Numbness

She listened to the music, then numbed herself with some chocolate, before she could cry - or write.

To write requires some sort of emotion, but those were too much too handle now. Chocolate, on the other hand, was easy - it was soft in her hands, easy to chew - and - what exactly?

She watched her figure grow larger, felt the little puffinness in her arms and beneath the circles of tiredness that lined her eyes, but the thought of exploring herself was worse than all the bad reflections, so she continued to degrade with decadance.

But what use was the decadance if she could not write a poem about the soft brown, the sticky sweetness that stuck to her fingers?

As useful as a lollipop, she said, and felt proud of herself for making up the term, even though she had no one to share it with - just a bit of sadness and some coffee.

Mishle 16 - Draft 3

"It is from God that words come", she said, and he called them gifts of the tongue. His hands were turning the knobs of her breasts, his lips licking the little bumps below her nipples, which had always been too orange for her taste - so she made him kiss her in the dark.

And sometimes she thought that she got it, because what were humans if not little creatures tossing around in the night, feeling around for the God's presence like she felt for his flesh, trying to distinguish meaning from nonsense like her fingers diffrenciating between skin and sheets.

He annointed her over his bed, with the sweat of his forehead. She licked the insides of his thighs, and kissed the covenant that lay between them, sealed in a white mark upon her hair.

"But emotions come from man", she said, and she thought, "And sometimes from woman".

But by then, he was too busy to hear her,  his thighs wrapped around her thighs, his chest hairs brushing up against her breasts, and amid the breaths of prayers, she could feel her hair unwinding, with no words to capture the slight shattering - only a kiss that tasted of wine and cinammon.

Mishle 16 - 2nd Draft

"It is from God that words come", she said, and he called them gifts of the tongue. His hands were turning the knobs of her breasts, his lips licking the little bumps below her nipples, which had always been too orange for her taste - so she made him kiss her in the dark.

And sometimes she thought that she got it, because what were humans if not little creatures tossing around in the night, feeling around for the God's presence like she felt for his flesh, trying to distinguish meaning from nonsense like her fingers diffrenciating between skin and sheets.

He annointed her over his bed, with the sweat of his forehead. She licked the insides of his thighs, and kissed the covenant that lay between them, sealed in a white mark upon her hair.

"But emotions come from man", she said, and she thought, "And sometimes from woman".

But by then, he was too busy to hear her,  his thighs wrapped around her thighs, his chest hairs brushing up against her breasts, and amid the breaths of prayers, she could feel her hair unwinding, their covenant falling apart, with no words to capture the slight shatterings - only a kiss that tasted of wine and cinammon.

Mishle 16

"It is from God that words come", she said, and he called them gifts of the tongue. His hands were turning the knobs of her breasts, his lips licking the little bumps below her nipples, which had always been too orange for her taste - so she made him kiss her in the dark.

And sometimes she thought that she got it, because what were humans if not little creatures tossing around in the night, feeling around for the God's presence like she felt for his flesh, trying to distinguish meaning from nonsense like her fingers diffrenciating between skin and sheets.

He annointed her over his bed, with the sweat of his forehead. She licked the insides of his thighs, and kissed the covenant that lay between them, sealed in a white mark upon her hair.

"But emotions come from man", she said, and she thought, "And sometimes from woman".

But by then, he was too busy to hear her,  his thighs wrapped around her thighs, his chest hairs brushing up against her breasts, and amid the breaths of prayers, she could feel her hair unwinding, their covenant falling apart, with no words to capture the slight shatterings, no broom to sweep up the shards of glass - only a kiss that tasted of wine and cinammon, a slight itch on her left nipple, and a bit of white that would come out in the shower.

Fucking

""Don't push it", she said, as if I could do anything but, with you running around in my head. Kisses became evidence that you meant to leave me, and I would have preferred slaps, to the uncertainty of nights between your thighs, if I weren't so addicted to your fucking body."

She paused."That is the worst fucking writing I've ever seen - and I've read Daniel Steele".
"Daniel who?"
"Steele. She writes harlequin romance novels."
"Ok."
"You know the type that I'd like to read, if I weren't so busy trying to harlequinize my reality."
"Is that a word?"
"Shakespeare created neologisms - why can't I?"

Their conversation dangled (yes, like the Simon and Garfunkel song), as they sat on the couch, his laptop lying between them - and as she read her novel, he reread his words, and found them lacking; her kisses no longer seemed real, and he began to doubt that she loved him.

What kind of a girlfriend doesn't like your writing, anyway? Not one he needed - but he was so addicted to fucking her body.

Free Writing

They say that Israel waxes and wanes like the moon;
the bright orb leans against the blue sky;
I am enveloped by your black clouds,
mists winding and unwinding from my thighs,
two thick sticks that once held light inside me,
but now it is only when I feel you release,
that the emptiness decreases slightly,
a silver sliver worming its way through the hollow,
in a way that a burrower might forge an unkosher sukkah, or a hobbit hole:

If Israel is a menstruant woman, will God not nibble the crevice of her neck,
or bite her thighs?
Will His lips not touch her breasts?

But the purity must be preserved:
Let us hang a white sheet between us,
lest I stain you scarlet, as I stained your couch,
that time I was a week early -
and let us not touch each other,
lest my moon stop shining.

I could not love you because my lips could not speak,
there could be no becoming, the small act of creation
formed with each letter, like a kiss -
and what world have we created between us,
this little couch, and those tiny burgers,
 and silences to light our journey,
which once was lit by the moon of our stomachs,
waxing and waning into each other,
hushed "I loves you"s breathed into the dark,
the breath of being, and I nurtured your seed inside me,
and then resorted to cliches,
when the love could bear me no longer.

Planes' Plie

"I have become weaker than the wind", you said, "spinning in each direction like a ballerina with a broken leg", and in between the loathing for your mixed metaphors, I thought of a plane, of the wind pushing and pulling to bear you away from me, like the slow withdrawing of our thighs beneath mud-colored sheets.

I was menstruating, and resentful of a world that told me the blood between my thighs didn't mean anything, and somehow this was liberation. Men never had to be liberated - even though, according to Rousseau, they were everywhere in chains: "It's different when you're enslaved to yourself, because, in addition to being the slave, you're also the master",  I said, on our first date, but you just laughed and poured me more wine. I got so drunk, I nearly vomited while giving you a blowjob, but you were still able to come in my mouth, and when I left in the morning, I knew that you'd call me.

It was on the fourth date that I brought you flowers - I thought I was so cool for shifting the gender paradigm. You spent an hour looking for a vase; by the time you found one, the petals had wilted slightly, and I had peed four times.

 

 I like peeing; I like the feeling of letting go. So why is it so hard to release you, crystal by crystal, before your yellow rots in my mouth like a bunch of dandelions? I used to pick them during summer afternoons, and weave them into my hair, a walking stereotype waiting for the dramatic music, accompanied by deep-voiced male narration: The young lady tries not to cry as she reads Susan Sontag's ode to urination, and imagines airplanes dancing in the wind like disfigured ballerinas.

