cutting great neck

It's written in the books, in the songs, in the maps of stars/
What everyone is looking for, happiness, hoping/
And destiny, its color dark, deep inside/
Don't cry, little sister--it's not simple, you understand.

there's too much truth.



this song presents to me a divergent reality—of me, years ago, in israel, still 16 years old, still an average israeli male. it peels all of the layers that the united states makes you wear and rips them open to where that red-hot burning israeli core of mine yearns to return to normalcy, to a stationary life back home, where my family is, where my family’s friends are.



“return,
return.”

to my old home, in those rotten streets.

where i’m—new. in an old way. where i’ve lived my entire life. where i’m not different, or foreign, or clever. where i am what everyone else is.

such an impossible dream.

and no, it’s not as if i’m needing to be normal, to be average, to fit in—because my version of fitting in is different than that of israelis. i want to fit in there. i want to live there as a normal person.



i want to be transported back in time, to start in the late 80s, when the night was black and they sat on the roofs of apartment buildings and watched a city fall into the chasm of comforting home.

i don’t know what sprang this deeply-wound nostalgia in me. i don’t even know if it’s completely nostalgia—i guess, it’s more of a craving for a different reality.


an impossible reality.