War vs. UFO

On the Dome of Rock
where stones have crumbled
after
bullet spray
and my blood
and your gut
make the shrine ashamed.

With seeking hands I come,
desperate eyes and straggled breath
and you stare
broken by war, taken in the Summer when embers were left of our
home.

The table,
the chairs,
Bingo who squealed as they cut him.

All man is good.

'An Israeli-Palestinian conflict.'
Conflict? As if another spat on a Western cul-de-sac.

Death stinks the streets
for our kingdom
where tales are told with passion and faith,

where the land's seven sins sprawl open for sightings and are
fought for.
Once such little weapons, all stick and stones
now automated guns and homemade bombs can take a man,
and his legs.

Break the hymen
with the innocence,
a little more blood in Jerusalem
cannot hurt.
Rage your hate on history
here.

I could cure the ailment.

Quivering bodies stumble home
where there is dust and ash and hopelessness.
Psychosis, anarchy seem sane.
Use a stone and, water spilling
from dark ducts,

hit

until my skull is empty of thoughts
and your gut
and my blood
make the shrine
ashamed.