Shmuel 1/Rilke (trans S. Mitchell)/Cher

 He came to me through the shadows;
 at night we played chess beneath white sheets,
 flashlight between skinned knees -
 like the child that grows,

our love learned to swallow tears,
our lips learned to lie,
our mouths whispered good-bye:

Now, who will play with my fears?

Tragicomic Cups of Coffee

Maggie had lost the ability to focus. She clicked on headlines in the NY Times and NY Magazine, glancing at the top paragraph of each article before closing the tab on her browser. In between these attempts to read the news, she would go out for coffee with friends and blame all her problems on Facebook.

    The cafe nearest to her was one of those artsy places: Jazz played constantly in the background, and it sold salads with names like "Jerusalem Syndrome" and "Billy Holiday Delight". When Maggie was younger, she once dreamed that she was the Messiah, but then her teacher told her he had to be a king, and she was too young to dream about sex-change operations - speaking of which, there was some show about trannies that was the latest hit on Israeli TV, but being too lazy to read the article, Maggie didn't know exactly why the damn thing was so popular. The headline was enough, along with the picture of a drag-queen, wearing a silver necklace she would - what a silly phrase, "die for". Who on earth would die for a necklace, unless they were already suicidal? Well, give up a coffee for, perhaps.

    Maggie had a date that night, with some British dude she had met at a party. He had red hair, and she liked the way he smiled -but most of all, she liked his ability to completely skewer someone with his words, while laughing. There must be a more eloquent way to express that, but it's hard to be eloquent when you spend most of your time stalking photographs of other people's babies.

    When he showed up at her door with flowers, she was surprised - no one had ever bought her flowers before. She usually dated progressive types, who made you split the bill on the first date. She was beginning to suspect their feminism was merely stinginess in disguise. After she put the flowers in water, and spent fifteen minutes searching for a vase, they went to the local ice-cream shop. He ordered mint. She ordered chocolate.

    Afterwards, she didn't remember much of their conversation. She didn't even remember her asking him to come inside, but soon they were a mess of chest and lips and thighs, and her dress lay on the floorm her bra strewn over a chair. His boxers had landed on her laptop.

    Afterwards, they fell asleep in each other's arms, and when she woke up, she found a thank-you-note on her pillow. He'd forgotten his glasses on her desk. The entire day, she waited for his phone-call. She kept the note and the glasses in her top drawer.

    But no phone-call had come by the time she went to sleep (2 am) after several stressful cups of coffee. The jazz trumpets seemed to echo the beating of her heart, syncopated and out of sorts, and she wished that her own body could sound as beautiful as the music of an era where people didn't waste their time looking up online pictures of cats.

    The next morning, she took out the note and re-read it. She held the glasses to her breasts, and imagined his lips on her nipples. Again, he did not call. On the third day, she decided she might as well be productive and write some emo poetry, but the words would not come.

    It took a month for her to throw out the glasses. The note remained buried in the miscellaneous file that she kept in her closet. Soon, she found herself another first date - this time at the local cafe. Her partner was very impressed that she knew all the waiters, and she felt herself smiling halfway through her first sip of caffeine - but she did not invite him in at the end of the evening, and he went home feeling anxious.

    He spent the night weighing the pleasure of her laughter against the constriction in his chest when he felt pain - he had recently been spurned by another, and why risk a second chance at heart-break?

    When the phone-call she expected did not come, she was surprised to find she had learned not to cry. The next time she went out, she practiced a frown to take between sips, lest the man in question think that she likes him, lest he break her heart - and the good man, taking note of her frown, decided she wasn't interested, and went home to bury his bitterness in a cup of coffee.

Breakup Prose

I could feel her chest heaving against my hand.
"Don't", she said, and I looked away so I wouldn't have to see her cry.
But I could still hear her sobs over the music; I wanted to turn up the volume, but I knew it would be rude.
"It was good", I said, "it just -"
"Wasn't good enough."
"Don't say that -"

But I knew she was right. I knew it the way I knew that I didn't like papayas, or purple negligees.

"Fuck."
"Was I bad in bed?"

I laughed. Wrong reaction. The split second before the "no" hit my lips, gave her a fear I hadn't meant to instill.

"Fuck", I said again.

She laughed. "I'm the one who should get to say that."

I didn't offer to walk her out, merely listened to the sound of her footsteps harmonizing with the drumbeats - after I heard her close the door, I turned the volume up a little higher, and lay down on my newly purchased sheets.

Blossoming (An Ode to Cliches)

You took me softly in the night:

I was a flower, and you were the stamen, emerging from deep inside me. Our kisses ripened like the papaya I bought you for breakfast.

I ate the leftovers for lunch, as you sat on a fancy couch in another country, sipping your mother's tea. You only remembered to miss me in between spoonfuls of sugar - a slave-trade commodity.

It would be easier to close myself up, like a rose in nighttime, or to let you get pricked by my thorns. Instead, I bend back my petals, and cry beneath the stalks of your feet.

ירמיהו 52 ויאיר דלל "דרך הבשמים"

ובתוכה, ובתוכך - עיר של ורדים
ובתוכי, מרירות החוחים
בלכתך אחרי במדבר, בארץ לא זרוע
נטעתי את אהבתנו - למה הרסתה את העצים
בתרם נתנם פרי בתן?

פן ירדפנו, רדפנו - ועבדנו את דודיך, הטובים מיין
מתי תשמיענו את קולך, מתי תראה לנו את פניך
ותלתף אותנו כמו המטעתף בטלית, כן נטעתף האהבתך

מתי תנשקנו ממעון קולך?

Jeremiah 51/In prepapartion for 17 of Tammuz

Words are supposed to fall from your tongue like water
in the time of a drought, and would it be enough if I covered you in my kisses,
my lips licking the skin beneath your elbow, cliches forgotten between our thighs?

I have no more poetry to offer, only the crevices of my body,
and a bit of leftover eye-makeup.

Afterwards, I'll feed you cheese, and pretend to sip your coffee,
as we both ponder the inability of this closeness to stitch together
the holes in forgotten places:

They lie beyond language, beyond words, beyond tongues and kisses,
unreachable, like the Divine Presence that left the Temple,
that kissed the Babylonians with swords.

Jeremiah kissed the scroll of revenge before sending it off,
to be sunk by a rock in the river, but Song of Songs tells us
that love cannot be quenched by water, or soothed by fire.

I have stopped praying not to be consumed - instead,
I pray to feel the power of each flame, the bitterness of these ashes
 that line the ravaged temple of your bed - a floating boat in need of new sheets.

What will she look like, the one you trade me in for?

I already picture you kissing her by the door, in a way you do not kiss me.
 I already picture our nights apart - but this month is all about separation,
between God and nation, the two lovers who could not love -
God, that sounds like the title of some corny movie,
but Oscar Wilde always said that life immitates art.

Maybe he was right, this man for whom words fell like a flood,
and he learned how to let them consume him.

