June 18th

It’s just a way to shape love –
white knights riding straight red &
endless eyes writing their own prayers.
It’s just a face composed by symmetry,
by the sweet taste of heartache
seasoned with Francoise Hardy screaming “Voila!”
He’s neither here nor there –
only paper keeps him crowned –
in the meditative state of
a constant lie, accompanied by
bittersweet violins –
imaginary nostalgia.



Could you be slow for a little while?
The green grass is warm under a youthful sky
we’re young, we have time, our guitars in tune,
teach me how to play chocolate-chipped songs.

Could you be slow for a little while?
A Freckled moment, anticipated ritual,
I’m younger, your words chime, guitars in bloom,
teach me how to play a dreamer’s guide to songs.

Could you be slow for a little while?
A grin can’t hide long green eyes,
you’re young, we waste time, our guitars in tune,
teach me how to play tangled-webbed songs.

Could you be slow for a little while?
A white dress caresses your beautiful bride,
I’m hung, a curl’s rhyme, my guitar glooms,
Years teach me to keep playing, whatever wrongs.


A sigh – blue lava covering the air
with a sweet taste of cushioned names –
and the restless tongues – a sigh –
body finally meets the mind –
symmetrical – the heart can lick
the moment if it wants to last- a sigh –
pining for an instant response –
innevitable reflex of weakened knees –
and the fingers – a sigh

Robb Stark ( a d r e a m)

Our silence is an Arik Einstein record,
our rhythm – a fusion of a swing set & the wind.
For us every piece of freedom is ceremonial,
white shiny linen pressed upon one little moment,
our bodies placed perfectly like silverware,
cleaned out before the world feasts
on rusty routine & wretched clocks.
Our silence is a holiday on a big porch,
overlooking the inviting grass
we’re celebrating underneath a long blanket
and a hug that warms parts left barren.
It’s still just us and Arik,
nostalgia that may have been forgotten,
may not have even existed, but takes a few
fantastic breaths – we’re in love.
With my head on your rugged skin, my nose
rubs against the idea of entering our home
and you – so beautiful – write melodies
with unconscious eyes, another music
I’m hoping to sing with you tonight

Right Point

His face an eclipse I gazed upon for too long,
halo of saints & wisdom of the wisest,
distant light can never break through holes.
His music – muscles stretching poetry.

Enough with poetry, criminal coveting of my eyes,
rendering objects – peaks & mountains.
Nature seems to be his, well as deep as thoughts,
I cut the rope & stay on the surface where I can
enjoy the sweetness of shining apples in the sun.