Atlantic Express (Part I)

(Montreal- Paris- Beirut)

Its 5:00 pm on a Thursday

Distance: 2300 miles to Paris

And over the Atlantic Ocean

My mind wanders-

It wanders

like the infinite ripples of the below waters

of past, present, and coming future-

it has almost been one year

of a life- away from family and friends,

of a life- away from my native land and nativity,

a life of one becoming a citizen of the world!

the fuschia horizon glimmers at sunset

from an altitude of 35.000 feet

and takes me to my mind,

to memories of longing

of faces I have not seen nor recalled

for some time.

I smile.

I smile with a tear in my eye

to this bittersweet desire of the familiar-

my face, stained by a streak of a salty trail

reminds me of the residue left behind

like the regression of the vast Atlantic tide

along the shores of the isle of Great Britain.

 

1811 miles to Paris

And lost time takes its toll…

Light to darkness

And a leap into some infinite loop

Reverberates every molecule of my restless body

to a flight of closing eyes

and a reminder of the uncomfortable position

My body is in-

 

Still agitated and no control over

Space, time, or sleep

And out the little window

A spark of beginning light

shimmers

in a straight mild pink-orange line

and a sense of calm of sky

touches my inside

soothes my fallibility-

 

it’s the end of the loop

and a 1200 miles have passed!

Marie, the 60 year old passenger

wakes up next to me

And says “c’est 5 heure le matin” with a smile

that comfortably shines on her face…

 

Landing…

Surrender

Music on

then words on paper

black and white,

he prefers colors

Blue mostly, then orange and purple-

Its not too late. 12:58 am.

The water leaks in the bath tub-

The sound of the fridge. Hums.

It hums.

3 minutes have passed by

It feels pretty calm. Water drip drops

drip dropping into the drain of bad plumbing.

The squinted light of unforgotten memory

begins to fade away

Memory of sight

of dim lights

candles and romance-

Memory of love

pictures of friendly hugs and intimate kisses

Even memory of smell

Oriental fragrances and Lebanese cuisine

1:11 am. He closes his eyes.

He makes a wish (superstitious of number 7)

Drip drop drip drop drip drop (fading)

and the volume of the speaker

seems to get louder

and louder

He takes one deep breath

and gradually sinks

sinks into the “what ifs” of his life-

music heard—song recognized

random lyrics

“what if god was one of us

Just a slob like one of us

Trying to make his way home”…

words scatter on the shores of

his relaxed mind

free from existential meaning

he tries to think of god

without judgment

without punishment

without religion

he tries to think of slob

without dirt

without slime

without shit

he tries to think of home

without family

without safety

without love

free from existential meaning

and he sinks into a state of REM

down the winding subconscious

subway

and reaches the doorway of his slumber

and there,  just before total submission

to embracing the warmest silence-

he quickly blinks (so as to not lose his drowsiness)

at his watch:

its 1:34 am.

He is ready now.

ZS. 22-9-14

What makes Virginia a genius?

On Greene avenue

He sits in a café and wishes to study of how Woolf uses time in her aesthetics-

With a cup of filter coffee and a lemon muffin,

He starts to view an interesting essay on the passing of time in post-impressionism.

(he wishes to learn a thing or two about her art)-

Within only an hour of reading,

He realizes that he’s being watched-

a certain presence obstructs his peripheral vision:

He stops reading and looks sideways

Only to find that

An ugly-metal looking contraption stands selfishly tall

Tall enough to block his sunlight

Wide enough to block the view from the blue-grayish skies of black Friday

(he wishes to return to the text)

He cannot escape the object’s glare

this grand-looking monolith of black frame and rectangular windows

stares him right in the face

taking enough ground space

to distract and create displacement

 (he wishes to return again to his text)

He feels entrapped to its magnetic steel walls

 its shadow creeps stealthily across the leafless April trees

over the brick layered pavement

it crosses the street and dives into the café…

He feels a shiver

It crawls its way from his toes to his neck

Hypnotized by its cold vibe

he sips his last drop of coffee

(he wishes to shake her off and go back to his reading)-

But its 6 pm

The café is closing down for the evening

He will not find out more about her art

For the shadows of this monolith

Has insidiously obstructed his will to read.

3-4-15

I not I

I not I I Montreal not I Beirut I alone not I not alone I patient not I aggravated I hopeful not I despairing I not I I not the son I not the twin brother I not the friend I not the lover I not I I not the abstract painter I not the hopeless teacher I not the bongo drummer I not the ballet dancer I not I I alien not I familiar I independent not I reliant I different not I different too I not I not I

(tribute to G. Stein)

Zen 24/2/2015

Cold times

Footsteps

flood la rue st. laurent

and mess this quiet wintry day!

They pound them down (without even asking)

They mash them- squish them

They beat them down

They transform them into mucus-like-purée

Break them down

Strip them out of their bright flawless white

into ugly slush: whitesmoke and muddy

and splash them across the concrete frozen pavements

of indifference

…  …  …

They fell in silence

They twinkled - they swayed

and with the wind

They dispersed their splendor

through the lands

of concrete and grass.

