Aug 15 2011
poking out of her too short dress like broken toothpicks
Supporting a too bright red candied apple dripping with too sweet carmel
In the swirling stifling heat that pours out
of the tail exhausts of the green and white wrapped human transporters
Too long, too wrong, for the too narrow streets, they were
Stuck in the mirk and muck of human traffic
At the bizarre bazaar agrip in the grip of Agrippas
Ruler extraordinaire of hawkers and bawkers
Pushing their wares
Between their pear shaped stares and suspicious glares
That dare the human consumer
Consumption of assumptions
about resumption and material redemption deductions.
Where has that fat little girl gone?
Now, she’s wandered off.
And I’m left to stare too much at
Who are just painted jesters in civilian gowns
Tumblers and fumblers
Along the too cracked three ringed
Pavement and asphalt
I’m out of breath.
Beat and Beaten by the oppressive too fast paced rhythm
Of city folks pounding at my heels,
Pushing back with a lack of flair
Cause I don’t have a name as alliterate as Jack Keroac
Or I’m just too illiterate to alliterations I can’t hear.
Searching for a scrap of shade
Homeless for a day
An entire life bound and suspended from the shoulders of a too bent back
That searches for a place to rest, finding a park bench
Sans the park.
Pointed black toes peaking out from the tattered cuffs of a pair of jeans
A beat poet
Or, a poet who’s just beat
Is there really any difference?
Or any difidence
He kills an hour waiting – murdered moments that will never be redeemed
A guiless, gilgul-less diuturnity of seconds
Gripped alternatives altered for eternity gleaned
From the too electronic pages of bits and bytes
Embarrassed by my gagetry
The silicon pagentry
Hasn’t the majesty
Of verses scrawled on the backs
Of scraps of crinkled yellowing dirty gray
But they’re much easier to save
A magnetic permenance of etchings
On the walls of caves
Buried under bits of mud and clay
Fallen prey to a ray of grey,
There isn’t any despondency
In the whole world,
Shouts too loudly
A sidewalk prophet towards me
Dancing to the rhythm of his side curls
That pull him into the heavens
If you can believe it
No despair in the too thick air.
Only beneath our too clay feet,
That crunch the rolling waste
Of recycled glossy photographic tumbleweed
A retreat from reality
To a too real alacrity.
If there is such a thing
It escapes me.
Evil wears many faces; good wears none.
*NaHl’a’oth is a neighborhood in Jerusalem known for its outdoor market and eclectic residents