Jeremiah 50 (Written from the point of view of a Babylonian)

The voice of Marduk thunders:
Iron rains down upon the earth,
there is no dearth
of rage. As sword sunders
soul from body, our god plunders
the lillies of the valley, the maidens of the earth,
who cannot compete with the sun's wrath - Bundlers
of wheat, you are the chaff; death will teach you your worth.

Yet now who thunders, His voice greater
than any I have heard, His power mightier
than the sword
of our lord?


It is the Lord of Israel, Lord of Hosts,
who will turn us all into ghosts.

What happens when you listen to Shakira

Inspired by  the Shakira song, "Soy loca con mi tigre".

Soy loca como el tigre.

Yo tambien:

Puedo correr dentro las calles de tu coracon

y pisotear las flores dentro tu sangre,

deluvios rojos que vuelven para la floresta de pensamientos,
que no pueden correr, que quedan, escondidos en los arbores,
y cantan para las palomas.

Soy loca como el tigre,
 y voy quedar, escondido, en este flore,
que duerme en tu pecho,

dos montanas ricas,

sin  arbores, sin miedos, sin tigres.

Jeremiah 49

Tonight I can not focus: You face appears in my mind, surrounded by shards, the broken cities of the nations that will be destroyed - Ammon and Edom and other names I have been taught to care about. He said to show him the writing, but how can he know me? How can I let him kiss me when my thighs - what about my thighs? They no longer long for your touch, but they are still my thighs, and my body is still my body.

I do not like this sense of ownership, any more than I like the destruction of a nation I can not understand. Words like "revenge" ring hollow, and I can not define terms like "love" or "intimacy". I am told that revenge is the best happiness, or maybe the other way around.

It doesn't really matter. I am here, full of coffee, on a bed, trying to figure out what I want, afraid to know, because then I must claim it - just as I was afraid to let the words of this chapter seep through me, words about swords and orphans, prophecies about nations that exist now only in our imagination, the most powerful place of all.

I once watched a scientist talk about how humans were the only species whose imagination alone could lead them to orgasm, and I wanted to ask how she knew. Had she spoken to the dolphins and the lizzards? Do scientists even know how to measure when other species have orgasms? Perhaps these seem like silly questions, but so was her lecture, I guess.

It was a TED talk - very hit or miss, that website - and I think now I'm supposed to make some sort of joke about cum and cock and white stuff hitting someone's eyebrow, but I really don't want to.

My male friends tell me that sex with a condom is just not the same. Well tough luck. As with so many other things in life, its the woman who carries the burden - and most religious women don't even believe in abortion, so there we are, stuck between the choice of violating our beliefs, marrying men we don't love, or becoming social outcasts.

I have no idea what this has to do with Jeremiah, unless its that this too, is about conquering and violatins, and doesn't the Talmud compare land to a woman's body?

Tractates of thighs waiting to be learned by heart.

Waiting, waiting, waiting -we've already forgotten what we are waiting for. Time to bring in the Becket, only I despise postmodernism, with a - not a real passion, but an ironic passion, because feelings are so passe - almost as passe as prophets.

Please pass the salt. Let me sprinkle it between your eyes. Her face is so cute when she cries.

Jeremiah 48

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The Perils of Gossip

As she spoke, she could feel each word forming a wrinkle on her soul. She clutched at her sunglasses, as if the sun would pierce her skin, that little soft spot near her heart that tingled when she sounded out his name. Her laughter seemed false; the chocolate lost its magic, and she shrank into fear like a shadow. "I wish I could hold you", she said, but the breasts were far, the thighs on another shore. The sand was soft; grains seethed in an out of the water, like the blood that was pumped through four chambers, whose purposes she could not fathom, anymore than she could understand the distance between them: An ocean no mariner dared sail, and on the other side, a continent that would remain alone, unconquered and untamed. A field of weeds surrounded by purple flowers. Grains that seethe like your thighs. I bite my lips, and try not to whisper your name when I close my eyes.

Jeremiah 47 (5 minute imaginative exercise)

I have 5 minutes to describe a conquering army:

5 minutes until the chariots get here, and my wife's bread is burning in the oven. Just as well - I wouldn't have them eating something tasty - bad enough that they'll come between her thighs. I offered to kill her with my sword, but she didn't seem to keen on the idea. Johnny and Al have already been sent away from the castle.

Fucking dustclouds. The beating of hoofs is like the stomping of my thighs, and I wish that I could lay with her for a thousand nights. Funny thing to regret, I suppose, but why not? And why dwell on philosophy, with four minutes left, and counting?

2 now. Damn, that took a while to type. Fingers - stange things, aren't they? I never thought about it really: Is this the part where I'm supposed to say that every breath is a miracle? I open my mouth and wait for a prayer.

"No" is the only word that comes out. There's one minute left, and I want a drink of water. One minute to describe the swords, spear-tips that thrust -

Jeremiah 46

I based this on an exercise in my class at Beit Avichai: We write down verses from Song of  Songs that appeal to us and write poems out of them. Here I took verses from Jeremiah, chapter 46, and made a poem based out of my own loose translations of the verses (with a line added at the end that was not directly based off of a loose translation of a verse).

Prepare your shield and make war;
cover me in blood like kisses.

Why have I seen the back coat of your armor?
Don't run away; I can't tell you not to fear.

You rise up like the Nile to greet me;
my eyes are blinded by your waves.

Why have I beheld the glory,
waters too bright for my eyes?

I can still feel your ripples against my thighs.

Below are the verses I used (3, 5, 6,7, 8, 25, 27, 28):

ערכו מגן וצנה uגשו מלחמה
מדוע  ראיתי המה חתים נסגים אחור
אל ינוס הקהל
הנני פוקד
אל תירא עבדי יעקב
מדוע ראיתי
מי זה כיאר יעלה

J45

"Don't think you're special", he says, and you - nothing. Words become empty spaces, like the curves between your thighs.

There was a time when - but you'd rather not think about that. Better to close yourself off, like a flower during the night, when even the roses loose their fragrances.

Better not to cry.

Jeremiah 44 (Free-writing)

The words stick in his skin, like shards of glass:
broken letters stream through his lips,
punctuation marks dot his hair,
knotted around his neck like a noose,
as he struggles against the weight of phrases
that bear thousands of years behind them:

Why must paper burn like kisses?

The flames lick the pages
like thirsty gazelles - they look so dainty,
their little horns bent towards the water,
like your mouth, winding its way around my neck,
like a noose, and I am weighed down
by the words you could not say:

Good-bye.

One word, when hyphenated, or more of a phrase, really,
with horns sharper than shards of glass,
and I wish/do not wish that I could see myself reflected
in the mirror embedded in your skin,
but Sartre said it's hell to see yourself through others eyes,
and he's French, so he must be right?

But must is the name of a fish, over-salted and served with lemon:
I am jealous of that fish, because it feels your lips  against its skin,
your bites against its thighs - wait a minute, do fish have thighs?

Do their fins give them sexual pleasure, when they make love beneath the waves?

