After the Horror Is there an after? There certainly was a before will there ever be an after? How many generations will it take for the pain the rage the incomprehension to subside and make place for the after? Is it the right time to ask the question when the in-between is still here eating at our minds and fabric? I see the images I hear the voices and they claw at me and I crawl into myself and wait. I will probably stop waiting long before any after may dare ask for permission to be born.

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hey! you forgot me! The world falls apart, around me. The world falls apart inside me. I wonder if these two are independent or interdependent or intradependent. I was born several centuries ago (ask my body) and several seconds ago (ask my mind) and the twain shall battle and none shall win... I mean certainly the body will win in the end, it’s a bolts and nuts and rust world. The rest is Fata Morgana. I wonder why I keep wasting life resources, my usefulness and usability and usableness having reached an all-time low with nothing else in sight bar a new record-setting all-time low, record set to be broken soon. OK, so I breathe, big deal, so do so-and-so other billions. OK, so I curse, big deal, see above. OK, so I write mediocre poetry, big deal, see above. It’s probably time these resources are invested in better-return opportunities like politicians influencers lawyers... ha ha ha so whoever is responsible up/down/somewhere on such matters – hey! you forgot me! But He/She/It does not hear me busy as He/She/It is culling all those lives much shorter and greener than mine that keep parading in front of me through that rectangular hole in the time-space continuum called television. Blasphemy! I hear someone in the audience gasp, who knows there is a greater plan. Blasphemy, I acquiesce, knowing the word to be meaningless and the absence of a greater plan. And yet, from time to time I still find myself screaming My God! before the dams collapse.

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Nir Oz, 2023 The kids ran excitedly from room to room skipping over the litter on the floor... Hey, mom, this looks like a flower... Hey, mom, this looks like sun, but I do it yellow... Mom, this is a strange rainbow, only one color, red... She stifled the scream bubbling inside her, kids... they run skip gaze in wonder at splotches that were once blood in the veins of their father...

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Nir Oz, 2023, two They shot his mom. They shot his pop they shot his dog they shot his gramps they shot his friend, his other friend, his sister. Everybody called the shooters monsters, he didn’t understand why everybody called them monsters he played with monsters every day monsters were nice monsters never shot anybody, now his monsters lay also trampled on the floor caked in the blood of his mom, his pop, his dog, his gramps, his friend, his other friend, his sister... he always hated his sister now he suddenly missed his sister, he started crying.

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Architect He didn’t like playing with the plastic building blocks of a certain brand, he didn’t like playing with the nylon-haired dolls of a certain different brand, he didn’t like playing with the battery-based games of yet another brand. He liked playing with plain wooden blocks, not even painted. He will grow into an ecological person, said his mother, probably an architect, she added, proudly. They identified him, with limited certainty, due to a partially calcinated wooden block held tight in a partially calcinated hand attached to a partially calcinated body they found. He will not grow into an ecological person, probably an architect, anymore. I only hope they shot him first, sobbed his grandmother before collapsing.

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TV Picture 1 The elected representatives in the elected house of the elected nation scratch and bite and curse and threaten and bicker inside and outside and I feel like sending hands through the TV window and strangling them one by one, most of them, and then cleaning the house to zero and electing normal people. Normal... is there such a thing? Wherefrom all this wicked wickedness? Picture 2 The TV frames people walking quietly between leftovers of walls of gardens of beds picking up a blackened souvenir that chanced to burn only partially reminiscing of neighbors that were of family members that were of planned parties, weddings, family meals that will not be anymore and I feel like walking alongside them and screaming. Picture 3 Rectangular holes in the ground just the right shape for the TV eye and some silent some sobbing some petrified locking regards with the white sheet being lowered to the bottom of that one way pit, meaningless words spoken into microphones, a torment that will forever be part of their lives and I feel like howling and raging and willing to be there and die with everyone around. Picture 4 Hundreds, thousands, complete strangers gathering inside and outside the TV lens feeding others laundering for others cleaning for others taking care of others wonderful people, hundreds of thousands and I feel like dancing and singing and the few bastards here and there cannot keep out of the heart the elation, the beauty, the pride of calling them all – brothers. Picture 5 Name... died. Name... wounded. Name... kidnapped. Name... unknown. Name... how many more definitions can there be written on the faces and in the words of those left behind hoping, knowing, waiting? White panels, black names, colored faces filling the TV screen and overflowing on all sides and I feel like tearing them all to pieces, throwing them all into a cauldron and making an incantation that will turn the wheel of time to the moment... before. Which will not happen. And it tears me to pieces.

