بيروت

Lebanon is an old man. He is wrinkled and creased, his eyes blink desolately, but gently squint to reveal the peaceful
intentions and beautiful fruit of the land. he is freckled with flowers, they grow from the sun. the sunlight blankets the cities
like a grandmother who pacifies sadness with warmth and love, but nothing much else at all.
He is built strong, like the smooth back of a bricklayer or farmer, mountains roll throughout like great muscles ripple along
the skin of a caregiver, one who gives to the earth with heart.
The heart of his body is a woman, Beirut is a tired old hag. She is beautiful, and vulgar all the same. She is a virgin and a whore.
She has been raped, she never lets you forget - her scars and bruises remain visible and she flaunts them like a soldier his badges.
But she is not proud, she is bitter. and to this end she sings of her bitterness with a whiskey rasp. She smokes her cigarettes and
drinks her wine and people's words and criticisms run through her blood with every sip. she boils only when erupted by
fire , and at the tip of her cheek where she looks to the west, she leaks an ocean of tears, she hasn't stopped crying since the day
she was torn apart at the dress and ravaged at the bosom of her virgin skin. she lays here undressed and exposed for her blood
to run at a feverish rate.
Beirut moves and breathes to a rhythm only her language can sing. No one belongs here unless they understand this sound
and syncopated they become these many faces and names. A man who sells you bread wants to know what you eat it with
and the woman you ask for directions tells you that you could use the exercise, so she gives you the longer route.
the street is the vein of the body of Lebanon. Like a heavy smoker, the walls of his blood vessels are coated thick with unfinished
business, grudges, love, indulgence, deprivation..along his walls lay the overconsumptive, the lethargic and dissatisfied.
along his floor the destitute children with soiled faces laugh over adult conversations, they sell flowers in the mess of the streets
and curse at you don't buy any. They smoke cigarettes these infants; they think with the energy a child their age would otherwise
expel playing basketball or watching tv, something involving helmets and sofa cushions.
They find comfort on their pavement seats, and protection beneath the shade of their mimosa trees.
The shy plants of the city whither when you whisper in their ears, they are old and wise - they have stood througohut war,
they will probably stand until turned into a parking lot.
There is a mutual understanding between Beirut and her land. These sisters of brick and soil are far too beautiful to damage one
another, but a cancer pulps beneath them both and stunts their growth alike.
Like an antfarm the people work. They walk, they talk and they work. The people of the land are the lowest caste - they are inferior
to the skies, the breeze, the mountains, the trees and even the concrete that winds along a complicated path. They know this
and they submit, like befallen gods and goddesses of some mythical mountain on a cloud.
They are beautiful, they know it. Their olive skin and pale eyes, dark thick hair and sharp noses, downturned eyebrows
and healthy lips pursed and prepared to speak in the many tongues of which they pride themselves.
A city of fallen angels, they wear their sins on their sleeves. there is no shame or secrecy, only the pride of a mountain and the
grace of a silky river.
I smoked along a busy path, an ebb and flow of love and hate, shrieks and laughter, flooded over me.
And a god in a parking lot made a vulgar gesture, he was beautiful and charming but needed to be tamed. I stepped on a cigarette butt. I crossed a crowded street, and a dirty little boy cursed and spat as he waved flowers in my face.