Friday, who shot JC?
Showering with loneliness, scrubbing backs, tasting The Body Shop Straw-
berries with foamy crème chantilly, safariing in Nokia’s nature park highest
scoring 829 set at 3:25 am on another such insomniac night spent making
love to myself for hours on end- 12.
Industrial giraffes cluttering the maritime view from the seventh floor bal-
cony, those same tempting seas seen in the Jokù painting fished from some
attic trickling its way to souk-el-ahad, the Sunday Market that actually opens
since Friday- 24.
Saturday, who shot JC?
TV channeling boredom onto imaginary anthropologic documentaries, too
tired to even fall apart, electrical power rationing saving me the agony of
reaching for the remote control- 36.
Night eagles sick of flying solo, but whoever heard of a flock of eagles –
works for the inferior two-winged ones, but never dignified enough for the
leaders of the pack, and the night is good for Elton John fighting, fighting
one’s self may I add for this Saturday- 48.
Sunday, who shot JC?
Looking for Tori Amos saviors beneath dirty sheets, gloomy thought particles
gripping my brain with the force of the midwife toad’s nuptial pads, carrying
our doomed offspring on their hind legs, until they hatch in festered acts of
erase and rewind- 60.
My pattern conforming to Paul Kemmerer’s “law of seriality,” with life pro-
gressing as a three-dimensional spiral with its twisting and turning repeating
themselves, oblivious of geography, be it Jeddah, New York, Beirut or Corfu,
going in loops, many happy returns many sad ones too, but for better or for
worse, always advancing on a Sunday- 72.
Who shot JC?
JC was not shot, he was crucified, one of those Saint Tex errors God’s
computer makes from time to time, with our loved ones collateral damages
short-circuited too soon, meeting one another at the pearly gates, still sending
us people to love in lieu of their quickened departure- 72 (Still).
72 hours, that would be three days, enough to go to hell and back, to relive
to tell, to know that Dante’s is made of silence rather than conversations, to
prove that Jean-Paul Sartre’s is ourselves projected onto others, but the pub-
lic doesn’t have such a long attention span anymore, so make those

72 seconds instead - with commercial breaks included to flatter the golden
sponsors.
The same 72 that Tobi Cogswell took to get to the hearts of the baby arti-
chokes in a bold act of cross-poetization , pollen scattered as digital words
coming back from the vestiges of previous works: “You’re gloomy, but
Amen! Lazarus awaken! Talita Koumi!” and Van Morrison bringing me back
on top from an odd-numbered avenue record store.
Monday, take your best shot at JC!
A small cross-stitch canvas prophetically proclaims: “You have two choices
for dinner: Take it or leave it.” It is good to be alive to savor Messianic baby
artichokes for dinner and get to their holy hearts with crowns of thorns from
zero to eternity in 72 seconds.