Food, music,
the taste of fresh water
on a long-parched tongue;
these are what I desire
for this is what I deserve.

I deserve to be quenched
as if I am thirst, fed
as if I were born to be hunger
and sung as if I were anthem
and hymn at once.

Ridiculous, you say, 
that I’d long to give up
humanity for such simple
satisfactions as these. But
hear what I’m telling you;

this is how revolutions begin.

Alternative output
is when bombs hit earth
and open up and flowers
cover all.

Or, alternatively,
when olive trees come
to full ripeness in the time
it would have taken to butcher
children’s bodies
and fling the parts widely across hills
where ancient groves once grew.

Alternative output
of this stale algorithm
might resemble a culture
that has forgotten how to fear
any other and has resisted
turning into fodder by bending
from the waist
to see common ground beneath them
and then rising to look into
the other’s eyes
with a steady gaze.

Alternative output
is not falling over for death
but remaining standing
long enough for
the killers and their children to notice
they aren’t extinct and have not toppled
into their history books. 
Staying alive, tossing bombs
onto their streets that will bloom
like prairie, spread like salmon,
turn rubble and the still-standing dead
into sacred space filled with acolytes
of whatever will come
after you have gone.

A quick brown fox
jumps over the lazy dog.

Handwriting practice.
All the letters you need 
in one easy to remember phrase.

A quick brown fox
jumps over the lazy dog.

Picture the sentence hurtling
through a field. (Maybe
it’s escaping rocket fire.
Do they have foxes in Gaza?)

It comes across the sleeping dog
and lets it lie there wrapped
in its tight little cliche.  Flies over it
the way your pen never did.

Your pen
had to be precise. No slop,
no blots, no hesitation.

You had to be so careful
when you wrote
back then — every letter needed to be 
a shelter.

If you wrote badly
on the blackboard you’d be
mocked at the very least.
They’d blow you up,
they would. 

A quick brown fox 
jumps over the lazy dog

on its way south. You are
traveling as fast as you can
among the familiar ravening
of the wakened dogs of war. 
Are there foxes in Gaza? Well,
there are now. There are
again. No need
for cursive script to write 
curses. You needn’t
stop to write. In fact,
you can’t. 

A quick brown fox
jumps over the lazy dog.

I’m up too late.
What good does writing do
in such a lovely hand as mine?
What good am I to the struggle
when it’s so far away?

And Samson went and caught three hundred foxes, and coupled them tail to tail, and fastened torches between the tails.

A quick brown fox, or rather
a pair of them, screaming,
jumps over the lazy dog. The lazy dog
burns and itself is screaming
like a rocket, like a fighter jet.

Everything is screaming and no one
can write their way out of this,
standing in memory
at old-school blackboards
trying to write a new phrase
but we can’t keep our hands from shaking.

No one is anything other
than a dog waking in terror
or a fox someone else set on fire.

Maybe I’d be happier
if I believed in something
currently absent
but said to be returning:

Jesus, or America. Maybe
that tug of hope,
forlorn as it might be,
could pull me up.

It is fall, aiming to become
winter soon enough. Then
it will be spring. I don’t need
to believe in that — it’s not

a myth but a fact. Jesus, though; well,
Jesus ain’t spring. As for that other,
it hasn’t earned my belief.
I won’t spend it on such grief

as it has given me. Some think
Jesus and America are one and the same.
I hope for my sake that’s untrue.
I find the devil more credible. 

I know you are shocked. I wish
I was able to believe in your hope.
I know some good people who do.
I’m just not one. I’ve seen things

they haven’t, been seeing them
for over five centuries now.
It’s hard to forget that
and succumb to hope. 

Maybe I should just wait,
depend on spring to pick me up.
If I was sure I’d get there,
I think I could hang on. 

Till then, I’ll listen to you
sing your songs of Christmas
and watch you put your hands
over your hearts. See,

I have learned: regardless
of how much you hope, how much
you want to believe, you must always
keep an eye on where the hands are.

Car radio news
is filled with black rocks
flying through space,
struck from hard places
on this hard planet,
becoming flame
wherever they land,
spreading fire.

Car radio news has taught me
and I have learned
and forgotten
and had to relearn
too many times
that all lives 
are made of coal.
Anyone anywhere 
will easily flare
and then be consumed
if touched by fire.

Car radio news?
Just turn it off,
someone says. Why not listen
to music? Old music
we danced to as kids:
water on embers.
New music feels too much 
like rocks ablaze
above our heads, coming in fast
to strike us,
we who are heaps of coal.

Because, I say.
Because we are already on fire
and nostalgia offers no blanket
large enough to smother it.

Because, I say.
Because we should never forget that
everywhere is a hard place
waiting to be struck and 
fling its black rocks into space.
Anywhere is a landing zone.
Anywhere can burn.
Everywhere is always ready to burn.
Everyone can burn.

But for you I’ll change the station
for now as we drive. For you I’ll find
something made long ago,
something made to play
by a fireside.  We can pretend
for a little while.