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How do you dare? How do you dare judge me? Were your walls blown, broken, torn with you inside? Was your sick father kidnapped to the depths of dark unmedicated hell? Was your sister raped, maimed, murdered while raping and maiming were happening? Was your baby boy shot in the head and burned, hopefully in this sequence? Did your friends and neighbors go through the same ordeal? Probably they didn’t, probably you don’t have friends, you shouldn’t have friends. Did you watch the horrors of decapitation, torture, screams against the background of mean laughter and religious nonsense slogans? Did you these and more like these? And you judge me? How dare you? Hostis humani generis is them, did you join them?

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The Eleventh Plague I don’t laugh anymore at Charlie Chaplin. I cannot. I cannot also at Harold Lloyd, Laurel & Hardy, Buster Keaton, Norman Wisdom. And others. Once I filled cinema halls with rolling laughter, once. Before. Before I was told of raped, maimed, burnt alive, beheaded, kidnapped while not yet one year old. Before I started being told of “he was 24 years old” or “he was 35 years old” or “he left wife and two daughters” before no day passed without one or two or more Job messages before I started to count down myself too the time left for those under the ground sick terrified tortured. Alive? I don’t laugh anymore, I stopped laughing. When will I laugh again? Danny Kaye? Marx Brothers? Ever? Oh, what a befitting eleventh plague it would be for God to banish laughter from this world forever. Oh, what befitting...

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Resilience We are resilient. The cactus is resilient. Stainless steel is resilient. Faith is resilient. Resilient, but not invincible. We should temper our resilience with a bit of humility. The way of a cactus with a few well-administered drops of water of steel with a few well-weighed milligrams of carbon of true faith, with a few well-placed question marks. Oh... and ego, arrogance, conceit have nothing to do with resilience, they are rot, rust, idolatry.

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Blankets I pulled the blanket over my head and I knew that nothing could ever hurt me protected by my blanket and the mighty hand of my all-powerful father resting on it. I was a child, then. Years passed brutally trying and mightily failing to take away the child in me safe as I was under my blanket and in my knowledge. Then the sudden bark of AK-47s spit death at them penetrating the might of their blankets and the mighty hands of their all-powerful fathers. Rending my childhood. Rending their tiny lives. I started screaming. Still do.

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Family God, I did not know I have so many brothers. The Argentinian, the Ukrainian, the Ethiopian, the French, the Orthodox, the Atheist, the Leftist, the Rightist, the Accountant, the Falafelseller, the Student, the Programmer, the Designer, the Teacher, the Druze, the Bedouin, the Female, the Transgender, the Oncedrugged, the Midget, the Shy, the Loudmouth, the Singer, the Magician, the Kibbutznik, the Divorcee, the Freshlymarried, the SomanyothersIfailtomention. The Human. Brothers. My brothers. So many there. So many not there anymore. An overflowing heart. A giant hole in the heart. Sure, statistics oblige, I have also some horrible brothers... the Drizella, the Gargamel, the Lucreziaborgia and similar. Wonder I hate statistics? But I run double strikethrough through these. Tfu tfu tfu! Sun Tzu was wrong. Keep your friends close and your brothers closer! I have a thousand brothers and more. Concrete. Steel. Diamond. God, now I know.

