my prose lines
hit hard like clotheslines

Hyperbolic

Olive ‘Ali smokin’ trees
Bulldoze rubble’s life on knees
Shoot some pool? Red pool from shot.
rotten luck or fetid rot?
I’m starving and
I’ll die of thirst
we too condensed
we gonna burst

thirst and rot are synonyms
wit’ solemn hymns and piping rims

tough as nails and prison shanks
nextdoor jails and rocks and tanks

infirmity with gritty cough
forty seven Kalashnikov

hope and bones and dreamy sun
melting, smoking, bitterfun
hyperbole
is on the run

.........................................................................................................................................................................

True writers are solipsistic.

Always searching, they rummage through pounds of literature and burn their eyes on black ink, developing an uncanny resistance to papercuts like a dark shaft to a diamond miner’s calluses.

True writers are recognized at their local bookstores, scouring shelf after shelf and purchasing books which are tenuously connected at best. The employees often huddle in hushed discussion (there’s always that interesting tension in bookstores. It’s not quite a library, so the rule of tranquility doesn’t necessarily dictate the place, but it seems to implicitly emerge when voices are raised) about the true writers’ purchases, trying to piece together whether the true writer is a communist or a libertarian; a Buddhist or an existentialist; a lover or a fighter.

The edges of a True Writer’s library cards are worn into round, whitewashed skidmarks and every visit is frantic and ostensibly aimless.

The true writer’s relationship with prose is an infinite meander.

Then, hypnotized by a pale light staring into their faces, they wildly immerse themselves in the beautiful realization (a guilty pleasure, a nighttime addiction) that what they’re looking for is rapidly being created under their frenzied fingertips.

It has yet to be written.

........................................................................................................................................................................

In other news: Jay Z is the new Hammarabi, ‘cause around 1780 BCE, Hammarabi coined our favorite commandment of nomadic justice: “An eye for an eye, a leg for a leg, an arm for an arm…” Jigga provided an eloquent update: “Now if you shoot my dog, I'ma kill yo' cat/Just the unwritten laws in rap - know dat”

Mos definitely. 

I wish I had some watermelon: a trickling black dew poppyfield mountain range (the deepest right corner of a bloodsplashed matador’s cape), sunbathing in a cornfield hide with rich green and pale kernel white weaves cupping its expansive hand under a succulent sunset.

I would never purchase a mutant watermelon with no seeds. A watermelon with no seeds is like one of those bougie teenage pseudo-rebels who channel their angst through MTV and other glossy venues of commercialized anguish. Just spit them out!

A blind solipsist and a jazz pianist met in a suicide bomber's unruffled dream
A blind solipsist and a jazz pianist met in a suicide bomber's unruffled dream
through the dawdling dance of smoke, they sat on a fault line slope, a volatile plateau
where they sipped on a waterbong pipe, discussing literature and their respective love lives:

“I’m glad I invented Mahfouz because I was able to then tell myself in beautiful brail that he
(who is me) who is happy must be ready to give himself up”
“That was purposefully sloppy, like the slipshod string of organization masterfully kicked out by T-Monk;
what a wise wit-creator, and a dictator of soul.”
“I’m glad I invented you because I’m able to now make sense of the nonsensical with little less introspective
scolding than a gesture towards sharp musical analysis
and the aesthetic comfort of hip harping-ons.”

The jazzy musician saw that his chimney chugging comrade devoted his life to not devoting his life from the way he released his nebulous words, and started on a subject that has explosive connotations

The slip bombthreat

love

“I fumbled around with Amal clumsily, putting together a slapdash medley of cool cadences, what came crashing down when I realized that this was a meticulous concerto and that I missed the memo.”
Several blank blinks later…
“What a sweet melody, Esperanza;
I only knew she existed while we made love, for those few explosive emotional seconds of climax
and orgasmic fury.”

The fault line rumbled and the two saw nothing more or less proper than to break out in a round of bare-knuckle boxing;
clenched fist slaps and flung flapping elbow swings smashing into each others faces,
grinding the tender inside of their red cheeks into the jagged-rock ivory of their piercing teeth.
Blood and pounded nerves calmed the two skin-wrapped souls while menacing smolders turned their world into rubble, pipes and stones, thyme, olive oil and twisted metal
dreams smattered against the gritty asphalt piles that the earthquake coughed into a flaccid chaos on the weeping soil.

Amal Esperanza woke up on the fault line and arose, patiently awaiting the next earthquake induced by the push of a button.

The sunset is a makeshift revolt, where vacillating blotches of illuminated gold blood flood the sky. The Mediterranean blushes, because shame is a revolutionary sentiment and its luxurious fluidity should be free of charge. The clouds collide, but gentle exchange wisps quietly past the explosion; the system looks cushiony and welcoming until one receives it in a swift plunging dose where millions of freezing cloudwater particles slap your numb face and roll into the infinity being created quickly above you.

The tattered boy fell out of the sky, an earthsmack sending curling clouts of dust tufts into a frantic float. He stood up, bewildered, to stagger in Palestine. His mother had been expecting him, and she had started to worry.

Another school day in the Gaza strip.