Google tells me that fish do not make love. They reproduce through external fertilization. Quite a boring life, really. Next, Yahoo will tell me that birds don't cry, that dragons never existed, and Pluto's not a planet.

But I would rather live in my world of illusions. It's so cozy here, beneath the purple blanket, and I grow wings when I close my eyes. In the land of dreams, unweighted by letters, I learn to fly.

תקוה

התקוה התחילה בתוך הסתיו, טיפ-טיפה, כמו שטן. ואני הסתובבתי בתוך הסרחון, אודם על שפתי, איפור בין עיני, עד שתפסוה השומרים, ונסתם באר המים.

יפה כלבנה הייתה בין ירכיי, צואריך כמגדל השן, ששרף את פני, שנשרף משדיי, כי פתחתי אני לדודי, אך דודי חמק, עבר לו, כמו סתיו שנכתף על ידי הרוח, כמו שטן שזורם, תוך ביוב, לשפת הנחל, ונפשי נשארה, מתושתשת ומבולבלת, עד סוף החורף, כשהתקוה הגיעה, והתחילה לדפדף טיפ-טיפה, כמו מעיין המתגבר

ואימתי תבא הגאולה?
אני מאמינה, באמונה שלימה.

בערב שבת : לכו ונלכה באור ה

לקראת שבת אשירה, פן תשקע השחר, ואתמלמל מילי אהבה, ואספר סיפורי שנאה,  כי לכל דבר יש זמנו תחת השמש -
ואתה, אנא תלך נא, הרוע בשדה, שושנת העמקים - הרי קראתי איליך ממעמקים.

מנסה לשפר

אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
פן תדבקני הרע בעיניך,
פן אתמכר לכף רגליך,
והייתי למרה בתוכך,
ואתחבא מאור פניך:
התהלכתה לפני,
כחייל בשדה מוקשים,
ותבהל לדרוך את רגליך,
רמס חצרי, כובש ירכיי, נושך את שדיי.

מי ביקש זאת מידך?

הלא "אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
לא "מנשיקות פיך תנשקני"
ולא, "לקראת השחר תנשכני",
 פן תדבקני הרע בלבביך,
ונהפכתי למרה בתוכך,
והייתי לשדה מוקשים:

ריח עשבים
מלתף את פניך
שבעתי מחוחי השושנים-
  כבר נדקרתי מערוגת הבושם של צואריך
שנדבק לשפתיה באמרותם "אל תיגע בי".

כבר הייתי לטרף בין שינייך. האם טעמי מצא חין בעיניך?

אם נהפכתי למרה בעיניך,
 נא המתיקני
בין שפתיך
ותכניסני תחת כנפיך:

- כי "אל תיגע בי" היא אמרה
אך כבר התמכרתי לעור פניך.

Post Yom Hashoah

You press your lips to the bread,
my thighs to your thighs:

I ponder the era when your hands wove in and out of my body,
our skin softer than this bread, because God created us without crusts,
when He threw some earth into a kiln and named it Adam;
you mold my body around yours like clay -
my thighs are two handles sticking out of your back,
my body a jug meant to hold you.

But now I lie, empty,
and the breadrcrumbs cannot sate the hunger of my thighs.
 The crusts feel hard between my lips;
I suck gently, and try not to cry.

J43 http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt1143.htm

Take your reconstructed house, the fragments of your life, and put them in a bag. Sling that bag over your shoulders, and sing songs in a language you do not understand. Wait for a miracle, the way insomniacs long for sleep - but don't be surprised when I give you nightmares. I've promised you monsters and too few kisses, and I always keep my word. It is a sign of love to keep one's promises, and as you fell asleep beneath my wings, it was you who turned away your lips - like this.

Jeremiah 42: http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt1142.htm

I wanted to think of a poem, and I didn't want it to be about sex. The problem is, that the chapter is all about a yearning for connection, and missed desires. And it doesn't get much sexier than that. I could de-sexify it, by making up silly words and telling stories about my yearning for a connection to water, and how I didn't fulfill my desire of showering today - but that would just make me want to take my shirt off.

And exile just really makes me think of beds, even though I've gotten oddly accustomed to my own. That's a good thing, I suppose: I mean, who wants to go to Egypt, even if they have nice cotton? It's hard not read my own life into the text; as a matter of fact, given that the text was recorded for a reason, I'm not even sure its unethical - for all I know, the purpose of the texts might be that we read our lives into them, and the texts into our lives - a life-immitating art-immitating life- type of thing, that Oscar Wilde would despise.

I shouldn't speak in his name, since I haven't met him of course - and I think I was supposed to be pondering Jews asking Jeremiah to pray to God about whether or not they should go to Egypt, even though they'd already made up their minds to leave the holy land, and I'm not sure why that reminds me of breakups, or why I'm thinking about the lassagna I ate for dinner, and craving chocolate.

Or maybe I do know, but I just don't feel like sharing with my invisible readers, the mixed magnitude that caused so much trouble in the Bible, the rabble-rousers who convinced the Jews to cry that they wanted to go back to Egypt, instead of entering the promised land.

You promised me nothing, besides your body, and I promised you only with my eyes, which you drank in then spit out, like a camel.

An unflattering metaphor, for a man with deep brown eyes. Oh, let me keep up the cliches: Let me add in bouquets or roses, and "hazel". Let me keep writing, always, to keep myself from pondering a yearning for connection, and missed desires, religion and sex, and the link between them.

Let me keep writing till I close my eyes, and pray for dreams not graced by your presence. Let me have dreams graced by your presence. Let me taste your tongue, your thighs.

Let me-----

Jeremiah 41: http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt1141.htm

It shouldn't matter that they killed him in a mountain, or that his blood trickled down a spot of mud, between the sheaves of grass, or leaves of grass, or kisses of wheat. It shouldn't matter that his blonde curls unfurled against purple petals, or that he never had blonde curls, or that the mountains never ascended from the valley. It shouldn't matter that our love died between my breasts, or that you came between my thighs.

When I think of your voice, whispering  "I like it when I come inside you", I shouldn't blame myself for letting you in and unfurling my petals. Is it my fault that in my desire to blossom, I mistook your words for rain, your bites for kisses?

Gedalia's corpse lay unburied; soon, his dust was forgotten beneath marching feet, but I can not forget, even when I am afraid to remember. They say that remembrance is the lot of our people, and every year, we hold a fast titled in his name, but I can not drown out your face with the taste of hamburgers.

I might pray to God, like the pilgrims who came, bearing frankincense - something I imagine smells slightly like your aftershave. But how can I pray for that which I can not hold? You molded my clay in your image, yet you found the reflection displeasing.

It shouldn't matter. But it does: So two thousand years later, I read it in a book, and try to refrain from whispering your name in the dark. I don't think you ever said my name while you were inside me; to do so would be to claim me - the you inside of me, the me inside of you - I was never phased by the Biblical phrase "And Adam knew Eve": What deeper way is there to know someone, than to feel their body inside you?

