FOR ALBERT AYLER

cobra spit mixes in the silo with the grain
it sits above
the bar- with roof-whored-out to make room
for the bell top
unbending, unbending: there is no room for the non-dead
serpent: running through the air

"it's like frenching a bronzen-ed cobra"

slaughtered scales come back from the great lakes
there is a shortage of
salmon this year so there will be no great triumph
in the Cornell-y-bars
and alligator teeth will make due for stir-sticks

"it's plastic, y'know?"

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BEACH FRONT HOUSING

tar blobs about
in my mouth
I clench my jaw
sticky with rust
numerous sayings none of which
I understand arabic is not my um-welt

I smile
my coffee-bone-teeth
look dull against the
titanium housing
gray as my fathers hair
(as matte as my teeth)
catching a flair from
the sand or the sun

my lips parted with the ease of a beam-to-hit-the-earth
my teeth cannot part without forming black bubbles
my tongue is glued to the roof of my crimson housing
my gums are clean from the disinfectant in the sand
a small gold&blood falcon is trapped between my jaws
it's spilling wings beat against my interior stretchings
cramping: it sits hunched by one-eighty-degrees
talons scratching my strips of tetherings
the beak is missing

there are no birds
in those strong metal units
empty of all alphabets
their tongues are still there
made for laughter 

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Just go listen to Albert Ayler's music. And read more Palestinian literature!

Donate to the Jenin Freedom Theatre.