They stuck gently to the earth

-and to each other-

They gradually gathered

one after another

Flake by flake

as they formed a velvet fluffy garment

over a nippy Montreal

They laid there.

White. Sublime. Until footsteps…

ZS 6.2.15

bic

She walks into class

Short black skirt, long legs

Ponytail, with burgundy ribbons, and a smile

She takes a seat

Looks around with her bright blue eyes

And asks for a pen

From another etudiant internationale

He gives her his bic

With a friendly-you’re welcome-nod

And goes back to his business

Keeping his peripheral vision intact

Toward his bic

and her stretched out legs

7 minutes before the class ends

She gathers her things

Stands up, gives back the pen she borrowed

And walks out

“Without a name or even a number

What are the odds

Of seeing the bic girl again?” he ponders

as he strolls through a campus of strangers

and unfamiliar faces…

Against the cool breeze, he lights up a cigarette

and with his first desperate toke, he lifts his head

only to find that same ponytail and ribbon 

swinging, like a hypnotic pendulum,

in front of his surprised eyes

With a second longer toke, he fills his grey lungs with spunk

and approaches her, back straightened, eyes focused

a friendly smile and a polite introduction.

He invites her out for coffee

and she- a slovako-czech 24 year old- accepts

but keeps iterating “hej, am not that kind of girl”

but coffee becomes white wine

and coyness becomes flirtations

2 hours and 2 bottles later…

Obstacles down

Walls crash

“your eyes are like almonds-

You know?  their shape”

“even the dark brown color

Is really exotic to me”

Then…

“I want to feel your proximity”

“I yearn for the Mediterranean touch”

but still repeating “hej, am not that kind of girl!”

 “am really not…”

 Zen 7-8-2014

The Tree & Me

I look at the tree

I pity it

it is stuck to the ground

with nowhere to go-

It radiates unique beauty

of magnificent stature

to silk leaves of comfortable shade-

The tree holds its ground

with utmost pride

yet I stride

to keep on moving

for I will die

if I remain still

Z.S.10-11-2007

Exit

It is unexpectedly inextricable to exit

From a dark corner of your house

With your hands tied up behind your back

And your eyes covered with a thick woolen cloth-

Your lips have dried up. No saliva, but tears

that have already stained the black cloth

And covers a hollow face that is unable to utter words-

Silent letters

Echoless

They used to communicate the truth-

Scared, you fear your own shadow-

Know yourself is the key to true happiness they say

The key to unlock the truth

Maybe the truth is an untold dream-

perhaps you need to reveal it to a stranger,

a stranger who sits alone in a corner

scared of his own shadow

that moves with the flickering

of the half-melted lit candle of obscurity.

You fear the shadows

Multiple ones

Floating in a room of a shattered reality

And a misunderstood insanity.

Covered by heating wool

In this blinding pool

You wish to admire the sunrise that cannot be seen

Your eyes are sealed shut

No eyesight no vision

No air no taste of breath

Breathe less, keep air inside, breathe from nose

Stay alive

Is it a cowardice act?

Live and let live they say

But how to in this darkness?

No body no soul no life

You try to escape

Directionless

You cannot see

You cannot taste

You can smell

the cloth that itches your nose

itches your breath, it tingles-

Sweat drops slowly and deep

It drowns you into unwanted darkness

Are you held off by some force?

Believe in signs they say and you will be free

Free from captivity

Still chained down to darkness

A voice rises, an audible sign

Calling in calling out

Loose ropes, no ropes

Unsure if you are ready to be free

What is causing this hindrance?

Uncertainty?

Darkness does not bother you.

You know darkness

You do not know freedom

You cannot see, still blind, you cannot see

You try to talk

No more silent letters

Utter sound, mouth gets moving

mouth unbound

a sound never heard before

agonizing yet free

painful yet uplifting

“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!”

Fear leaps over

Your face flushes with vitality

Your free hands

carefully remove the shades off

Open your eyes!

Do not be afraid!

Is this your reality now?

Is this the no-shadow reality?

Speak your mind.

Free your mind.

Speak out!

11-1-05/ rev. 2015

Music in

Earphones in

Music out

Vibrations fly

From ear to soul

Sad song happy song

Every song- reminds me of her

The person I share music with

Melodies and notes

Low and high

Play randomly

Inside of me

As the sound of the beating tempo

Takes me to her

Takes me to

Her sweet vanilla scent

Her warm caressing touch

Her exceptional eye glance

(that mirrors the azurous sky in springtime)

Her blazing fiery-blonde hair

Her slender grace of her moving body

(as she dances with the ups and downs

Of the hallowed beat of the music).

Music in

Vibrations out

Reminiscence of her

Reminiscence of us

Music in

love out!

16-8-2015

She Stops with Time

She paints

She stops

No more inspiration

No more imagination

The brush has dried up

The paint has coagulated

It has shriveled up into stone

A monument of fixed creation

Will she ever paint again?

Will she never?

She stops with time

With time she stops.

26-4-2005/ rev. 10-8-2015