After the first prophecy, Moses and God shared a cigarette. You and I shared a slice of pizza - no toppings. You were a purist at the temple of love, and I should have known better than to get involved with a fanatic - but damn, you looked sexy when you were unfurling your banner. Don't ask me, what was the cause.  As long as you kept on watering my petals, that didn't matter.

You've sewn the grain - now pick your fucking flower.

Jeremiah 40 (another 6 minute free writing exercise)

In the time you gathered your grain,

I drank your kisses like wine.

Drunkenly, we heaved between the sheaves;

I braided husks through your hair,

the color of flames, of ashes:

They say the temple lies in cinders,

but I would build an altar
and sacrifice our burnt love

before the God who neither sleeps nor slumbers;

love may hibernate for a thousand years

before being awakend by my kisses,
by the little tips of your ears, the freckle on your arm,

I swear to neither sleep nor slumber

until I have rekindled the flames,

burnt our bodies on the altar of your bed,
and harvested the grain of your body.

Jeremiah 39: 6 minutes to write before I must leave the house (Monologue by Nebuchadnezzer to Zedekiah)

The last thing your eyes will see is your children's blood,
their thighs trembling like a virgin's in the temple,
on the night when the generals conquer them for the first time -
we too, have conquered your country's thighs and sucked on her breasts:
they tasted of gold, and her nipples reeked of iron.
Where is your silver now, you pig? Stop grovelling.
At least let your sons see you brave, as they descend to an underworld you don't believe in
See what your God of thirteen measures has meted out - repent and weep.
Where is He who took you out of Egypt?
Ten plagues my ass!

After I kill your firstborn, maybe I will spread his blood on my doorpost - it would go nicely with the painting I have in my foyer. Then I will have my whore spread her legs - maybe I'll force her to lick the blood from my fingers. I wonder what it tastes like - sweeter than cum? No, it has too much iron. Like a sword.

Take out his eyes. Let the image of his children's blood fall on the empty sockets like rain. Now bring me some wine.

The curtain closes, and all is silent.

Jeremiah 38: Free-writing while listening to Sarit Haddad (A work in progress)

Once there was a man, and the man was filled with words. The words were rough, hard, and unpleasant to look upon, like his fingers. So the prince threw him in a pit, where his voice could not be heard, and returned home to look at diamonds and drink coffee. Yet one day, when the diamonds lost their luster, and the coffee's bitterness could not be sweetened with white crystals, the prince remembered the ugly voice that left his thighs tingling. So he lowered ropes into the well, tough like the prophet's fingers, raised him up, and drank in his words. When the princesses asked why the prince was crying, he kissed her; behind the mirror, the prophet remained, bound in silence, as he licked the bread that tasted like sugar on his lips.

I seem to be constantly working on endings

Ok, so in between my oxygen paranoia (and general obsession with the pre-frontal cortex), I manage to drive myself crazy about tiny edits - and sometimes I wonder if I publish too early, since it often happens that, when I read over a blogpost, I see little things jumping out at me, that need fixing. The previous piece I published was edited before posting, but now I see things about it that nag at me - yet because it's already been posted, simply editing those things seems like a travesty. I feel this irrational need to let the previous post stand - perhaps because I'm not sure whether the current edits that are stuck in my mind are an improvement, or simply a meaningful difference.

Yet here goes an alternative version of (what should probably be) the second paragraph:

Sex cannot be defined, because it occurs in the fourth dimension of the universe, and our dictionaries only cover the three dimensions charted by philosophers: They say that love is lust, divided over time, multiplied by a factor of unwashed dishes - or some such nonsense, I don't remember, really - it's hard to think when your hands are between my thighs. The night air bites me; I am filled by your kisses, and I close my eyes.

Ok, reading this over, I think my edits are a bit of an improvement. How do you know when something is "ready"? A question not just about blogposts, but about life, really.

Pondering Prostitutes

The air is suffused with self-righteous liberalism, as I ponder the blackness of her feet, the poem behind each speck of dirt leaning against her pores, your hands roaming down my skirt in a back alley, as if they had read my poems, and I am trying so hard not to feel the pressure of your lips, not to let myself go, because I know that if I come I will cry; then I will be here, beneath you, completely vulnerable, and then you will leave me. I know this the way I know the air's bite on my cheek, the way I know the letters of my poems, the way my tongue tastes your kisses. If I could draw you deep inside me, like a well, I would seal our love with stones, and build a hut above the waters. But love is not like a bird that can be chained, nor like a metaphor, that can be over-used and spun into Chinese folktales about emperors and nightingales. Nor is sex a thing that can be defined, because it occurs in a fourth dimension of the universe, and our dictionaries only cover the three dimensions that have been charted by philosophers. They said that love is lust, divided over time, multiplied by a factor of unwashed dishes - or some such nonsense, I don't remember, really - it's hard to think when your hands are moving between my thighs. The night air bites me; I am filled by your kisses, and I close my eyes.

Jeremiah 37

In this chapter, Jeremiah gets put in a jaill in a scribe's house. The king seeks Jeremiah's prophecy, and in exchange, transfers him to a different prison in "the court of the guard" (presumably near the palace grounds) where Jeremiah is given bread everyday, until the city runs out of bread due to the Babylonian siege. This got me started on thinking a scribe's house, or a library, as a prison. Here is the result:

They won't let me read Rilke in here, or write about flowers. All day long they make me read Fernando Pessoa, and criticize my Portuguese. They even put bars on the windows, and the bread they feed me is moldy - the say this makes it taste more like a metaphor.

Today, God came and told me to write a poem - but he wouldn't give me a topic, only a title - "Song of Songs". But  how can you write a song when you are starving?

"This is a library, not a prison", they say, but any place is a prison when you can't leave. They even make me earn my pens by dusting the shelves, and my paper by cleaning book-covers - and why won't they let me sing rose-petal serenades?

"This next poem", they say, "had better be good, or you're looking at life without parole". Well screw them! What do they know? When's the last time they used meter or metonymy?

I bet they can't even rhyme, those jail guards, with their silly sticks and their brown hats. Maybe I'll write a song about their stupidity: I would gladly trade some beauty for a piece of chocolate.

different version pondering slight changes

"אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
פן תדבקני הרע בעיניך,
פן אתמכר לכף רגליך,
ואתמרמר בתוכך,
ואתחבא מאור פניך:
התהלכתה לפני,
כחייל בשדה מוקשים,
ותבהל לדרוך את רגליך,
רמס חצרי, כובש ירכיי, נושך את שדיי.

מי ביקש זאת מידך?

הלא "אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
לא "מנשיקות פיך תנשקני"
ולא, "לקראת השחר תנשכני",
 פן תדבקני הרע בלבביך,
ואתמרמר בתוכך,
ונהפכתי לשדה מוקשים:

ריח עשבים
מלתף את פניך
שבעתי מחוחי השושנים-
  כבר נדקרתי מערוגת הבושם של צואריך
שנדבק לשפתיה באמרותם "אל תיגע בי".

