The Sacrifice - Part 1


These are not my first nights.

I am from elsewhere

but I was born here

you know the difference.

You recognize in my voice
      I have an insurmountable feeling of responsibility to the mess.

I am entitled my indiscretions.


I lose your face for an instant,

this devastates me,

because I need you,

I am so needy.

The war is over,


there are no wars to remember,

so why are they still suffering?

That is what we think,

but we are constrained by intellect,

and it is hard enough to convince these animals their worth,

let alone the value.

Wouldn’t it seem to be so much easier to forgive,

and carry on without the malice,

the heartbreak?


to a citizen,

who understands their tools.

But this land is cut off from history.

the massacres are mounting.

What alarms me most is the efficiency they posses

in waiting,


as they put it,

see what will happen.

Nothing happens.


they are coming to you,

fleeing their homes and entering yours.




The largest city of a distant neighbor,

an encampment settled over our hills,



the pious

driven to caves


for their piety.

Who rules our despotic settlement?

I am not yet told,

I have not yet noticed.

What I wait for is a sign,

an impeachment.

A public declaration that the ministry is now in our hands,

or something of the sort.

A mystic

I name the Persian

says her ears have been chopped by martyrs

who replace their own to hear the news.

But I’m yet to meet the Persian

the reason I am here

in line with an un-foiled plan

plans not yet foiled

rarely go motion.


forgive my leaving suddenly when you wanted me at your door.

I have always been afraid of commitment

especially the type

that entitles me to joy.

Read it in my words,

I am depressive


a shadow

I can’t be sure I see

stealing only pigments

of the entire picture.

The untouchables

reading prophecies of guilt

bred at the womb and beard

it’s true

we’ll never meet again.

The playing symphony

leans in from the sky

a cockroach

tickles the outskirts of my elbow,

I am a night’s swoon away from dying.

A night’s moon and a damaged bitch in my hands.

She speaks,

but she hides the delicacy of her home in the beauty of her mind.

I notice because I am noticeable,

she hums


magic magic magic

sell me the perfume

the abandoned.


the memory

of her derailment

lies in the sympathy

provided her by others

fascinated by the mark of suffering.

I offer a tip she refuses to accept

from my hands, nothing is acceptable

knowing this, why does she relent?