Thursday, September 17, 2015

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


masks are hardly

  The breeze from the rushing train Still brushes my long hair Still gives a moment of surrender   Masks are hardly Breathable Y...