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I wasn't sure of
those words, that holy
trinity pressed to give back,

until your heart stuttered systolic.

Contracted, you underplayed every line as
I fought, undervalued, omitted and flat-lined

that singular skip your two-******, beated rhythm
warning beacon, red-flashing, blaring signal flared sign

granted every second second of each stolen time, when those
planets and these stars became so fiercely yet finitely aligned,

yes, I understand now, as we lay entwined, cyclic, chest
deep, life-defying leap, gasp of breath, wake from

sleep, it is this that I seek, sunlight unconfined
crushing breath divine, beat of two, separate

singular, unexpected yet still

defined in-kind, of your
continuation bringing
life back to mine.
Do you still think about me
when your car hums
past the baseball field
and beats toward the twilight?

Can you hear my smile
when the sun is melting into your favorite
flavor of summertime sorbet?


I remember when
we used to summit the dugout
and watch the sky slow dance,

we held hands like our fingers
were sewn together,

and kissed in celebration
like we had reached
the peak of the world.

You taught me how to
write poems about love,
and my open chest cavity.

Since you left, I’ve been writing
about everything all at once.

About how the smoothness of your skin
brushes me awake in a bed in which I am alone,
how love tastes like jazz music
and fireball whiskey,
and about how pain leaves you gasping for air and
draws canyons under your eyes.


I don’t know how to forget
the palms of your hands
in my mom’s basement at 2 a.m.
or the sound of my heart as
I hung up the phone.

I don’t know how to forget
everything all at once.
Three different thoughts I found in a sketchbook from 2015.
A minyan is an assembly of ten Jews.  With ten present, the group can perform a fuller service, adding congregational prayers that an individual alone cannot say, and in heaven, received, as if from a 
more powerful, unified voice.

Satan laughing with delight at the happy news,
unusually proud of his soul-retrieving,
red state minions,
having scored late in the '16 season,
a long awaited prize,
a high priest of music, a hallelujah singer
just come  cross the borderline,
once a mere earth bound legend,
now to be mockingly enjoyed
in this, his legendary peculiar tier of heaven
a banner year it was, a cornucopia of new arrivals,
singers, songwriters, composers, conductors, rock 'n rollers,
itinerant blues musicians,
who as a rule, were not the most faithful observers
of the Ten Commandments and its host of detailed relatives
body and drug abusers,
of traditional morals, not such big users,
and as for their *** lives,
best not discussed in front of the baby devils,
just quite yet
all this made for easy "pluckings,"
as he smiled devilishly, his own ironic sense of humor,
an added delight for the new American Pie
that would forever serenade him henceforth
indeed this Leo-nine most new arrival,
intensifies the pleasure,
for deep in this one had waxed the god-spark,
his own fractured demise,
now allowing the cracks of light to be closing,
lessening by an immeasurable fraction
the despised joy to the world
then a raucous rustling heard,
a voice unseen but siren penetratingly heard proclaiming:

**** you Satan,
this time you've gone too far!

return unto me them all,
for you have overstepped the boundaries I have constructed
when birthed I the universe so long ago

these children, mine,
for though they were not perfect in their lives,
they perfected ever so much my designs,
the world I granted them,
with their music, voice and hands,
absolving them of all their sins

Surrender to me them all!

my Prince,
my lion, Cohen, high priest of my temple,
my haggard and worn Merle,
the greyed and Frey'd eagle, Glenn,
Natalie, daughter of the Earth King of Cole,
my rose of Sharon Jones,
my Emerson and my Lake,
Leon Russell,
my white bearded russet
who wrote 'A Song For You,'
the Duchess, Patty,
my Bobby Vee,
the first ro see
'the night has a thousand eyes,'
Frank Sinatra Jr., his fathers torch bearer,
my David, my right arm, my Bowieknife carrier,
who fell from heaven and needs returning unto me,
mine own Kanter,Jeffersonian pilot of my Airplane,
my Michael, George,
my Martin, George,
who never sang a word
but gifted us some Beatles,
My black and White Maurice,
who reignited the Earth, with Wind and Fire

all these mine and all the musicians of this year,
they have died, but not their music,
now to join my heavenly chorus,
my musicians' minyan
Second of a trilogy, but the first one posted,
about Leonard Cohen

