A great read on what’s been happening in Gaza

I’ve tried my best to stay out of the fray regarding the situation in Gaza, because it’s a very highly charged topic and I have wonderful friends on both sides of the argument. However, in the spirit of bringing these types of issues to light, I’m attaching a link from Huff Post that does a pretty excellent job of explaining things there…thoughts?

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ali-a-rizvi/post_8056_b_5602701.html

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Unfinished…

     He seemed strangely familiar, this handsome man I stared at from across the room. As I gazed, half in shock, half in relief at his figure moving across the dance floor, I felt as if I’ve known him all of my life. Only he seemed much more dangerous. His dancing was much more precise, giving off the impression of a surgeon in an operating room. He wasn’t entranced by the thumping sound infecting the room as I was; he was dissecting it. When his dart-like eyes caught mine, my fluidity froze. He captured me, this night club hunter. 

     I was accustomed to moving freely in the club, but now this oddly familiar, dangerously sexy man trapped me in his stare. I was his willing prey. The closer I moved towards him, the more thrilled and frightened I became. He was everything that I am not. He was tighter where I was chubbier. His knuckles were even and delicate, where mine were knobby and rough. His skin was the pale bronze of a tropical transplant, suddenly enduring a harsh New York winter. But, once I felt the tips of his fingers graze the small curve of my lower back, I became whole. How he knew I spoke Spanish, I’ll never know. But his words spoke truths to me that I would never dare admit to myself. Those words revealed a confidence I definitely did not possess. I didn’t think I would ever be able to respond to him; my face was flush in a bashful reddish-pink huge that I’m sure he never felt in his life. 

     Naturally, he noticed this reaction and it pleased him. A sly smile slowly churned its way to the surface of his mouth, mocking my shrinking confidence. If his goal was to arouse and humiliate me, he succeeded thoroughly . His precision gave him the power to direct my blood to my face, my head, my…well, you get the picture. Then, as quickly as he appeared before me, he was gone, leaving a subtle hint of his fragrance lingering in the air. 

#3

I am the choppy water, dominating his thoughts.

My purpose is simple, yet complex for the untrained eye.

I exist as a doorway, a portal to a more primal self, the denied

passion given flesh and mood.

 

I break down barriers, hold him down and smack him with desire,

So that he might see. So that he might feel. So that he might lighten

up…

#2

Drifting mindless on a raft of raw passion,

on seas of morality, judgment, sociality, kindness,

compassion, fidelity, loyalty, faithfulness.

 

I can see the way home, find the path that leads

me to redemption. Each time I reach for a paddle

or a ripline to start an engine, my hand freezes in

time and space, unable to make that decision.

 

If only there were someone to guide me, some savior of sorts

who could step out onto this choppy water to offer me a hand.

 

I know just what I would do with that hand, and salvation

is not on my mind.

 

The raft drifts further and further away, heavy with the

choices beyond my control.

 

Drifting. Through the mathematics of my heart I see the correct

Formula. But I’ve always hated math.

#1

The sugary sweetness glides

down deep, past thoughts of caution

that bid me to put it down.

I can’t put it down, it’s just too good.

The sugary goodness sits for a while,

loafing in my stomach, giving me an illusion

of satisfaction, a brief glimmer of satiation.

I imagine that goodness slowly turning

itself into a slippery, yellow mass, adding

troops to the battle against my abdomen,

meandering through my arteries, forming

a stiff opposition in my otherwise flexible

 

I slip my hand in my pocket, struggling to

find the change necessary to get my next

fix…

Poem Without You In It

Words that once made sense,

linger on the palate, tasteless.

Images that once filled my eyes

Become blurred and fuzzy, myopic

and distant.

 

Thoughts jumble together and crowd each other,

fighting for a seat on the train.

No space to breath.

No light to guide the way.

 

Staring past the poem,

without you in it, lies

a bed, cold and yearning.

An empty coffee mug frowns.

A space on the couch, filled

with a presence, though unfamiliar,

struggling to be. Here.