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Camera The pitiless camera eye remembers everything, reminds everything all the while throwing at us slices of hell. The blackened wall. The collapsing mother. The uncomprehending father, child, sibling, wife. Widow. The warrior tears. The brit before the funeral, the brit after the funeral. The bloodied paramedic. The song. Hope. Loss. Wish. The arrogant. The realist. The one who cares for himself, the one who cares for all. The waiting of the interminable wait and the sleepless nights and the rage. The funeral, another one, no brit. They cannot take it anymore but they take it. The hug. The teenage girl hanging on to a father she hasn’t seen for ninety days like a leech like a hyena bite like Earth’s gravitation to the moon. The thirsty stray dog. Streets paved with shreds of hearts. The camera sees it all, the lens cracks. Even the lens has a pain limit.

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Mistakes Mistakes. Horrible, heart wrenching mistakes culling sons, fathers, husbands, sisters, brothers... siblings all, mine. A hero, saving lives. Fugitives, miraculously just escaped. Hard working, hard as flint-stones comrades laying foundations of never again. Tattered tears in the fabric of society never healing wounds in the flesh of those who made the mistake hurting, howling words like why why not what if sorry damn... damn... damn! Oh, the nightmare of mistakes past, the hope of never again.

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Smiling Smiling. One leg amputated below the knee. Smiling. Both legs amputated above the knees. Smiling. One eyed. Smiling. Body riddled pieces of iron... neck close to artery, chest close to heart, spine. Smiling. “Hey, I’m fine, my hand is left behind, how are you?” Not heroes. Brothers. Humans to be admired, respected, venerated. Not to be forgotten when remembering becomes embarrassing and forgetting fashionable, the easy way out. They gave everything, they are entitled to everything in return. From us all.

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Child My child, 5 years old, said she, said he. My child, 15 years old said she, another she, said he, another he. My child, 35 years old, said another she, her he having passed away. My child, said others. Is there an age to a child, when does a child stop being a child, someone’s child, does it happen ever? Children, all of them children, missing in a family’s womb, all the pain levels equal. Infinite. Why do the bad guys know it, why do the good guys not know it? I want my child back! screams the parent to the 5, the 15, the 35, the rest, no lofty words, please, just my child, please!

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Redefined (or Science Fiction) Those who died died. Those who live die every day. Therefore those who claim what they claim are justified to claim what they claim. It is a land of apartheid after all, just... slightly redefined.

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Pure Pure. She was pure. A bud about to open into a flower a snowflake ready to melt into a drop of rain a word on its way to metamorphose into a full poem. The one who befouled her with his bodily refuse younger than her. She is still a bud, a snowflake, a word, she will never evolve into the next stage of her life. Pure. Forever.

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A Day A day. Another day. Another day. Another days. A week. A weeks. A month. A months... Oh, God, don’t let it be a year, a years. I watch them hollow cheeked, hollow-eyed irises lost in depths of cavities that were once the gates to their souls now the gates to their hells, individual hells with a mantra so often visiting their words that it almost lost its meaning... “their time runs away, there’s no more sand in their hourglass, bring them home!...” the bring them home! more of a prayer than an order groping at the sacrosanct tradition of none left behind, of Kol Yisrael Arevim Zeh La Zeh holier than the holiest, holier than the ten commandments, holier than the first commandment itself, a prayer falling on oznayim arelot... how else would you call it when virtual survival of the one takes precedence over the physical survival of kol Yisrael? A kol Yisrael that those rotting in an unknown hell are it. I watch the hollow eyes of those waiting and read there the desperation of unknowing... hungry? freezing? wounded? sick? insane? pregnant?... alive? the silent scream which I join, that anyone with one millionth of a cockroach’s conscience should join the desperation that could... should?... lead to a revolution the likes of the French or the October or even the Arab Spring and turn the single citizen from being the last in the food chain to being the first in the food chain. But revolutions eventually lead to corruption and politics eventually lead to politicians and those hollow eyes stay hollow while those being awaited rot in the uncertainties of the same hell. God, where are you?

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Interview Between life and death. Young handsome life won the battle paying a heavy tribute to death for its right to win, heavily handicapped for the rest of his days. His friends fared better, lucky fellows. “Would you swap places with them?” asked him the interviewer. He smiled shyly, tears filling his eyes. “No way! They are my friends,” he answered.

