In succulent clouds raw with symbols I am a Palestinian celebrating the destruction of my oppressors, eating your children with bombs in my teeth until all of us are dust.
I get sick of gray skies, eventually. A small bottle of white-out will finish my hands, slip the firmament until it, like me, is invisible: on the recieving end, blotting any horizon with my skin, I become less than, and bauble. They wear me. When there is sun,I can hear them buying and selling under the street. Cars lie wrenched along the treelawn, doubled over in parch.
This was an alien rain, slices of sky inserted everywhere, lacing my solitude until each link seems an indictment of pointilism. I'm a Palestinian, knives in my teeth as I try to breath under their map. I'm trying to figure difference and distance.
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