There is a paper
in my room, it is
between the paints and the seforim,
folded neatly in two. It says
“This is
a manifesto.”
It says, “Here is
a safe place for people who are tired,
tired of words like
“religious”
For people who don’t care if your kippah is knit
or black velvet
or a crown made of fur.
Who know that the
color of your shirt
does not determine the extent of your belief, who
are tired of hearing “modern”
as an insult.
Who have worked hard to find truth,
who have done our best to be good,
who have been told how
good we are or
how not, even if
we had not asked.
We are not the kollel wives of Har Nof, the
kabbalists of Tzfat, the
pilgrims of Hevron.
We are
all of them collectively.
We have never thrown
a rock, or spit
on a child.
We are the talmidim and talmidot
of David HaMelech,
whose own family thought he was a ******* child,
who wrote poetry and
composed on a harp,
who sang and
danced on a mountain top
whose differences made him holier.
We know
today his daughters would not
get into the best Beis Yaakov.
Our differences make us holier, and we
are not
afraid anymore.
Of desire to be
accepted
suppressing
the ways we connect to
the Infinite.
We have been taken out of context.
We have seen yiras shmaim replaced by
yiras rabbeim.
We are
changing
the minchag hamakom.
We are
a generation ready for
the descendant of David HaMelech and
Avraham Avinu, two leaders whose
courage to be different shifted the
course of the world.
We think “alternative” has become
a four-letter word because
it is a synonym for
“choice”
We are asking questions,
we are using
our gifts. You are
welcome to join us
for a meal, or maybe
a revolution.”
There is a paper in my room, it is
between the paints and the seforim,
folded neatly in two,
with spaces
at the bottom
for 13.4 million signatures.
It says
“This is
a manifesto.”
There is a paper
in my room,
I am looking for a door
to hang it on.

talking to my best friend abroad
he says
"i don't see what's
so magical
about reality"
i have
outgrown that place
like a
child in dolls' clothes

sitting in the cafe on the corner
a woman in thin wire glasses
asked me for a flame
i reached to give her one but what i pulled out
wasn't mine
"Lighters turn us all into kleptomaniacs" she half-shouted over the Nina Simone,
(her dress shirt turned before she did)
i turned the lighter over in my hand
a picture of a pencil ,something in italian
i said
"i've never seen this in my life"
she said, eyeing the potted plant
"but your hand has."

i said “im not going to marry you”

and you said “oh. do you want to get married?”

and i said “…no”**

i was standing in the shower in someone else’s house when i told you i couldnt be with you

and you said “please don’t do this”

and i said “i’m sorry”, like i had to

and i said “goodbye,’ like i had to but i didn’t have to i didn’t do it because i had to i did it because

there’s an itch

you get in your feet

when you realize that all you have to do to be happy is, do

what makes you happy

and i decided i wanted that more than you.

last night when it rained i remembered what it sounded like

when it rained on your tin roof

and how you slept with your breathing shallow,

in case your grandma with dementia walked in and

called you by your grandfather’s name again. i remembered

the day you put the latch on your door to keep her out.

i bet you kept it there to keep me out too.

if i were still there

i’d be riding my bike to you now,

down that long stretch of littered sidewalk,

past that path where you smoked joints behind people’s yards at night

into the driveway by

your house, frame light enough to be carried away by wind

but the wind came

and it blew me away instead.

if i were still there i’d say happy anniversary, i love you so much

if i were still there it would be a lie

but i’m here, so it’s not, because

i can only love you from here, seeing what a fool you are

forgiving you anyway

so happy valentine’s day to your aforementioned  buddy

and happy valentine’s day to the high school that almost killed you

and happy valentine’s day to whatever music you’re making

whether its metal,

or blues,

happy valentine’s day to the safeway cashier

who knew what we were up to and the school theater whose floor we slept on

and the kisses snuck between sleeping bags

and the arms that for three years were my home

in your bed, by your star wars curtains

light every morning, breakfast with your mom

who added me on facebook

and could never spell my name

february last year i was in italy rinsing you out of my mouth

this year i’m in israel eating salt and reading old emails

taking a bath in an empty apartment

wondering when

you’re going to cut your hair.

