the nights, I remember

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Those endless nights, I remember:
we used to sit and hide in the smoke
and drown our words in a glass of beer
till the wee hour lost its patience,
slammed its glass on the table,
and left the pub on high heels,
with an Ellen Barkin smile.

Those endless nights, I remember:
a yet-unknown DJ in Jerusalem’s alternative scene,
scratching-peeling the summer lard from the air
while noir slides were being projected
on the visitors’ shadowy figures
grotesquely morphing within.

Those endless nights, I remember:
we spoke of Kafka and Proust,
Radiohead and Nick Cave.
We had visions like Kropotkin and Buddha.
We wrote songs on the napkins
and drew,
on the fogged-up beer glasses,
our naïve dreams,
now so long forgotten.

Those endless nights, I remember:
the narrow streets of Jerusalem near the Market
were slowly forgetting yesterday’s smell
of nerve-wracking turmoil.
Nevertheless,
we were living in each moment—
we saw the prophets and kings
in the twilight of the awakening dawn
while the taxis were carrying us home.

4 thoughts on “the nights, I remember

  1. very well conveyed. it’s not always that a writer is able to transport the reader to times passed, to scents unknown, to taste and touch un-discerned. you’ve accomplished this.

    memory lane is a nice lane to walk occasionally

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