כבר הייתי לטרף בין שינייך. האם טעמי מצא חין בעיניך?

אם התמרמרתי,
 נא המתיקני
בין שפתיך
ותכניסני תחת כנפיך:
ש"אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
אך אני כבר מכורה לעור פניך

Trans. of most recent vers.

"Don't touch me", she said:
 "Perhaps your eyes' evil will infect me,
or I'll become addicted to your foot,
and hide from your face's light".

You went before me like a soldier
in a mine-field, afraid
to put down your foot - yard-trampeler,
thigh-conqueror,  breast-biter.

Who asked this of you?

Did she not say, "Don't touch me"?
Not "Kiss me" or "Bite me" -
for perhaps I will be infected
by the badness in your heart,
and become bitter inside you -
I will become a mine-field:

The scent of grass caresses your face.
I've grown satisfied from the roses' thorns;
I've already been pricked by perfume of your neck,
that stuck to her lips when they said, "Dont't touch me".

I've already been prey between your teeth. Did you like how I tasted?

If I have become bitter, please
sweeten me between your lips-
for "Don't touch me", she said,
but I'm already addicted to your face, your skin.

(גם כן מהחוג) שירת הטרף

"אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
פן תדבקני הרע בעיניך,
פן אתמכר לכף רגליך,
ואתמרמר בתוכך,
ואתחבא מאור פניך:
התהלכתה לפני,
כחייל בשדה מוקשים,
ותבהל לדרוך את רגליך,
רמס חצרי, כובש ירכיי, נושך את שדיי.

מי ביקש זאת מידך?

הלא "אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
לא "מנשיקות פיך תנשקני"
ולא, "לקראת השחר תנשכני",
 פן תדבקני הרעה בלבביך,
ואתמרמר בתוכך,
ונהפכתי לשדה מוקשים-
פן יפגע הבא אחרך.

כבר הייתי לטרף בין שינייך. האם טעמי מצא חין בעיניך?

אם התמרמרתי,
המתיקני
נא על שפתיך
ותכניסני תחת כנפיך:
ש"אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
אך אני כבר מכורה לעור פניך.

מלמנצח בנגימות - חוב בבית אביחי בהשראת שיר השירים

הססתי אם לשים פה או לא, אך בסוף, הבלוג הזה הוא כדי לשתף אתכם לכתיבות שלי - גם כשהם לא יוצאות איך שהייתי רוצה.

גם כן, לשדר זה ממכר :)
 

דודי ירד למו,
השאיר אותי בלעדו,
 ירד לערוגת הבושם,
לרעות בגנים,
וללקט שושנים,
כי לא אהב את הבושם של שדיי,
וכבר נמעס לן מריח לחיי

אני לדודי - האם הוא לי?
הרועה שושנים

לא ידעתי נפשו -
שמחני רוכב מרכבות,
האומר "עמי נדיב".

אף פעם לא אמרתה "שני שדייך כשני עפרים"
וביום האהבה, לא קניתה לי פרחים -
זה דודי, וזה רעי, בנות ירושלים
שם אתן את דודי לך,
ואולי שדייך ימצאו חין בעיניו

כי דודי ירד למו,
השאיר אותי בלעדו
,ירד לערוגת הבושם
לרעות בגנים,
וללקט שושנים,
כי לא אהב את הבושם של שדיי,
וכבר נמעס לן מריח לחיי

אני לדודי,
אך אין הוא לי,
ואני נשארתי לבדי,
ביו השושנים.
,

Getting Ready For Bed: A Manual

1. Change into pajamas.
2. Remember the night you kissed me by the apple-grove.
3. Critique myself, because I don't think there is such a thing as an apple-grove.
4. Unbind my hair.
5. Forget the night you kissed me by the apple-grove.

Jeremiah 36 (Free-writing exercise)

The scroll is beautiful in its burning;
the ink smells slightly sweet -
it reminds me of my wife's hair,
when she scents it with rose and cinammon.

The flames are reflected in the king's crown:
A stubborn man, who thinks that words can die.
Next he will tell me that love is eternal,
when in fact it is no more than lust
mixed in with a little bit of dopamine -
that bitch Sheila must be playing with his mind:

I've seen her breasts through the chiffon robes
she let slip at the royal banquet (pre-fast, of course:
Even his majesty knows not to screw too much
with the religious establishment.)
and they are glorious, like the words of God,
or my wife's kisses, which, like the scroll,
burn slowly inside of me,
until they have eaten the ashes.

Jeremiah 35 (Not my best work)

Listen to the horses,
drunk on your vineyard's wine:

Kiss the grapes,
before you kiss me -
your lips taste like sweat and toothpaste,
minty, like the tea you made me,
on a night when I loved you too much
to care that your lips tasted like toothpaste.

On a night when the horses were sober,
and the grapes were still on the vine,
I listened to your words that tasted like kisses,
and forgot to brush my teeth,
before falling asleep to the horses' whine.

Breakup (A Fairy Tale)

Once upon a time, there was a princess, who was born in exile. The princess strove to learn the language and culture of her people. When she felt she was about to flower, she returned to her homeland - and never had she felt so lonely. She waited for others to see the beauty of her petals, but they were too focused on the other flowers, and her lilac hues seemed paltry under the Middle Eastern sun - until he came, plucked her by her stem, and kissed her petals; she felt herself open beneath the touch of his fingers. Then, one day, he dropped her: She did not know why, and the soil felt strange beneath her leaves. She grew afraid of her thorns, for they might prick the next man's fingers. Yet soon she found beauty in the brown earth, and grew to cherish the soil's softness against her skin. So she blew love into her petals, and waited for the next stranger to pick her from the forest floor - one who would learn to see the beauty of her thorns.

Conversation

"Sometimes I read my writing, just to convince myself that I've loved."
"Would it help if I wrote you a love poem?"
She laughed. "Thanks, but it's about my ability to love not about -"
"Not about your ability to be loved? Isn't that just as important?"
She shrugged and took a sip of beer.
"You know, I think that's the first time a girl ever turned down an offer for me to write her a poem."
She laughed. "Do you usually ask?"
"Of course. I only believe in love-poems with consent."
They both took a few sips. He tried not to stare at her breasts.
"Do you ever wonder if how it makes sex different, for men and for women, that we have to let our men inside us? Sorry - I spend way too much time thinking about sex. I'm like a guy in that way - that's why I have mostly male friends, I think."
He thinks, "No, you have mostly male friends because you wear lowcut shirts", but he doesn't say anything.
They continue drinking in silence.

For Tzedekiah (Jeremiah 34)

Your lips upon his lips-
he binds you in chains.

You unchained the masses,
but their masters bound their wrists,
and you have forgotten the taste of her lips.

The people's lips have forgotten the taste of figs,
of cheese and wine, of words - only Jeremiah
remembers how to form letters with his tongue,
and with his words, he tries to bind you.

Your lips upon his lips,
he will carry you to a country with golden walls
where your dream of her lips:

Your chains are scented with myhrr and lavender.

