Paint me a picture with your words. Close your eyes. Visualize the scene. Soon the details will emerge from lips, or fingertips submerged in color. The lines between your eyes will blur and, in a flutter, you will awake to a dreamscape. Paint me a picture with your words. I want to sink into your skin and flaunt the freedom of birds. The power to move. To breathe. To fantasize and fly away into other worlds, To draw the blinds over our eyes and investigate the darkness of one mind. To seek and then to find. The key. Paint for me. A promise fulfilled is artistry.

You never say to me, for example
'You are the starlight which illuminates my new moon night!"

You never tell me that I am the mortar which binds your dreams to reality.
You never admit that I am the heart of your heart,
you never speak of the infinite ways you would dare to love me.

first there was space
which became a place
along came energy and gave it a face 

duality of experience
gave it a few I's
and a voice that would sound in a billion cries

then on the hour, a whooping whistle, a hoot and a holler, a howl to the pack
the feel good tribe

but if ever a member should sound instead a battle cry,
it would ignite the sky with such piercing electricity, 
zues himself would be proud of their work

we are turning towards the sun

in the infinite
arena of space--
we sit,
nosebleed section,
squinting
for a glimpse of
eternity.

a seagull wafts past,
a formation of ducks
pass over head-
there is no HD like this.
rippling, magnetic
liquid,
pink and orange clouds
tickle this
round water belly
we call Michigan.

I am unreachable
among the translucent clouds which
beat
in flickering
whisps that
dissipate
into oblivion.

the wind sweeps 
an organic
mosaic of ivy
riding
the side of
this silo
at the end of the world.

If I'm buried once I'm dead,
should my ashes go unspread
round the world where people laugh,
let this be my epitaph:
"Love has been the only thing worth knowing!
We don't need money where we are going."

7ft and slender
white but weathered
it stretched out
coral pockets peaking
where the joint snapped from jaw.
so engraved on a chin of a giant, we saw
letters, symbols, 
numbers, shapes and patterns
hyroglighs and runes,
pictographs:
sound visualized
in an epitaph to humanity
enscribed so eloquently
on the remains of something once alive.

the lineages of Babel
now bound to bone
as momentous as the application of rhythem and tone.

this piece now home to 
every folk song sung,
creation tale and doomsday lore,
every hero that woman ever bore,
each fantasy whispered in the dark,
a canvas of individuals who had left their mark!

stories remained so we’d never forget.

They call me Nekba,
named for the catastrophe born on the same day as I.
64 years of fighting the threat of genocide
has left me un-spooled, like the thread I use
to embroider pillows and thobes
with passion and the hope 
that one day I will again feel at home
on this land that my grandfather tilled with his hands
under the umbrage of a gold- leafed dome..

And all I’ve inherited is internal displacement: 
like my gut in my throat 
when I hear of olive trees, 
older than you and me by centuries,
uprooted like so many families 
relinquished to refugee 
camps where there is no defense.
Though in the West Bank we are restrained by a fence 
thick enough to drown the sounds of our sorrows,
and muffle the marching beat of endless feet 
martyred in neat piles 
which the media sweeps so slyly
under the rug of humanity.

The insanity of your alleged “birthright”, 
Israeli’s minting fresh citizens: 
you import entitlement 
and market it as democracy!
And though your apartheid apathy 
acknowledges 1 million of my friends 
as second-class citizens 
among you, 4 million more are caught in between,
unaccounted for in your governmental scheme. 

And that doesn’t include the millions still who can only dream
of one day reclaiming their ancestry:
frozen in the struggle to remain Palestinian and present, 
to retain the essence 
of zaatar w zaytoon, 
il loz w laymoon..

In the spirit of those lost,
the Arab spring thaws
the sting of aching jaws letting cries of “Freedom!”
ring through bullet-battered walls.
But the numbers dead here still spiral like some stupefying defect:
1 missing, 1 lost, 2 killed, 3 buried, 5, 8, 13..
we’ve grown accustomed to this pattern of killing!
But when does the sequence end? 
Tell me Israel, through which ethical lens
does your ethnic cleansing make sense?

The irony is a bit much for me to tolerate:
while Palestinian children are dying,
your IDF soldiers are toasting “l’chaim!” 
Our sons and daughters detained prisoners of war
starving for your empathy,
living on salt and water, 
and I don’t mean tears alone...
So tell me how, Danny Ayalon, 
can you deny that Palestine ever existed?
How can you say, with a straight face, that before ‘48 
there was nothing here but the potential for a Jewish state?

 Before you fed us your hate
we ate like kings in the fertile crescent--
doctors, lawyers and musicians!
Our land was golden, the most bountiful, and open!
You’ve defiled our stunning cities and our wholesome history.
And yet, I’ll grant you amnesty,  
you orphan-making orphans, 
because you have never known 
the sanctuary of a home and
it’s no wonder you want this land for your own.
Our mountains and coastline, lush green and stones, 
which still stand to rebel 
against your bomb shells,
are a sight to remind you that your might 
does not negate our right to life.

And I must admit I was jealous
when I heard you sent love letters to Iran!
Made me wonder, when did I ever do you wrong?
Made me wonder, what possesses a throng
of Americans to suit up and serve 
to protect another homeland which they don’t deserve. 
With only weapons in the water, only ammo in the bread,
I was knocked out from rage with stars of David round my head,
last time I yelled,
“Hey Ariel Pharaoh, will you let my people go?”
Because this land is holy, and was so 
before your uranium blasts,
and at the end of the day we share the same Semetic past..

But in the 1950’s your discriminatory policies 
helped you confiscate our land, classifying us as absentees,
though we never left sight of home.
It was only out of reach,
as we stood helpless caught in your checkpoints, present absentees,
and watched as Jewish families 
commandeered Palestinian homes 
with food still cooking hot on the stove, 
beds made and bills paid, and pets sullen on the floor
sniffing out the stranger who just walked through door.

We never abandoned our Falastin,
and now as refugees
we carry her spirit internationally.
And Israel, we refute 
your dumbing down of this occupation 
to call it a “dispute”,
though it’s not just a semantic issue.
So I will continue 
to resist 
amidst your tanks and settlements:
separating, segregating, discriminating in your racist strategy..
Netenyahu, who “chose” you to inflict so much suffering unto me?

Israel, I dream of peace, 
which is no substitute for justice:
Israel with your barbed wire hugs, and
Israel with your uranium love, and
Israel with your bullet-proof apathy,
Israel with your affinity for make believe.
Israel I am waiting for your liberating compassion,
for you to discover your love
of Palestinian bedouins and Bashas.

For this love cannot be contained,
(which is why love doesn’t die when bodies don’t remain)
which is why love is all that’s left
though my heart has hardened
like the stone pit of an olive.
Don’t you see, Israel?
The only way I know to give you my very best
is to rip open my vest, reach into my chest, 
dislodge this now calcified organ, 
kiss my fist, and with a wish 
send it flying over the wall 
towards your settlements (which haven’t settled anything at all) 
and hope you receive my good intent. 

You see I don’t resent you, 
we’d never move passed this if I did--
my life has passed and I just want a better future for my kids.
This rock was meant for nothing more
than to knock some sense into you..
Why continue war?!
We are one human race,
there are no "walls" in space,
and if you could just see my face..
the daughter of a catastrophe--
Perhaps it may inspire some humanity,

Israel, all I do is give you time
but until you get in line,
I’ll keep throwing these
love letters from Palestine.