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Zola Cripple. OK, in line with politically correct fashion – disabled. As if she cares half body dysfunctional the second half being pulled into dysfunctionality by the first half and some busybodies playing name games for her uncaring ears. Cripple, she prefers, sticking her tongue out (still works) and returning to what she really cares about. The news. TV. Those who were taken and those who die trying to get to those who were taken and her own private condition and rolling prison irrelevant as she watches from early morning to late evening hoping to see a “deal”. Every day. Is there a deal already? she asks first thing in the morning before anything else. Poor brothers of mine, poor sisters of mine, never “poor me”, and her eyes well with tears once someone quotes the horrible “it was allowed to be made public, fallen today...” Never in her life, before or after cripple invaded her life, did she curse, not even a simple “hell” or “damn”, only smiles, only blessings, only softness. And suddenly this untypical hardness in her regard, in her voice, suddenly discovering the power of curses as she threshes any and all who “don’t do enough to bring them home” who “send our children to death” who “brought this scourge upon us”. Forgiving and forgetting none of those involved irrelevant sex, political orientation, faith, race, nationality. Saturdays lighting Shabbat candles with her one partially functioning hand her first candle and her first prayer going always to those who suffer “there” to those who die “there” to those that join her cripple world “there”, never forgetting them and only the last prayer after many is for herself, sometimes even forgetting this one. Again, in front of the TV. Watching. Eagle eyed. Suddenly she identifies one of those involved in “them still being there” and raises a solid though trembling finger toward the screen almost succeeds getting up on dead feet and with a chocked voice hisses Zola-wise straight at the target of her rage: I accuse! Night. A restless sleep. Tomorrow another day of vigil. Is there a deal already? Her first words with morning, her mantra, oh, how I wish she was the one decision maker who has to decide the decision. She would have cut the Gordian knot. “They” would have been home today.

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Not before Nations have short memories, they prefer to forget. People have short memories, they prefer to forget. Some people all they are left with are memories. Sure they will forget, when the bliss of that last eyeblink, last heartbeat, last breath gratifies them with its presence. Not before.

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Instinct They want to kill me. I don’t want to kill them. It’s the knee jerk reaction to the hammer the blinking eyelids to an approaching hand the shudder to a sudden noise Instinct. Self-defense. No hate, no conquest, no desire. Just the primal self-preservation of I and mine, born before the human race was even an idea. Modern world modern threats modern means and the hammer the hand the noise are bullets and bombs and the jerk and the blink and the shudder are bullets and bombs. All I do is protect I and mine. Instinct. Leave me alone. You want to kill me. I don’t want to kill you.

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Tired The chief of state is tired, for the wrong reason. The ministers are tired, they were never interested. The soldiers are tired, they have their own families to care for. The population is tired split the artificial gap between an artificial left and an artificial right deepening like a cavity in a tooth, faster. The media is tired, reality pulls attention in other directions. The world is tired, hypocrite, brainwashed, bigot, duplicitous, sanctimonious. The families are tired, desperate. They are not tired. They rot and die. Did I forget anyone

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Brothers? I have some lost brothers. I have some strange brothers that don’t give a damn about my lost brothers. Their lost brothers. Their brothers. They carved a corner in this ball we live on and all thy care is this corner and the rest of the world can go to hell. Inclusive my lost brothers. Their lost brothers. Their brothers. Guess what? The world is not ready to go to hell and neither I to see my lost brothers go to hell. And if the hell they believe in awaits they will find it first-hand. Then they will remember my lost brothers they forgot. Their lost brothers. Their brothers. There is a judging God, and none better than them knows it, get ready for His judgement, strange brothers. Strangers.

