Some notes from my notebook, July 19

Soon & Now

on a plane in Tel Aviv, going to Eilat
soon I will be able to see the Negev
soon I will be where Israel, Jordan, and Egypt meet
soon the slope of my nose will be parallel to the clouds
soon beauty will become monotonous
soon the waves will eat the earth.

now the clouds are balloons filled with hot air, lifted by a buoyancy that they don't understand
now the desert looks like a sandbox that hands have pinched mounds into
now someone is handing me the Jerusalem Post in Hebrew
now I am freezing in this conditioned environment. above the desert.

this trip is a collection of notes, prayers, people
a cacophony of sound and lights
a serendipitous meeting of friends
a blazing sun
3 languages, 3 religions, 1 country, 1 Palestine

there is so much I don't understand here because
I don't speak Hebrew
I don't speak Arabic
I don't speak religious
my tongue is not orthodox
my thoughts are not conservative
my actions do not reform
my clothing does not cover my shoulders or knees or hair
my knees do not bend towards Mecca--
I do not belong.

but I was the only one crying in Yad Vashem
but I have more rights as a tourist than some Palestinians
but I AM ChristianMuslimJewishIsraeliArab
WomanManChildAdultJesusMosesMohammed
& I do belong.

I'm thinking

I'm thinking of the way jeans crinkle around the ankle when they are slightly too long
I'm thinking of the spider that must have crawled all over my legs while I was sleeping
I'm thinking of that poem I thought about writing on the way back from the tennis court yesterday and how now I can't remember what I wanted it to be about
I'm thinking of suffering, of course
I'm thinking of how even if my life sinks to the lowest point it possibly can, that even that is not that low, that I will never know what truly low feels like
I'm thinking of legs and arms and limbs intertwining
I'm thinking of how Elliott Smith killed himself and I'm not even sure what decade that was in (I think the late 90s)
I'm thinking of road trips I want to make and the summer writing program at Naropa and how I could still register if I wanted
I'm thinking about the way the wind ripped my soul out of me yesterday and then returned it to me after dancing it around me
I remember how that felt
I'm thinking about dementia and not knowing the name of your son
I'm thinking about what to read next
I'm thinking about inside skull being as vast as outside skull
I'm thinking it's funny that I didn't know what to write about and here I am, still writing
I'm thinking about "brilliant sanity" and Buddhist psychology
I'm thinking about Frank playing himself in chess and always letting his left hand beat his right hand

Song of Myself

Today I met 13 versions of myself;
I was in the beer a man gargled in his mouth
and then later in his empty bottle,
in the white paint crossing the crosswalk,
in the dusty tomes at Dunaway Books,
concentrated in the piccolo gelato cup,
fresh and exotic in the Vietnamese spring rolls.
I wasn’t in the hookah or the hose or your lungs,
but rather in Abraham Lincoln’s copper face
that smells a bit like bloody dirt
and in the bench at the bus stop,
(I saw myself in the peeling paint)
suddenly I was everywhere!
in the rain
and on the fire escape
in the headlines
and on your face
I was here
and there
and there
and here--
I was even in my own body.

Things I do not know

I do not know what color really is
I do not know the capital of Kazakhstan or the precise way to describe how the sky looks on any given day
I do not know who made this pen.
I do not know who has touched this notebook before me
I do not know how I will die or why people die or if I even know what dying is.
I do know that I will die.
I do not know how there are people who still claim that the Holocaust did not happen.
I do not know how carrying a poster against the war will help end the war or why there even is a war or how someone can kill another.
I do not know where my sunglasses are.
I do not know the name of my mail carrier or the chancellor of Austria or how many Cheerios are in a box.
I do not know what it feels like to live in a desert.
I do not know what my life would be like without you in it.
I do not know how to read Hebrew or Arabic or Japanese.
I do not know why people would have voted for Bush, twice!
I do not know how men can hit their wives or children can hate their siblings.
I do not know what I will be doing next year or the texture of that shirt you used to wear or how long I could write before my hand would collapse on the page.
I do not know what it's like to be stupid or destitute or blind or greedy or in love with a stripper.
I do not know how trees perceive the world.
I do not know why there is suffering.
I do not know what cream cheese and pumpernickel bread would taste like.

Ambulatory, or I walk in your footsteps

I walk because my feet like hitting the ground
because otherwise I’d never hear the crunch of gravel or leaves or the shrill rumbling
of children’s bikes with teal plastic wheels

I walk to get somewhere or to go in circles

I walk because my car broke, my bike broke, and i’m too broke for the bus

I walk because when I walk, I remember all the other times I’ve walked
and my life is suddenly a coherent whole

I walk so my thoughts can see where they’ve come from

I walk because I am coming and going

I walk because my shoes are delighted

I walk to forget, but I end up remembering

I walk to school

I walk so the sun has something to look at besides housetops and rooftops and abandonedbuilding tops

I walk on sidewalk, on disheveled glass, and on spongy grass

I don’t walk in heels

If I walk on the same path enough, I can see where I’ve walked before

I am a gymnast of the streets;
the curb is my balance beam.

What is a hand?

What is a hand
when it’s
not holding
anything
when its
fingertips aren’t
pruny from washing dishes
puckered
and ridged
when it doesn’t
reach out
touch
know
the lines
in your face
when it doesn’t hold
a pen to
paper
scratch scratch
scratching the
surface
when it doesn’t go
numb
in the cold
prickling and
tingling
when it doesn’t grab
or snatch or steal
or tickle or rub
or hit
or high five?

Tell me---
what then is a hand?