“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.



Memory & Forgetfulness



I have my bag packed. I can hear the shower water pouring, accumulating in the bath tub. I look at the empty apartment. The vacant couch, the piles of books towering half way to the ceiling, the temple of CDs and DVDs. These objects don’t make me want to remember the past week. These objects are not laden with the traffic of memories. They hold nothing. They are just a bundle without a substance.

The sound of pouring water stops. I know I cannot leave without saying goodbye to the only person I’ve seen for a week. I wait for her to come out but she never does, as if she paused time when she closed the faucet. As I stand outside the bathroom door, for the first time in a week I feel like a stranger in this apartment, in her home. It is not a place I belong to. I entered this place so full of hope. I thought that the road had finally gotten me home after prolonged seasons of winter in which nature was painted with different shades of the dullest grey. But it was a spark of euphoria; now time has halted for me to make the decision, to choose if I want to step back onto that ragged stale road of constant wandering; that road of loss and confusion; that road without identity which I loathe.

The silence in the bathroom becomes the silence of still-time, and I become afraid of her stillness; deathlike silence reigns. The knob does not screech as I turn it. The door does not squeak as I open it.

Vapour. Haze.  Steam rises from the hot water in the bathtub and sheathes the mirrors and the walls with blurry droplets. I do not enter, but I can see her lying, floating on the surface of the water in the bathtub. Her body is still and her breasts emerge like waves caught in a photograph. Her hair sticks to her body like leeches sucking off the rotten blood flowing in her veins. But she’d have to be drained completely if she hopes of being toxin-free, to be saved. Her eyes are closed, giving her the solemn image of a statue, battling time and winning eternity.

The still thought-image which she projects forces me to put down my bag and go to her. I walk into the sauna-like bathroom. Time is still paused; my moving body collides with the droplets. It seems as though I have dug my way with perseverance to get to her sober statue. I raise her head with my hand and I remove the leeches off of her body. She opens her eyes and I remember one week ago, the abominations we committed to fuel the fiery desire we shared for each other. I see the beginning through her eyes, and I sense no regret. Her wide black eyes give me comfort in their serene depths. I feel like a key that has found its door, a narrator that has found his voice. It’s all in the depth of her eyes in which I drown, and while drowning in her eyes she speaks to me; she tells me all I need to know, and I see all I need to see: moments not intended for me.

I stand up and leave her still body. I leave her as a still-image imprinted in my mind. A memory seeking continuity, an image seeking movement.



Returning from a long absence, this alien world feels like a museum. I walk with fearful eyes through its halls and I stare at the portraits which look very familiar. It is the familiarity which frightens me. I left a vibrant city and have now returned to an unchanged city, a city of the dead, and I search for her, the one who I intentionally left as a still-image. I return to give her continuity and movement.

I make my way through the proverbial streets. People dress the same; people act the same, as if they had no tomorrow. The daunting reality of sameness wraps itself around me. My wandering is transformed into a fall. A heaviness pushes me down, but I persevere and channel my way through the immutable roads of this city. This is no labyrinth. I know where she is.

I revisit the image in my mind. I see her in the bathtub, her hair like leeches. I remove the leeches and graze my fingers on her flesh as if my fingers were magic limbs which close lacerations. Her breasts stand like still waves splashing on a shore. I let my hands surf on the waves and they reach the shore, the rough rug of sand which was my home.

I find myself at the door of her apartment.

I knock and the door opens. It does not screech. I step inside, the water is pouring down. Steam comes out of the bathroom and my desire is indelible. Relaxed, I step in the bathroom. I see her through the semi-transparent wall of steam, sitting in the bathtub, her head between her legs, and her arms trying to wrap themselves around her; she is in front of me now as she was when I left.

The water stops flowing; a bell tolls and time stops. Nothing moves anymore. The past is fixed and I find myself trapped in what my memory wants me to see. I find myself trapped in the past.

I left her as an image so that she could persist in my memory. When I left, I killed her. I froze her in time and did not allow her to move on, and now I’m faced with the conundrum of memory and forgetfulness. If I allow forgetfulness to creep through, I will seize to know her; she would become someone different; she would become a stranger. If I allow memory to persist, she’ll be unreal and as dead as a monument, as dead as the city which I have passed through.

I try to step forward. I cannot.

I try to back away. I cannot.

A decision has to be made. To forget and lose all, or to remember and wallow in decayed grave.