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Wishes There is a metal sculpture in Brussels touch it and your wishes will be fulfilled. It is shiny from the many fingers. And it works. Statistically. There is a fountain in Rome throw a coin into it and your wishes will be fulfilled. There was almost no place for the water from the coins. And it works. Statistically. There is a bridge in Paris hang a lock on it and your wishes will be fulfilled. It almost collapsed from the weight of locks. And it works. Statistically. There is a candles holder in my home. Light the Shabbat candles and make a wish and God will fulfill it. My wife lost her voice from wishes of bring them home no more wounded no more dead peace and other. It does not work. Not even statistically. I would have expected that, irrelevant that God does not exist, God would have come into existence just due to such fervor in her words. She does not give up, she was never too good in math.

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The List I got the list, somehow. Somebody somehow got the list and I got the list too. From somebody. Somehow. Father of one. Father of five. Almost father of. Brother of. Son of. Son of. Son of. So many son of, all of them sons of. Surprise... surprise? Daughter of. Sister of, mother of, aunt of. Surprise... surprise? Child of. Baby of. I go down the list not willing to lose even one letter, so long, terribly long the list. I don’t have the other list, even terribly longer of those who still are still are still marked for life. I don’t want to have the other list I don’t want to have any list I don’t want to read, I keep reading. I tremble. Why the hell do I tremble? Why the hell don’t I tremble more? I finish the list. Close it. Mine, all of them mine. Ours. Will the pain ever ease?

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Question Why the one hundred plus, why not the one thousand plus? asks me an on-line interlocutor, nameless, faceless, sexless, just an avatar. So I will call my interlocutor it. Because the one thousand plus are gone and left for us the hell to live in, I answer it. No one can do anything about them anymore except honor them by keeping our hell alive with their memory. Because the one hundred plus are not gone and they are the ones living in hell, I answer it. Everyone must do everything about them by ending their living hell before they too become subjects we honor and join the one thousand plus who are already our hell and our memory.

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Counting I open the TV, let them do the counting. They never miss, their arithmetic impeccable. One more day. One more day since the incredible became fact and the credible lost all meaning and I am one more year older... how old am I today? One cannot be all these years and still be alive, can one? Will tomorrow be one more day, one year older? Probably it will, until when will it? I do not listen, I let them babble and bicker and bitch in the background some inevitable jokes grating my skin palm deep a few publicity spots selling happiness at irrelevant prices a couple shows... sure, life goes on. Death goes on too, another name adds itself to the list, that miserable list that keeps getting longer and longer. I guess one day there will be wall with all the names sculpted inside its granite, I hope it will be a small wall I don’t know if it will be a small wall. At a certain stage I mute the moving pictures machine and let the colors play shadows on the walls, not that the color is beautiful, colors stopped being beautiful they are just a physical manifestation of electromagnetic waves and wave-lengths and Einstein stuff. Beauty is gone from the color. Beauty is gone from the world. What is left is barking TNT and barking politicians and barking religious preachers and. God, how I miss the beautiful barking of my gone dogs so incredibly melodic when compared to the TNT and politicians and religious preachers.

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My Mother. My Father. My mother would have been one hundred plus, if she lived. My father would have been one hundred plus plus, if he lived. My mother would have wished herself dead, if she saw what happens today. My father, who could not have lived one day without my mother, would have wished to join her, in death. My mother would have offered herself hostage, to replace “them”, there, in hell. My father, who could not have lived one day without my mother, would have wished to join her, there, in hell exile. My mother was Hashomer Hatzair. My father was Bethar. Our household was built on two rules: love and hard work. Simple people. Hardly educated. With life’s wisdom greater than life, with compassion for all greater than all. Simple people. Great people. Caring people. Humanity incarnated. I wish my mother lived today, even one hundred plus. I wish my father lived today, even one hundred plus plus. The world would have been a better place certainly there where no-goods keep no-gooding. I know the pain of losing love, first hand. I know the pain of those there who lost “them”, who fear for “them”, I have lived it first hand yet, those waiting, live it first-hand tenfold. Hundredfold? Mother, father, I don’t believe in God, mother father, please have a word with God. Please.

