Insistence of Being

And if I disappear, where would I go?

The silence left behind will not be heard

Amidst the noise. How long would it take

For anyone to notice the absence? And

Would it matter? Would any of it matter?

A church bell tolls, water gurgles,

A bird chimes another, as if in peace.

Life thrust upon us, an insistence of being,

An echoless voice in a chamber too full,

Is there any choice besides its negation?

I do not reject you, fellow prisoners,

I reject this, the sentence, the ruthlessness 

Of being, of time, of life, 

Of that essential loneliness that envelops us, 

That wraps us all like a shroud since birth.

(originally posted on May 24, 2017)

A Time Before

A time before you and me

A time before the past was past 

A time before the present got past

And then the future, too--

The future went past

And you and I

Lost in the past

In this forgotten city

Blown up by the sea 

At the edge of an old dusty world...

A time before my mom, and her mom 

A time before my dad forgot the world 

And remembered only his sadness 

Curled it up like a kitten 

Hurled up into his lap

And licked it clean...

(inspired by:

https://www.the961.com/photos-lebanon-1900s-1920s)

The Worst of It

My first Covid symptoms appeared on Wednesday, August 4th, 2021. After 2 negative PCR tests, I got officially diagnosed, through a chest scan, the following Tuesday. That day the virus had attacked 10% of the lung. By Sunday, it was 70%; an ambulance took to the ER. I stayed 12 days in the ICU, 15 in the hospital in total. My lungs burst; I have 80% damage in one, 20% in the other. The air got trapped under the skin, causing swelling in the neck and face. Recovery is estimated to take between weeks and months. But it's good to be back home, even if on oxygen.

Living without perfume,

That wasn't the worst of it.

It wasn't coughing while your nose splattered blood,

Nor having to eliminate in a bed as someone watched.

It wasn't the tubes sticking out of you as you tried to sleep,

Nor was it the moving bruise of the ever-shifting IV.

It wasn't the isolation of the gray walls, the viewless window, and sleepless nights,

Nor was it trying to assure your mother as you wanted to cry.

It wasn't the bloated face that greeted you with a scare in the mirror,

Nor the burst lungs, and the air trapped under the skin.

It wasn't the exorbitant bills of a country falling apart,

Nor was it getting out to a room without AC in the midst of collapse.

It wasn't realizing that your father cared more about his suffering than yours,

Nor was it realizing that you cared about yours more than his...

It was realizing that you still had your foot, and your brother, and somewhat your breath,

And you still didn't know what to make of them...

Someday

Song (Re)Cycle 2014: Of Hope III

Someday
when it’s all done
and the white foam pours forth
you’ll be telling me
that song we drew when
the grass was freshly mown
was embroidered into
your mother’s skirt.

I will turn
and absorb your face
like it was the last kite of summer
and together we will drip
like old wounds
at the back of the throat.
There will be nothing that night
but the bees that circled our heads
and a sigh that congealed
with a dream.

(Originally posted on February 25, 2005)