The Princess and the Shepherd is a series of corporeal mime pieces, choreographed by father of the genre Etienne Decroux. The two characters dance side by side but separate, engaged in their own personal stories. With the plucking and handing over of a flower, the two characters meet for an instant, two stories converging for a single moment, before the process begins again.


The Princess                                                         ­     The Shepherd

the daughter of the king,                                        went pacing
                                                                ­                    through the

and the child of nobody                                         fields looking for
                                                                ­                    his sheep

left her New York city kingdom                            lost some
                                                                ­                    decades ago

for a                                                                ­            while he was
                                                                ­                    sleeping
                                                                ­                    a                  

Middle eastern wonderland                                  sleep he didn’t
                                                                ­                   choose.

where the                                                              ­   He

musicians play outside,                                        dreamed of kings,

where the forests sing at night                            of ancient stones
                                                          ­          
                                                      ­            
where the people cry into walls and                   of words branded in
                                                                ­                   flame

the children                                                         ­    words as
                                                                ­                   much                         

bring gas masks                                                      for him as for his
                                                                ­                   father

to school.                                                          ­        and when he awoke
                                                                ­                   his hair                  

I met her in a room where                                     was singed (like the
                                                                ­                    heat of his

bread was baking                                                     will had cooked
                                                                ­                    his knotted chest
                                                                ­                    grey)                          

and her softness                                                      and­ he rose to his

bubbled up in the yeast, so                                   feet, his strong
                                                                ­                    hands smoking,

I swam past her mote and                                    his congregation
                                                                ­                    dispersed to   
found her room of paintings                                 some far off
                                                                ­                    meadow.                
                     ­                                                               So­ he   

of eye drops                                                            ­  wandered from
                                                                ­                    bloom to bloom   
of old woolen hats.                                                  distracted­,
                                                                ­                    untouched for
                                                                ­                    years                  

I slept in her room every                                        and petals lined in
                                                                ­                    glass cut his

day for a month                                                       palms so deep a
                                                                                    full 

while she                                                              ­    burgundy wine bled
                                                                ­                   out,                  

laid back on her down                                           so he blessed it,  

comforter throne                                                    raised his hands to
                                                                ­                   drink, and his 

her first love on the telephone                             leather-bound arms
                                                                ­                   cried out to Gd.

with her sunglasses on to                                      But in his field
                                                                ­                    stood another
                                                                ­                    flower,  
hide her royal weepy eyes                                      thorns worn thin,
                                                                ­                    hued so                

and a crown of tangled hair,                                  brilliant and sad
                                                                ­                    that he,    
brown as the leaves on the ground,                     seeing royalty
                                                                ­                    approaching,

soft as the light caught                                           chose it from the
                                                                ­                    brush

through smoke in                                                    kissed its petals

the window. Out in the field to                             hesitantly, gently                                

see the seasons change a                                        and handed

Shepherd handed her                                              the Princess      
                                                  ­a Rose

                  and for an instant, the three hung suspended,

                  her hands soft and painted, his perfumed

                  sharing a rose red as kingship, as remorse.

So the Rose went back with the Princess, where her kind and

graceful hands brought it to her people

and it shone its colors bright and moved the peasants to tears with its promise

But as the people gathered to hear its petals sing, the Rose bloomed richly

thinking of the hands of its Shepherd

out looking for his congregation, ready to build a kingdom of his own.

There is
no poetry
in me.
There is only
people and
things and
places where I should have
been hours ago.
I am empty cigarette carton
I am
bleeding nostril
I am sweaty neck.
I am calloused feet.
I am going to shoot up
a mall
or maybe
eat some hummus
or maybe
take the train home.

Sitting
on the
edge of
my window
smoking and
watching the
light
of
my
reading lamp
on
the
woven
elephants
hanging
beaded
above
my
bed
-
I thought
you
were
singing
in
your
room,
but
realized it's just
Yerushalayim
that
hums
at
night.
Sing me to sleep, Holy city -
center of the universe,
light of my life.