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Plan He had it all planned, the ring was bought the place where he would kneel was decided the words he would say were rehearsed, he did not plan that he would be kidnapped. Now the secret is out, she will not be surprised anymore, someone told her of his plan. I do not care, just come home, please come home, she prays every night now for one hundred days and more, her heart a rose shedding a petal every day. Who could have known a rose would hold so many petals? He will return, I know he will return, she ends the interview turning her back to the camera. She knows, she really knows.

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There is They raped my country, my mother. Also other mothers. They raped my country’s daughters, my sisters. Also other sisters. They raped my country’s daughters’ children, my children. Also other children. They continue raping everything in their way and the rapists’ mothers and sisters and children cheer them on, and no one understands why I am angry? If their mothers or sisters or children would have been raped they would have killed them. I want to save my mothers, my sisters, my children, to comfort them. Is there a difference between us? Damn hell, there is! Does no one understand?

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Save them! Killed. Murdered. Wounded. Maimed. Tortured. Raped. Kidnapped. Traumatized. Any combination or permutation allowed. Some still alive. Some dead. Choose your number to replace the some. There are those who call them victims. There are those who call them heroes. There are those for whom horror is synonym to banality, who call them casualties. There are those who don’t give a damn about them though they should, whatever they are called. There are those who would give their lives for them, and they do. Daily. There are those who hide behind slogans. Then there are those thriving on the blood making money shuffling political positions clinging like leeches to their bureaucratic habits of before selling meaningless salvation and promoting hilarious ideas... ha, it would have been hilarious if it would not have been so tragic... And, then, there are those who follow their leaders brain dead brainwashed brainless. And all above for the good guys side. Words for the other side were not invented yet. Killed. Murdered. Wounded. Maimed. Tortured. Raped. Kidnapped. Traumatized. I call them worlds. Others do so too. Worlds lost or about to be lost. Thus, God, please disregard the fact that I do not believe in you, please save those worlds still alive! Thus, leaders of the nation, please disregard the fact that I do not believe in you, please save those worlds still alive! Save them! All!

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Crying Hey Satan, you’re sighing? Seraphs, do you cuss? And God, are you crying for ours and us? You are so big, so powerful, you certainly can cry much longer than humans, those humans who are crying here for those dying there those who should be crying here for those dying there and do not those who should be crying here or else be kicked out of their chairs but are not crying here and for mysterious reasons are not kicked out of their chairs. While those dying there keep dying there. How long can a human cry? Mostly for a lifetime, not the lifetime of the one dying but the lifetime of the one crying. But you – Satan, seraphs, God, you can cry for longer than that. Hey Satan, you’re sighing? Seraphs, do you cuss? And God, are you crying for ours and us? If you do not, then you do not exist.

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Unsaid Young and not so young, bold and beautiful, not always beautiful but always bold, proud to be chosen, not proud to be chosen by death but proud to be chosen to reach for the life of others. Until culled mid-life, or before. Sounds mawkish, trite? Tell it to those left behind by those young and not so young bold and beautiful, not always beautiful but always bold. So many worthy ways to write a eulogy I found none, none exists. The unsaid words, these are the only eulogy worth having and only those unsaying them know them. The rest is, well, disintegrating dry leaves dissipating in a tempest.

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Presence I was there. Died. Was kidnapped. Got traumatized. I am there. Dying. Being kidnapped. Getting traumatized. I will be there. To die again to be kidnapped again to get traumatized again. Until when? This is not a terminal, chronic sickness, this is an open, festering, suppurating wound infesting an entire nation that can be cured with a single cure-all panacea. If only those holding the cure would remember for a moment that they are part of the nation. Waiting.

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And yet... For a family of ten million odd members one is sure to find the odd odd-ball, ha-ha, even more than one, for every letter of the alphabet if you try hard (no too hard) enough like for a you have the asshole, the arrogant, the abuser for b the bastard, the batty, the bloodthirsty for c the crackpot, the chauvinist, the cruel and so on all the way to z zany, zestless, zonked... And yet, scrap away this opulent layer of dirt and dust and dung and the shining golden nugget lies just underneath - the artist the brave the creative... all the way to the zesty. My real, down to earth family those who build, those who protect, those who sing, those who caress. Those who care. My family, the soul of this nation in progress, in pain, in peace. Yes, in battle too. I love you. * PS It is not that I am suddenly happy, it is that I saw the first butterfly of this spring. And this gives me hope. Re-birth.

