Notes from my notebook, July 21

My tongue has chickpea-shaped indents where the falafel has regularly rested, my eyes have indents the shape of minarets and crosses and the Star of David. My ears hear a buzzing that combines bells and waves, children shrieking, Arabic chanting, air conditioning, and religious fervor. It is too much to take in and too much to let out.
I must try to hold it all while letting it all go.

I don't know what I'm talking about.
I could be talking about camel's milk being a natural Viagra
(according to local lore)
or about how it never rains in Israel,
or the colors of Palestine's flag,
but I think I'm really talking about the inability to write
and the jumble that leaves in my brain
and how I try to cover that jumble up by making it seem like I'm talking about something,
but really here I am rambling on about nothing
and maybe that turns it into something,

but maybe that just leaves me with Druze children
and sand in my shoes
and a backpack with a ripped zipper
or a plate from Tabgha
or three dried apricots
which some magnificent stranger will multiply
to feed all the hungry people in the airport and then all the hungry in Tel Aviv,
including the homeless man
that might be dead
sleeping under the kosher Burger King
which does not serve camel and chips,
but maybe it should.