The distance between me and her hurts me, but I cannot stop staring. I have no idea how she’ll feel if I allow myself a tinge of forgetfulness. I have no idea how this still-image would move. Will she laugh and break the heaviness of my absence? Or will she move around in circles like a prey around its predator, examining and waiting to strike with guilt.

The answer is within reach and it’s a choice I’ve made a long time ago, before I left, when she whispered in my ear. She told me about a moment not intended for me, a moment not in my memory, a moment I am promised to witness upon my return.

The still image changes. She changes; her eyes brighten up; she shines and she looks at me. These eyes, they utter the truth in silence; art knows more than the mind can ever know for truth is found in the hidden places which art draws. The silent moving-image speaks: It is not okay to remember the way you did. I am alive. You left me with emptiness which did not allow me to laugh. The theatre of absence leaves us all wondering about our failing existence. You isolated me like a single frame of a long film. Your froze me in time and did not allow me to grow. And you thought you knew me. You left me without laughter and melancholy camped over me, and this city drained me with its stillness which you incurred.

I blush. I’m out of words.  She frightens me with her sudden strength, her sudden life, her sudden sublime beauty. Such beauty can only be reciprocated by a miracle which I cannot give. That moment which was not intended for me; her movement after stillness was that of a strike of guilt. I have returned to a city of the dead, but I do not know her anymore. She has changed. I never knew her. I have changed.

I turn my back on her and on the distance, hoping that the other end is closer.

My travelling lost me my only home.

The High Note


The high note, sharp and alarming. You instantly know that something is wrong. It comes again, it moves in circles around your head. It’s coming and going. That same high note, sharp and alarming. Something is definitely wrong.

I have become finally free to die today. Think of me like you think of a table which is not there.

The high note comes from her open mouth and the audience gives her a standing ovation. Everything went perfectly and her closing note was impeccable, so clean, so clear, so well tuned. It’s that note everyone has been waiting for since the beginning; that note which they knew would come, but never knew when. This time it came at the end. Previous times, it came in the middle. Smack. A standing ovation in the middle of a performance seemed a bit queer, a bit strange, a bit off. To end with a high note is always the best option.

I am tired of listening to the ventriloquist voice of my soul and ignoring it. I’m tired of climbing the steep mountain that is life with a dwarf on my back heralding my incompetency, my impotency.

He presses the right hand keys of the piano, three dim and distant high notes follow each other. The piece has ended. He has played the catalogue of every great composer: Bach, Rachmaninoff, Beethoven, Stravinsky, Schumann, etc. However, he never composed music of his own. His only contribution to the musical canon which he performed was the three dim and distant high notes, which sometimes broke the whole harmony of the composition, but it was his signature gesture. It marked his end.

It is too bad I have been an experienced simpleton; it is too bad I am not an emasculated, infantile complainer. The excitement is gone. There is no rush of blood anymore. I’m going mad again. My head is in the oven, the stones are in my coat, the shotgun is facing my belly. Cesspool of human waste. When the lamps of my consciousness expire, there will be no place for me on the pyre. I have none of the passion I had before. I’m burning out. It’s my decision. All the clouds of pink have turned to grey.

High notes come from all around us, every second of the day, every moment of a second. The tolling of a bell, the breaking glass, the ringing of metals, the clanging of keys, the ballad solos, the jazzy saxophone,  the orgasmic girlfriend, the tea pot.

I cannot recover anymore. I am standing so high above the ground and yet I feel that I’m looked down upon my earthly worms. I can feel it now before I commit to my decision, before you try and save me. I can hear the high note now, that dreadful alarming sound from which there is no coming back. The sadness will last forever. Excuse all the blood. At least I did not fire the weapon outdoors. It is not your fault. I am ending forever.

The sound of a shotgun from the roof of your building is not a high note. The silence after it is not a high note. Your heartbeat as you rush up, as everyone else is rushing up, as the feet bang on the ground like a platoon’s final march to victory, as the door of the roof breaks open and you see the blood splattered and the body on the ground with a bloody hole in it. Even the sound of the ambulance’s sirens as it comes is no longer a high note. You wait outside the ER, sitting frantically. Everything is low now. Everything is low. Suicide minimizes the movement and importance of everything that surrounds it. Your sigh is the lowest of them all as it fades so slowly, and it ends and you hear it. That high note which you were pushing away the minute you heard the banging shotgun blast. That high note of the electrocardiograph machine tells you she is over. She is a marble statue now, cold and heavy and white.