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Hand You lent them your hand. It was a supporting hand, a tending hand medical economical hey... it was a friendship’s hand. And they bit it, they ripped it. Who bites a feeding hand? No, not a dog. A rabid dog.

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Hollow They sound hollow this time the cheers. The songs sung in the wrong keys the fireworks’ fuses wet the laughter forced... canned laughter this is the word I was looking for, canned laughter. There should be no cheers this time around.

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I saw death today I saw death today. I saw young flowers today, boys, reaped. I saw young flowers today, girls, raped. I wish I could have screamed as loudly as I wanted. I screamed nevertheless as loudly as I could. Then I saw thousands rejoicing in reaped in raped in death. Is this their God given right? Is this our God given world? I screamed, as loudly as I wanted.

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Species The rabid dogs and bitches screaming their poison while we bury another shard of sun, somebody’s son amid the quiet screams of his father, mother. Worshipers of hate versus worshipers of love, art, knowledge, worshipers of death versus worshipers of life, humanity, light. And the world goes with the poison the hate the death. Poor quadrupeds that we denigrate comparing them to these unworthy species of bipeds.

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Small Tragedies A nation, blessed with people. Cursed with tragedies. The son was born orphan, five months after the father went the one-way road. The cousins were friends. The grandmother lost her two grandsons just weeks apart. Everything was planned – the guests, the rings, the orchestra, the photographer. Only the war was not planned. He promised them to return – his wife, children, parents, he always kept his promises. This was the first time he did not. Small tragedies. Small? Colossal to those left behind.

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Old. So what? Old. So what? So full of love lust life overflowing with a wonderful legacy he wishes to seed through his descendants... dead. Killed. Murdered. With his friend, with his friend, with his friend, with his friend. Old? Tell it to the sons, daughters, wives, grandchildren... The country dressed mourning. Cruelty won another round.

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The story of X’s return home The story of X’s return home. First he smelled the garlic. Then he smelled his dog. Then he smelled his one and only by which time she smelled him too by which time his entire tribe smelled him too and the dull hum started turning roar. X returned home! The story of X’s return home, the story that did not happen yet. The story of X’s return home, that will happen soon. Amen!

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Partnering in crime They were brothers and sisters to brothers and sisters they were sons and daughters to mothers and fathers they will never get to be mothers and fathers to sons and daughters or aunts or uncles or grandparents or doctors or plumbers or footballers, they will never get to be anything. Inside the horror. They died. Killed, murdered, some bodies still recognizable some shattered to unrecognizable leftovers scattered among shapeless, dismembered toys. Kids. Once. Now forever. A murderous hand targeted innocence, revenge will follow can any revenge compensate for this lost innocence, for the loss of a child? Can the pain ever subside? Does the world not yet see the horror of the deed and the horror of the doer does the world not crush them underneath its foot? Horrible world allowing horrible deeds. Partnering in crime, there is no other word except partnering in crime. Criminals.

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Variation She believes in You. Every Saturday over the candles every day over the leftovers of the candles every waking moment the candles burning in her eyes she trusts. She has faith. She prays. Bring them home, bring them home, bring them home... I am sure You hear, if You exist which I deny and she denies my denial praying on and waiting for a sign that You heard. You heard. Maybe/possible/could be. But. But it was maybe her accent, though she is a sabre or the air-traffic noise or there was some hiccup in the communication channel allotted or maybe You do not exist as I claim though she claims my claim is illegal and illogical or... it matters? Maybe some humans interfered. You heard. There was a slight variation in the execution of the request. They returned home. In plastic bags. I heard some praising You for the privilege of even this return I heard some preferring to shut up and convolute in the pain I heard her not accepting. Crying. Praying on. Faith. Thankfully there are atheists such as myself that allow themselves to ask You the question: do You exist? do You hear? do You listen? To her. Do You allow other humans to interfere? I feel there is some oxymoron somewhere in the situation but poetry has nothing to do with it. Outrage, has everything to do with it. I watch her. She prays again, and my heart breaks for her.