My lips were scented with cinammon,
when I bound you with the tresses of my hair,
and when I feared the hollow places,
I gave you my breasts as your song,
my tears as your lamentation.

A swan with ruffled feathers
glides upon your beak:

 Unchain her, please, so I can bring her to the zoo, and earn a few dollars. I'd like to buy some lavender.

שירת מוצאת שלום

From למנצח בנגינות writing course at Avi Chai, using phrases/imagery from Song of Songs:

ביקשתי את שאהבה נפשי

ולא מצאתי -

לא בערוגת הבסם של צואריך

לא בעטרה עזה של מצחך,

וליבי ער, יונתי תמתי -

מתי תשמיעני את קולך?

כשושנת העמקים הייתי בחיקך

הרועה בשושנים

לך לך, לגן העגוזים,  -

ועדר חדש ילתף את פניך

תנשקנו ממעין קולך,

ועל שפתיך ימתיקו החוחים.

ואני חומה,

הבנויה על חשק

לערוגת הבסם של צואריך,

שביקש את שאהבה נפשיך -

מדוע לא תשמיעני את קולך?

Quasi-autobiographical fragment (Purim) (Note: This piece references Harry Potter.)

The world grows quiet. You hold my hand at the end, watching our relationship die, like the flowers you never gave me for Valentine's day - and I know, somehow, that I will manage to hold this pain inside me. I know because I have held it there before, I, the dumper, never the dumpee, now strewn across your lap like a rag-doll, trying not feel guilty for the tears that are wetting your trousers - even though I sensed this moment, sensed it across a feast in honor of a woman who bears my name, felt it between my thighs and in the flap of skin beneath my elbow, tasted it like a kiss, or like fear, when at night my eyes refused to let me sleep. There is a certain beauty in a romance dying: I imagine it looks like a dead baby unicorn - and he who drinks the blood shall have but half-life, for he shall be consumed by memories. So let my skin forget the touch of your thighs, my lips the pressure of your lips, my hair the stroke of your fingers. Let my tongue unlearn words you half-whispered in the dark - and may my pen never write you a love-poem. Only a piece of prose, sticking out from the page like a piece of glass; sharp and shapeless, it lies transparent, waiting to prick the fur of the unsuspecting unicorn, who will lie, her legs jutting out at odd angles, at the clearing to a magical forest, where hearts sew themselves back together with thread so fine, you can only feel it when you press them close between your thighs - so why can I still hear the beating of your heart when I close my eyes?

Unfinished Fragment, becaue I got distracted and started checking emails in the middle of writing - and now I am thinking about modernity and Kafka. I feel so pretentious. This is what happens when you watch Woody Allen.

Their faces will meet. Their breath will touch, and mingle in the air. There are no more shadows here, no more men to cradle you in the dark. The light dances into your eyes, and you feel like crying. Do you remember the time, before you felt afraid?

Moonlight no longer caresses you arms when you can not fall asleep, and you have grown to fear the silence. The threats of an empty field are strewn across your dreams; bites have replaced kisses.

"Sometimes freedom lies in chains". He said that to you once, with his fingers cupped around your chin, and you laughed. But now you lie, chained to longing, wishing for the iron bands to put around your wrists, the kisses that would set you free.

How cliche. Like a moonlit evening, or dancing in the rain, these metaphors we create and wrap around ourselves like blankets, as if they could protect us from pain.

Tightening endings

 The rain beats against the palace walls - like kisses, they slide softly down the iron bars, and I wish I could press their soft petals to my lips. Whoever thought the day would come when I longed for water more than the touch of a woman? I think of the whore from the fig-grove; I imagine the wet beads sliding down her breasts, her thighs, the small drop of water nestling against the crevice of his lips when he puts his mouth on her nipples. But who can afford her, nowadays? She must sell blow-jobs for bread-crusts - at least I get those for free, courtesy of the king.

God tells me he will redeem His nation. He tells me brides will adorn themselves by the walls of the temple. But what good does that do them now, these men and women who would sell their children for half a shriveled fig, as Nebuchadnezzar's army holds nightly orgies outside the city walls?

"As night and day, so is my treaty with this nation". His voice rumbles like war-drums, and the passion in His kisses makes me tremble. My finger pricks at the wetness around the bars; I insert it into my lips, and my mouth is filled with the taste of iron. Lightning bounces off of moonlight, peeking in between the slats.

The rustle of metal. The key in the chain. "Your daily bread". A brown piece of mush is tossed in my direction. My wrists are wasted by these manacles. I try not to think of what I look like as I bring the bread to my mouth - would she laugh at me, that girl for whom I wanted to buy flowers? Would she recognize me?

"Redemption." I hear God whisper in my ear. His murmurings mingle with the kisses that slide down the iron bars, this rain that will quench the thirst of the soldiers, their mouths open, as the women undulate beneath them  like the river my fathers once crossed, on their way into the promised land, kissing their wives and speaking of redemption, their hands clutching weapons of iron, whose taste lingers in between my lips, like the kiss of a lover, or a whore, who now lies wet beneath a grove of fig-trees, that once shaded Adam from his shame. Eve could not feel embarrassed: She was too busy deciding which fig-leaf looked best against her skin. "There is a fine difference between the different shades of green", she explained to Adam, when he complained.

An angel transformed his words into prayer as they left his lips, lest Eve get upset, and forget to give Adam his daily blow-job. The first religious ritual was born from a need for sex, and a bit of prehistoric shopping. Next season, Eve decided that apple-blossoms were the latest trend; as she braided them into Adam's hair; his prayers grew longer, and soon she started to swallow.

The snake crawled by and hissed at the happy couple, the way the priests hissed at me when I came with the words of God in my mouth, heavy like a piece of iron, waiting to be unchained. 

I am still waiting.

Jeremiah 33 - playing with endings

The rain beats against the palace walls - like kisses, they slide softly down the iron bars, and I wish I could press their soft petals to my lips. Whoever thought the day would come when I longed for water more than the touch of a woman? I think of the whore from the fig-grove; I imagine the wet beads sliding down her breasts, her thighs, the small drop of water nestling against the crevice of his lips when he puts his mouth on her nipples. But who can afford her, nowadays? She must sell blow-jobs for bread-crusts - at least I get those for free, courtesy of the king.

God tells me he will redeem His nation. He tells me brides will adorn themselves by the walls of the temple. But what good does that do them now, these men and women who would sell their children for half a shriveled fig, as Nebuchadnezzar's army holds nightly orgies outside the city walls?

"As night and day, so is my treaty with this nation". His voice rumbles like war-drums, and the passion in His kisses makes me tremble. My finger pricks at the wetness around the bars; I insert it into my lips, and my mouth is filled with the taste of iron. Lightning bounces off of moonlight, peeking in between the slats.

The rustle of metal. The key in the chain. "Your daily bread". A brown piece of mush is tossed in my direction. My wrists are wasted by these manacles. I try not to think of what I look like as I bring the bread to my mouth - would she laugh at me, that girl for whom I wanted to buy flowers? Would she recognize me?

