cloudy heads, crowded hands.

That feeling of hunger
behind your eyes,
anemic, washes out in the
  winter lights

.

Stalactites forming down
and penetrating memory
over the century
an affinity for
ancestry and beyond,
beyond the barb wire,
beyond the massive pyres
where the feeling is killed with fire

...

At least the pain is done,
at least the clouds are gone,
at least we sort of won

.

My head has been bought and sold
by two sides of resultant woes
Holocausting at my toes
Suicide bombs fill the sky in billows

.

And never forget the day,
never forget the year,
Auschwitz numbers there
on the left arm attached here
  to crowded hands and closing thresholds

;

  to cloudy heads with swastika bold
which pulled the little triggers
and snapped the little pictures
and killed the squirming critters

.

Holocausting cast aside, into the here and now
where inducted are the same same same

.

West Bank, all it wants on the Jordan, O Israel,
is to be shorn of its last Gaza Strip of clothing, Hammasless,
naked, led into a shower room.