I taste Kafka, and burn this lighthouse down

What is this loneliness I must confront
that the remains of this genocide, this war
has given me the miracle of poetry, life
The depression has turned me into a
zombie. There is sweetness and clarity in
this day, light, cell, energy. My thoughts
they turn to Palestinian tragedy, to war.
What I must do is to not cause damage,
is to not cause further wounding along
the way, is to open this darkness and force
possibility upon it, peace of mind, justice
is to confront this force with poetry, muse
and sabotage, to console where needs be
It is the life force of Debussy, the Russian
composers, Bernstein, Barenboim, Satie
Helfgott, Cage, Glass that sustains me
The dead eyes and un-dead faces of Palestine
a sea of bodies in a refugee camp, karma,
the blood spilled is wise and ancient there
in Gaza. It has psychic abilities. It's atoms
are made of dimensions of the unstable
experiences of pain and heartbreak. I take
this Kafkaesque instrument, this milk
and am nourished, sated. I think of all
the journalists who have died, the poets.
They are alive to me in this moment and
will always be. Like this grief, this sun, the
melancholy that runs through each vein
to my heart, to all the organs in my body.