If I forget your Jerusalem, 

May my right hand cut the left hand off, divisively. 

     Incisive, embedded with old zealous ideas, ideas one learns and relearns the inner most parts, all their life. 

This life and the adjacent lives. 

Ripped: from my mother’s land,  

         Ripped from the olives, 

 And the dry heat spell, the ravines, the dirt dust, the shifting sands. 

Ripped out my back; 

My backbone flute plays sweet harmonic, 

Your jurations, gyrations, are a balm upon fleeting; often useless life. 

My knife, a pattern dagger;  

My knife is a blood guzzling strife. 

And in tune with the jargon and the heat wave, it makes you fit to be my wife. 

And if it was not two,  

if it were a single man made, in the making than this juggernaut would crumble, it would stifle, it would cease its aggressive onslaught. 

             We continue to build on the structures of a new state. 

The old state, a simple place of hate. 

The old state, a means to suckle one’s blood survival, more living meager, some living Tate. 

Yō, fuck that guy in prison. 

   Cut his off. Thats how much i hate the faces on their slate. 

If I forget I am of Judea, of Samaria,  

If I forger let my left hand gash my face.  

Let me take my own eyes lest,  

I ever forget that I am IEVREE, not Blanc. 

Best and not finest, Best and not bravest, best of the best of our trade.                

On this poetic escapade, let he say I love my Abe, I love my country, my wife and my tax collector are not of equal stuff. 

Have I wrote today enough? 

Do you hear me!? 

My wife, is my witness, my land is between two oceans not some river, not some sea.            

And in crushing my chest, in ripping out my spine to make music; did I pass Hashems new test? 

            I have saved more than I have taken. To learn, the nature of our struggle you would have to read the rest.