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Another Hell is OK, she said after three hundred thirty three days. I know I will get home one way or another, she thought hoping it will be one and not another. She got home. Another, not one. The powers to be had decided. Damn the powers to be.

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Rights Your foes do not own exclusive rights to evil. Members of your own clan, tribe, nation, may claim same rights too. And you pay with your blood those rights you sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, grandfathers, grandmothers, grandsons, granddaughters and other variations upholstering the antechambers of hell on the bottoms of tombstones and the upper layers of hospital mattresses and the darkness of dungeons with dead, dying, suffering, rotting, howling mouths and souls. Howling blood... is there such a thing? You did not choose your foe, they chose you, you did choose those who chose their individual nothingness over your collective value, oh, human folly so demeaning to self.

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Today One name today, another name, and I bend some more. One name today, another name, and I bend some more. Two names today, another today, other names, and I keep bending. Three names today, again another today, again another other names and I wonder when will my spine give in and with a loud knack will break and drag me into the finality of the final hell. Probably a bliss, compared to the hell of the dragging hell. One more name today. When the hell will all this more and today end? Accumulating into hundreds, soon thousands... damn! Names I do not know. This my son. This my brother. This my father. Names I do not know. A howl. Reverberating. Repeating itself. Sure, people still laugh people still dance people still sing, sometimes sad songs, sometimes joyful songs. The way of the world. Except for those who lost their. My son. My brother. My father. They will never laugh, dance, sing again, at least inside. They will not. Two more names. When the hell will all this end?

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Roots and things Give me a number, any number. Thirty six would be fine, it has a square root. I’ll take even twenty seven with its cube root or what about thirty two, slightly better and a quintuple root sounds fine. Eighty one? Sounds almost great with its quadruple root but you know what? Seventy nine, fine, eighty two fine, root or no root give me a number, any number. So why do I talk about roots? Just playing diversion games with myself trying in vain to place some logic into an illogical reality – logarithms would do as well, trigonometric rules, geometry, anything to focus on to hold on in the middle of chaos and mayhem with at times idiocy thrown in. Give me a number, any number. The bigger the better. But bring them home.

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Even Lions Sometimes. Even lions die. Even mates of lions die. Even cubs of lions die. Even progenitors of lions die. And sometimes the lions nation fails to groom a Simba and all that it is left with is a Scar And a few yapping jackals.

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24 to 21, or Distressed Death gathered its crouching bones and stood upright darkness flowing into her orbs, tired grim depressed distressed. So old, I was supposed to be impassible by now not commiserating, she said fitting a pince-nez to her nasal bone and trying to penetrate the darkness, seeing, distressed. So old, I was supposed to be a liberator not a torturer, she said fitting a new chine to her scythe and discarding the dulled one, sighing, distressed. But you forced my hand, you, not capitalized you, this is not my doing, she said, distressed. Now I am waiting for you to decide, you, not capitalized you, and I will follow, she said, distressed. I am choking on this reality, why don’t you, not capitalized you, maybe you should use my pince-nez, she said, distressed. Sorry, she said to no one in particular and to everyone in particular then to one in particular – you, not capitalized you, forced my hand, as the arm holding the scythe rose and descended. Then again. Then again. X. X. X. You did not bar my arm, you, not capitalized you, the way You, capitalized You, did long ago, she said, tired grim depressed distressed. 3 gone, 21 to go. Distressed.

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I Know I did all that is in my power to bring them home. I know. Thank you. I know also that the earth is flat that the sun rotates around the earth and that Pinocchio is based on a true story. And as you nose does not get longer...

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The Truth So they did not accept to publish my poetry those whoevers. I guess they found it too disturbing? Too close to the truth? Too close to the painful truth that some are still denying? Yes, society may be split, truth may not. There is just one. No worry, I will find a solution, I will tell my truth. The truth.

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