The greatest thing: Jerusalem.

Submerge this merge of love and loath, of prayers, and sparks.

Unwilling reshaping of soul.

Spoil the nose with smell of grilled chicken, cinnamon, dung, and coriander,

Minarets yearning

Russian mamas cry on the spot where Jesus rested his ellbow
for a minute or two,

before black Simon drug the cross uphill in protest.

Lay down flat on the grave of the unknown Saint of Pain.

Burn bundles of greedy skinny candles,
stick them in pots filled with sand where water belongs.

Ride through the yellow dark alleys,
slide by a pile of pampelmouse freshments.

A preppy coleague kid with an orange kippa
melting his hands into the Wailing Wall
where we left a thousand beautious notes.

Pointy rocks that fit in our sandals,
washed in Coke from cans with arab letters.

Inhale the souls that roam here turtle speed.

Insane this attempt to proclaim:

“I am your song.”

And silence here to kill and fill.

I miss you, I miss our subway rides.

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