"Redemption." I hear God whisper in my ear. His murmurings mingle with the kisses that slide down the iron bars, this rain that will quench the thirst of the soldiers, their mouths open, as the women undulate beneath them  like the river my fathers once crossed, on their way into the promised land, kissing their wives and speaking of redemption, their hands clutching weapons of iron, whose taste lingers in between my lips, like the kiss of a lover, or a whore, who now lies wet beneath a grove of fig-trees, that once shaded Adam from his shame. Eve could not feel embarrassed: She was too busy deciding which fig-leaf looked best against her skin. "There is a fine difference between the different shades of green", she explained to Adam, when he complained.

An angel transformed his words into prayer, as they left his lips, lest Eve get pissed off, and forget to give Adam his daily blow-job. The first religious ritual was born from a need for sex, and a bit of prehistoric shopping. Next season, Eve decided that apple-blossoms were the latest trend, and used to braid them into Adam's hair; his prayers grew longer, and she started to swallow.

The snake crawled by on his belly and hissed at the happy couple, the way the priests hissed at me when I came with the words of God in my mouth, heavy like a piece of iron, waiting to be unchained. 

I am still waiting.

Jeremiah 33

The rain beats against the palace walls, like kisses, they slide softly down the iron bars, and I wish I could press their soft petals to my lips- whoever thought the day would come when I longed for water more than the touch of a woman. I think of the whore from the fig-grove; I imagine the wet beads sliding down her breasts, her thighs, the small drop of water nestling against the crevice of his lips when he puts his mouth on her nipples. But who can afford her, nowadays? She must sell blow-jobs for bread-crusts - at least I get those for free, courtesy of the king.

God tells me he will redeem His nation. He tells me brides will adorn themselves by the walls of the temple. But what good does that do them now, these men and women who would sell their children for half a shriveled fig, as Nebuchadnezzar's army holds nightly orgies outside the city walls.

"As night and day, so is my treaty with this nation". His voice rumbles like war-drums, and the passion in His kisses of thunder makes me tremble. My finger pricks at the wetness around the bars; I insert it into my lips, and my mouth is filled with the taste of iron. Lightning bounces off of moonlight, peeking in between the slats.

The rustle of metal. The key in the chain. "Your daily bread". A brown piece of mush is tossed in my direction. My wrists are wasted by these manacles. I try not to think of what I look like as I bring the bread to my mouth - would she laugh at me, the girl for whom I wanted to buy flowers? Would she recognize me?

"Redemption." I hear God whisper in my ear. His murmurings mingle with the kisses that slide down the iron bars, this rain that will quench the thirst of the soldiers, their mouths open, as the women undulate beneath them like a river, like the river my fathers once crossed, on their way into the promised land, kissing their wives and speaking of redemption, their hands clutching weapons of iron, whose taste lingers in between my lips, like the kiss of a lover, or a whore, who now lies wet beneath a grove of fig-trees, that once shaded Adam from his shame. Eve could not feel embarrassed: She was too busy deciding which fig-leaf looked best against her skin. "There is a fine difference between the different shades of green", she explained to Adam, when he complained - and from this complaint, was born prayer.

All this ritual, from just a little bit of prehistoric shopping - and they say that women don't run the universe.

Insomnia Edits Her Pieces (My eyes hurt. Why can't I fall asleep? Or read by the light of your eyes.)

The rain bleeds into me like a woman; I feel it soaking my thighs, and I pull at the tattered grey that once covered my body, before I had learned to lie in these chains. They let me out twice a day to attend to my needs, but in these times of drought, it's a miracle when one has enough water inside to let any out.

I was not expecting the rain. God had not told me, nor had He warned me of the mud. (What fine brown sheets.) When the messenger came, I looked like - well, certainly like nothing that could be described in polite company. But soon it was done, the transaction, the contract buried in potted shards by the river, and I thought of your eyes, and the brown thickets  between your legs that I combed with my fingers. (You never took care of your nails, and always did the dishes. I could never decide which habit annoyed me more.)

One day, they will rebuild. That's what I am told: Golden palaces will rise from these faded stones. How cliche. I told God I wanted a better metaphor, but He went on and on about "speaking in the language of humans".  I'm not really sure what the means. To kiss like a human, that makes more sense to me - and don't both activities involve our lips and tongues?

 I was never right for this job, but neither was Moses, and look how he wound up: buried in a mountain. Still, famous, I suppose. I never was such a fan of that ocean song, myself - I prefer rivers.

Rivulets of water sing me lullabies, and I feel the rust in the chains. I hear rivers when I close my eyes, and long, like a woman, for your lips upon my thighs.

Jeremiah 32

The rain bleeds into me like a woman; I feel it soaking my thighs, and I pull at the tattered grey that once covered my body, before I had learned to lie in these chains. They let me out twice a day to attend to my needs, but in these times of drought, it's a miracle when one has enough water inside to let any out.

I was not expecting the rain. God had not told me, nor had He warned me of the mud. (What fine brown sheets.) When the messenger came, I looked like - well, certainly like nothing that could be described in polite company. But soon it was done, the transaction, the contract buried in potted shards by the river, and I thought of your eyes, and the brown thickets  between your legs that I combed with my fingers. (You never took care of your nails, and always did the dishes. I could never decide which habit annoyed me more.)

One day, they will rebuild. That's what I am told: Golden palaces will rise from these faded stones. How cliche. I told God I wanted a better metaphor, but He went on and on about "speaking in the language of humans".  I'm not really sure what the means. To kiss like a human, that makes more sense to me - and don't both activities involve our lips and tongues and teeth? (But not too much teeth, I hope.)

I was never right for this job, but neither was Moses, and look how he wound up: buried in a mountain. Still, famous, I suppose. I never was such a fan of that ocean song, myself - I prefer rivers.

Rivulets of water sing me lullabies, and I feel the rust in the chains. I hear rivers when I close my eyes, and long, like a woman, for your lips upon my thighs.

31

I had a lot of trouble writing something for Jeremiah 31. I wound up reading it a few times, and then writing something later, as opposed to my general "read then write immediately" method. This is a short exercise - I tried to write a fourteen line poem based on the theme of the chapter, using some of the chapter's imagery (grain, vineyards, water, sword-shards). I will not say it's something I've written I'm most proud of, but I think sometimes in life it's important to keep going, even when the "going" is not "going" the way that you'd like - which in this case means publishing this exercise and God willing moving on to 32 sometime this week.

Jeremiah 31

 Sword-shards weaved between your tresses
 my fingers on your breasts, your hands on the plough:
 When will we drink from this vineyard?
 When will you show me how?
 You guide me on pathways through water,
dragging my feet through the waves:
 When will we reach the bedroom,
where we gather the grain that we've reaped,
 and why are your lips on my shoulder,
 there's work to be done on the ground.
 You chiseled a covenant on my breasts,
and whispered of waves on the sea.
I wait like a sheaf in this corner,
for you to rescue me.