“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.





Barbara Kingsolver was/is wrong. A broken, dysfunctional family does equate with a broken, amputated, choking, child.

Now that clarity has come, it’s weird how confused I am.

The sky and the sea are still there; the Oriental sky and the Ionian sky give each other the sacred kiss of love each morning; but the earth is dead, dead because man has killed it, and the gods have fled.

She walks, trying to create that which she knows so little about, a sanctuary, a safe space, just like a palace never visited, it becomes forsaken.

The mother’s womb, he was never safe there either. Put under monetary pressures, the only sane option would be to abort the fourth unexpected child. A zygote and an embryo are mistakes which can be reversed. If not for religious guilt which a grandfather instilled in the thoughts of the irresponsible parents, who pressed on each other one month prior, believing themselves to be two chips of flint, rubbing on themselves, and then, when that spark went off, they realized what they are and what they are not. The child that was born was never safe.

When she was born, she did not cry or shout; her parents did with violent impulses of tragic rage which elongated all through her childhood. Even after the divorce, the tension was felt like the terror of the sun; she always knew it was there, even though she did not dare look at it or acknowledge it. Watching her parents fight, she took that as the norm, and now, her only knowledge of a relationship creates and distorts the relationships she goes through. She lives for conflict of interest.

He lived day by day, wishing that his grandfather died one or two years earlier, wishing that the knife was never prevented. Every difficulty was blamed on him, the devil who was forcefully created, the ominous one who had inscribed on his skin the stigma of the intruder: bruises, blue lips, red eyes and tears, and a severed spirit seeking respite from the spiteful circle of hell he found himself in.

Sanctuary, as usual, was sought in all the wrong places, but for all the right reasons. Rebellion; a desire to break free. A revolution, put up a battle. Fight. But most people forget that a revolution is not the war that is won or the martyrs who are sacrificed; it is everything which comes after.  While she thought she was winning, while she dabbled alcohol all the way down to unconsciousness; while she smoked whatever came her way without a care; while she thought she was winning for all the right reasons, she was losing for all the wrong ones. She depressed her volatile soul and silenced her brain. She has no morning after.

He kept to himself. He was trapped. He was chained inside a hostile house in which every member stared at him with disgust. The mirror promised him no Self to rely on. But wasn’t it time to make it all good? So how could he have healed what his parents have done? How could he have run when he was never been allowed to crawl? How could he have filled the hole which his mother dug inside him? Who would promise him a new start?

A child is so similar to a voodoo doll, it’s almost uncanny. As parents play with pins thoughtlessly, as they slowly handicap a mind and amputate a soul, the child can only submit to the effects of random voodoo violence which will never go away. Can you ever scrape a scar away?

She cries because she has masks which hide emptiness. He cries because he cannot but mask himself. Both are not permitted individuality. Both are given personalities they have to abide by. They hear each other and can do nothing but cry for each other; they can do nothing but feel compassion and hold each other. Perhaps love will be born out of this compassion; but neither she nor he will bear it. They will be afraid of the pins which remain pressed inside of them; they will dread the permanent scars.

The earth is dead. The desert is still silenced by the voice of Gods who labelled their children as devils. The Gods only hear their own voice, and it is only her–the child without a safe bubble–and I–the child without a warming womb–who can listen to the silence of the dead earth while the Oriental sky and the Ionian sky kiss each other every morning.

I need a womb and she needs arms to hold her. We both need each other to tell each other that it’s not our fault.

The clarity of current reality is confusing; but we prefer the sacred silent night.