This is the time we write, at night. Where no one can hear the sight of light because we are in the dark midst tormented by which way to turn and what to see.
This is when the lights go off and the dimly lit street light becomes center stage and we can see the graffiti art on locked up stores. Who says these sprayed on smiles aren’t painted for us? See the silent messages of, “fuck yeah” as we feel the emotion well up from within. The spark that follows into the never ending rainbow of this art turning into the artistic thoughts we think. It’s ours if we claim it. Thinking: “A copywrite claim? Or continued connected consciousness?”
Report it as a spam. Because we too speak the words, “I am my biggest problem” written in the alley corners of contemplation.
These are the thoughts we think. This is the way we roll, behind street paths with funny names and the not so funny moment when someone looks back at us as we take a hit of the moment.
Why haven’t we ever taken the time to just absorb the atmosphere, to sit at the corner of Ha-Carmel and Allenby to listen to the bus beeps and inhale the second hand smoke? We stop little ones from riding into oncoming traffic, and barely have time to look up and see that the city has been built off distress and art made in twilight.
It’s the time when we can’t make eye contact. It’s not safe. Don’t talk at midnight, walk like we’ve got somewhere to go.
In the waking hours of 4:44am we hear it, the not so subtle gargling of its underbelly. And the fact of the matter is we’ve sharpened all our nails for this point. Because we know we aren’t just being followed by our inner shadows, as a random dark stranger follows us whichever way we go.
We march for violence against women because the one to one ratio of offense is an alarming feat, so we pick up ours and walk to a new pace but it’s not at our own speed and it isn’t even in our own direction. Something says we better pay attention. We are trying to see, there’s no need to stop and no place to go.
“Is this the station for the bus or where we get off to stop?” Stand still, breathe in the overwhelmingly sweet bread, and try not to act tempted. Are we our own superwoman? Could we fly away with wonder words waging womanly wars? We have a right to be here. But that birthright is on no basis at all.
The holy land.
The land of holy bibles and holy battles, like wholly bloodshed.
If we were so above the days of prejudice why are we deathly terrified to trail down that dark path?
“Grr” in anger as if we were growling like the zombie sounding man-of-the-street does at the stroke of night.
No train of thought, just endless tracks that have no destination. We’re in Israel, don’t you see it? The motorcycle vroom-vroom on the move, but that social time has got us drifting in a rhyme. With this prophetic language we are speaking Hebrew just fine.
Yes it’s jewish, but not so orthodox. We don’t see things the same as them. They ask if we have a shekel or two to donate to a poor jew? But what if we are that poor few?
What if we are the ones who need to fill our paper cups and spill out on to a not-so-paper-page as we write down the way we walk in a story.