my mind goes wherever it wills...
whenever it wishes...
and who am i...
to impose borders or curfews?



the sun glows
in a cool
but not indifferent
and i
am a star
in the light
of the sky
until night
when i shine
with brilliance
and i burn
to cinders
those dying stars
that throw
their shadows
upon my light



when it rains
when the eyes of heaven
cry on my face
when the resolve of the sky
crumbles and dissolves
my hair becomes charged
with a
that strikes the face of conformity
and leaves it smarting with shame



sun rises
inside a receptacle
of sanctified silence
of sunday morning

the faithful
and go to church

the faithless
sleep and dream
of suns rising
inside receptacles
of sanctified silences
with mischievous smiles
in their puffy eyes



today. i was doing lunch duty in the school cafeteria. and i saw the kids try to wait for their friends after they'd gotten their food. students will go to their seats immediately after receiving their food trays. students must sit in the first available seat, by rows. students must eat quietly, and if they wish to rise from their seats, they must first raise their hands and get teacher permission. instructions for packaging sardines. or for towing away prisoners. assigned seating in class. and assigned seating at lunch. and if they break the rules, they can't go outside for the five minutes that they are allowed... whose sole purpose is not to give the kids a chance to run and chase one another and let their hair fly in the wind and let out some of their inexhaustible teen energy... but just to get them in line so they can file back into the building silently. like prisoners. students will stand in line without speaking. and if they speak they don't get to return to their group cell. they get to go to solitary confinement, instead.

and so. i have become the rebellious one. silently. furtively. when i see the kids trying to form their little groups after they've gotten their food trays, i turn a blind eye. when a kid throws a grape at her friend and her friend throws a wedge of cucumber back, i giggle inside my heart. because they're just being kids. and if they can't have some harmless freedom, then let them steal it, already! let them be renegade kids grabbing a moment of joy by the neck and declaring it "mine!"

why are schools becoming prisons, and students becoming prisoners? why are teachers becoming jail wardens and no longer educators? why is running around in the sun and playing tag a crime? why is sitting beside your friends for lunch considered breaking the rules? and what is it they say about the self-fulfilling prophecy: treat a person like a criminal and he will become a criminal. it's that simple.

i am not a prison guard or warden. i am not a law enforcer or punisher. i am a human. and these kids are humans, too. and if they have to steal their precious moments of joy from between the teeth of THE SYSTEM, i will gladly be an accomplice.



i know
no person
is an island
unto herself


if i could be


i think
i would be


at this time of year. as the days grow shorter. and the nights grow longer. and the air becomes more crisp. and the winds become more cruel. i like to read doyle. and dickens. and poe. i love the beauty of the victorian era in literature. i love the crispness of the language. i love how it mirrors the crispness in the air. i love christina rossetti's the goblin market and how it haunts. but delights. i love the brontë sisters' rich and entertaining novels. i love sheridan le fanu's in a glass darkly with its mystifying supernatural aura.

victorian literature is alive with an acute perception and understanding of the human element. and when i am outdoors less. and indoors more. i am most keen on unraveling everything human.

in the cold
in the dark
in the night
i am alone
with me
and i want 
to know
just who
i am



this evening. something happened. something strange. how do i describe it? there was something sinister about it that made me turn away from it. something dark that made me want to ignore it. to pretend it did not happen. but then, maybe i should flip it on its head, i thought.

here, then. it all began on friday evening: after sharing a bottle of wine with my husband. i washed our two wine glasses. dried them carefully. put them back in the crystal cabinet. and that was that.

this evening. i pulled out the very same two glasses. in preparation for sharing another bottle of wine. and i filled one glass with the drink. and as i prepared to fill the other. i realized the glass was chipped. no. not chipped. broken. the width of a lip at the rim. as if someone had bitten into the glass. and removed that chunk. removed it in anger. or frustration. or... some other unspeakable emotion.

i have a superstition. a cultural superstition ingrained in me. though i am not a superstitious person. but still. i have chosen certain superstitions to believe in. because superstitions keep life interesting. and because they keep me on my toes. and this is one of these superstitions i have chosen: when something made of glass... or porcelain... or crystal... breaks. we say, khadit el sharr wi rahit - it took the evil away.

and i believe it did.

i am sad to have lost a crystal glass. but happy if losing it took an evil away. and happier yet to still have a good that i might have lost instead.

evil is evil.
crystal is crystal.
good is good.



this morning. i awakened with a question on my mind: what color is my psyche? but i stopped myself short before offering my question a hasty response. i said to myself: there are stereotypes even for colors. red is for anger, fire, courage. black is for death, plague, grief. white is for purity... and so on and so forth. why should i define my psyche by a color that is already defined by stereotypes? why not define my psyche by... a vibration?

the new question, then: to what does my psyche vibrate? or maybe vibrate is too strong a word? how about: to what does my psyche hum? hum is a word that evokes song... harmony... elation. but yet. i have not answered the question: to what does my psyche hum?

i wanted to answer this question. but now i don't want to answer it anymore. to answer it would be to place definitions... parameters... upon my psyche. to answer it would be to create a new stereotype. and i don't want for my psyche to be a blueprint for stereotypes. i can't to do that to my psyche. i won't do that to my psyche. because. if i do. my psyche will hum no more.




you were conceived by a miracle
a true immaculate conception, you were
a speck of flesh stimulated 
by the pleasures of my mind
ejaculated onto a field of brilliant white
in a climax as shimmering as one million stars
forever memorialized... cannonized
but now you burden me with your presence
your inconvenience... and your weight
as you refuse to cooperate
and you taunt me... and elude me... and hide
do you fancy yourself a true child
you are but the offspring of whim and fantasy
i gave you life... after all
but you are inconsiderate... ungrateful... unkind

and so, though i made you up
here, i am bringing you down



of long ago
your name no longer passes
against my breath
nor does it linger
inside my mouth
once upon a time
it lived and flew
like an angel of eden
with iridescent wings
and it settled in sweetness
upon my tongue

but now
i crave the taste of salt
upon my lips
and inside my eyes
i crave salt's
puckering effects
upon the walls of my mouth
perhaps as a distraction
perhaps as a denial
perhaps to make me forget you
perhaps to make me remember you more