover.
I knew that the ice cream truck
was due to stop by though,
a little sign from the heavens
at the Magrheb, a little
snowstorm of sound at dusk
in the fog as well as
on Sunday just past
what used to be called the Sabbath.
I've seen many such things before.
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