A journal of narrative writing.
The Jerusalem Moniker



This gangster of an olive tree
had, at sunset, an old horse
for a girlfriend—named 
Francine, spelled with 3 n’s...

this, like peace itself, 
was permitted during, as I said,
the period of the sun’s setting,
one bright sabbath evening
in January.  Winter affections

are nothing but impossible detail. 
There was just enough time 
for some small intrigue and scandal—
Francine was with child
and an olive tree was rumored 
to be the perturbed father.

Actually, that old fart, 
Samuel Beckett knocked-up 
the poor horse in a cool dark shed 
in Palestine.
That’s Palestine with 2 n’s. Don’t forget it.   
The authorities will question all of us in the smart set. 
The gum and lambskin 
prophylactic failed.  I warned you—
it‘s the  details of winter that upset us.

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