Kohen or cohen (or kohain; Hebrew: כֹּהֵן‎, "priest", pl. כֹּהֲנִים‎ kohanim) is the Hebrew word for priest used colloquially in reference to the Aaronic priesthood. Jewish kohanim are traditionally believed and halakhically required to be of direct patrilineal descent from the biblical Aaron. The term is colloquially used in Orthodox Judaism in reference to modern day descendants of Aharon, brother of Moses.

Among the few remaining responsibility of a cohen today is the chanting of the priestly  blessing in the synagogue on high holy days in a special tune, instantly recognizable  by every Jew.   When the  Jewish priest chants the blessing, the Spirit of God is presumed to become present in the synagogue, and all bow their heads, fathers cover their children's eyes, lest one witness  god's image. Ironically, the special way that a cohen extends his arms and holds his fingers in a V  shape, was borrowed by another Canadian Jew, Leonard Nimoy, as inspiration for Spock's  greeting.


Another group of teens, enraptured
by whatever was at the heart
of their beating group.

So sure we were of what it was
that went beyond
mere ***, some drugs and few events.

Who can say how but from the depth
of boundless, sonder oceans,
We found you.

Amid all those faces, in the midst of
social coercion and amidst all this angst,
The friendships we formed
forged our personalities.

Some of us even found love
in between being lost, lonely
or ****** up; but together we

felt belonging, for the first time
in our insignificant, stupid little
lives, we felt alive, autonomous.

We had people to rely on
and substance to revive,
We might yet survive,

A bittersweet mixture of
empathy and nostalgia;
What does Skins
mean to you?

To me it meant a lot, it was about
pushing boundaries, the transitions,
Trying to live with them, rolling with it.

It was was about getting down and growing up,
Being young, feeling old and coming to terms with
one's soul; and of course, the vicissitudes
of a few foolish seventeen-year-olds.

Times, change and memory made manifest
is all that's left of us, them, those people we
call friends, they always have a place in my

heart; pass
us the skins.
In remembrance of Skins [2007-2013], generations 1, 2 & 3;

We get older and they stay the same.
I blink tiredly listening to parallel pipes push plastic particulates in and out around the factory, while white towers give off billows of powerful pollutants. Cylindrical silos rise echoing a sound like snowy static from an old black and white tv. I walk and watch this strange scene following train tracks that go nowhere and back from there. The train is graffitied with some minor marks and more complicated tags. One roughly sprayed owl covers an old ***** orange car with the words “I wish I could rust away to” followed by red lettered “Itchy legs” and a more elaborate display that says something unintelligible but looks spectacular. Concrete carries the weight of the old train cars. It is cracked partially from the truck drivers and other workers but mostly from the earth shifting as the cement expands over time. Shallow lines in the concrete pursue their parallels. Their more prominent brothers curving and splintering as the deepest cracks cut fully across the back of the factory lot. This is what I watch from whatever time it is to the infinity of night that fills my sight. I am tired beyond tired. Feet sore, body slightly thinning but my mind is beginning to lose its distinct edges. Until, all reality becomes a walk around the factory. There is no yesterday or tomorrow only endless caffeinated patrols, and a yearning for the release of sleep.
In my dream
darkness screamed
as the hand of gravity
compressed my brain
causing shades of pain
to become
acrylic calligraphy
cutting across
the constellations.

Swollen stars swirled
in the madness
spitting out
burning gasses
of orange while
purple, pink
and green mists
spun on in
spiraling galaxies.

Death was
the lines of
crimson slowly
untraveled roads
diverging down
the outer limits
of my face
as tv familiars
stared at the horror
of my tortured
space obsessed
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