“Too Many Kids Finding Rain in the Dust” 

A broken hand frets on a violin
and violently tells me that it does not aim
for the song of birds.
Intentionally fingers press wrongly on metal strings,
with the disconcerting intensity of the strike of a bow
exposing us as bats in the light of
a pop of a gun or the bang of a bomb.
We scurry upwards and
downwards to
keep close to the Lazarus darkness

As children’s feces smear on each other like paint on a palette.
There’s no innocence in this colored nightmare,
and no remorse in this black death.
There shall be no ringing of bells or screams –
but an announcement to bring out our dead
and die for them once again.



Divagations and Ravings


I understand the temptation of rotting at home.


Narcissus and Echo – their story can be summed up in the two words of their name. Narcissus can do nothing but fold on himself, in a primacy which nevertheless attracts; Echo can do nothing but repeat this folding, inflected in the end of every utterance by Narcissus. A double folding. A double bind. It collapses them both, and so the story goes because they’re condemned to their name.

To the same extent, as much as “In the beginning the Word already existed. The Word was with God, and the Word was God” then God can only function sovereignly as Narcissus and Echo. In other words, this only shows His anthropocentrism.


Compromise is merely a word to disguise gross utilitarianism.


Rien, cette écume, vierge vers
A ne désigner que la coupe;
Telle loin se noie une troupe
De sirènes mainte à l’envers.

(Nothing, this foam, this virgin verse
designating the cup, no more;
so plunges far away a corps
of sirens, many in reverse.) [Mallarme.Salut]


Our quest for knowledge is curiously insatiable. Our quest for self-knowledge is insane.


In cities by the water, the humidity of strangeness glaze your skin. Beirut and New York share this affinity to strangeness. The difference lies in how the former city forbids you from shedding your skin and how the latter makes of it an obligation. Beirut is a city of stagnation and paralysis. New York allows for the willful return of the new. Beirut is an echo of its own strangeness. New York’s echo is only heard outside of it.


Longing and ambition promise nothing. Neither do beginnings. If any location is witness to that, it is Beirut, where beginnings are only a means to an end.

Longing and ambition promise nothing. Neither do beginnings. If any location is witness to that it is New York, yet in New York, beginnings are an end in themselves.


De-lirium is praiseworthy.

Thirteen Books


“In short, we think that one cannot write sufficiently in the name of an outside. The outside has no image, no signification, no subjectivity. The book as assemblage with the outside, against the book as image of the world. A rhizome-book, not a dichotomous, pivotal, or fascicular book.” (Deleuze & Guatarri – A Thousand Plateaus)

Unbearable, like fingernails on a black board
You flaunt yourself in front of me and tell me,
“Check out my books if you want.”
I check you out like the exhibit you are:
A Modigliani painting lacking eyes to see.

You point towards your bookshelf on which
a collection of dust abides with your uncaring motherhood.
I look through them: novels about follies and pieces and children,
wicked laughter exudes like puss from your callous chest.
Your breaths of ice chill the room; you dim the lights.

I touch Mr. Vertigo and slide my fingers on the spine of Melancholy Whores.
You become excited and tremble in bed, moved by an unseen force
like a leaf shivering to the breeze of autumn.
The Orange Girl. Fiery strands of hair don’t escape my sight,
You undress; your impeccable skin, new, like mountaintop snow.

I remain next to the bookshelf as you relish in your parade.
Tender Buttons and The Picture of Dorian Gray;
Legs move sideways and open up like transgressive fiction:
American Psycho next to The Story of the Eye and
A small tissue separates them, The Waste Land.

You stand up, a column built out of layers of white marble
Topples sideways into the darkness and leaks pongy
coffee-concentrated piss along the way.
Farewell Waltz. Should I follow? The Moral Animal.
You laugh again, but this time absently, yet louder; it echoes in your womb.

I’m alone now, a child in a womb, and conquered by
a fear of being what these books are: dead.
Like an anal child uttering nonsense: in no inno se n inn no se ne inno sen se innosense.
Innocence. The Art of Keeping Cool and where are you to be found?
Only puss and piss comes out of you.

You come back crippled and weak, your columns
broken and dripping blood and you fall on me as if I’m your careless mason.
Frail between my arms like a boiled carrot, you look towards Hamra Noir and
caress me as you reach out to it like a frog’s tongue.
It falls and images capture us as they leap like holograms from the book.

You hold on tighter and tighter to make it right, but
coins blind your eyes and I untangle you from my body. Oedipus the King
A scene from an ancient tragedy which we’ve memorized and shall perform.
I place you on your wooden bed, naked as a lamb, and hope that
the spirit of lightness makes us laugh at tragic plays and tragic wakes.

The next morning we wake up with saline eyes and sticky bodies
wishing we had just read Bukowski.



Drunk. Whisky scorches, steam descending
heavily, I’m handled by gravity.
And of energy wasted, I think of the caged bird and
read Maya Angelou for an explanation.

Justice is not done, and action is misplaced like
the absence of thunder. An explosion sucks
amnesty from the grave of guilt.
I come undone and my mind twists as
it climbs the wall cursing the evening tide.

I saw the lighthouse topple over and ships crash on the rocks.
I saw the airstrip lights go off and planes collide with asphalt.
I saw the ground open up and swallow little kids on tricycles.

Death wants more death, and inside I felt it knocking.
The curtain was curtailed and it showed a face
forlorn, a face I’ve known.

But away with split tongues. She’s young
and so am I. Hearts will be broken in the
days of youth. Romantic, we’re wet together,
compassionate like hot wax which never cools.
Lo! we’re going to split away. Cool
the wax or else we’ll divide and be free.

She grabs and indents me.
We’re splitting at the moment when I read
why the caged bird sings.

And I let go. I break apart suffering a dent
An incision which reads,
“She was here.”