She said a prayer
to which I was not an answer
and yet I burned
until I burned myself out
like a candle on Shabbat.

And the words of her prayer ceased
and her lips were still
like the surface of the salt sea,
and yet I still burn
like a wound exposed below
the surface.

And the words of her prayer
went unanswered
like the cries of my martyred dead
and yet I still burn
like the silence of a candle remembering them.

after Yona Wallach (1944-1985)


Let's have it!
I came for the show!
Strip the Torah
to its essence
where not one word can hide
caress it with your Yad
singing in a lovers voice
an ancient burlesque
and when it's done and dressed again
parade it dancing through the congregation
a fitting encore
to a fine performance
as we almost fall over each other
to touch it
slipping spiritual dollars into its belt
the temperatures rising
like a finished prayer
that even makes the Malachim sweat
in their heavenly heights.

The soil covers your bare feet in a powdery gray dust
like you've walked through an old fireplace that hasn't been cleaned
in the days since the last sacrifice.

There's enough wood to keep us warm through the coldest winter
or burn heretics to any cold heart's content.
This land is full of burnt offerings
and lucky rams
where it doesn't even take the word of god to sacrifice your child
just the word of man,
imperfect as the path you walk back from alone.

I am standing in the spot where my family almost died
Here, in this land
All of life turned gray
Not the temporary gray of a rainy day
Not the gray of a fading photograph
No
The gray like ash
Or the ashes of the fallen
Gray like the plumes of smoke
Billowing out from the gas chambers
Standing in this spot
I feel connected
A pull
A throwback to my roots

I feel so… somber
Like I can see that day
January 27th 1945
My family members
Or what was left
Some of the 6,000 that were left
Staring and wondering
Is this real?
Or
Is this just another delusion brought on by hunger
Or are we free?
They told us we were free back in the day
But no
We walked for 40 years into the hands of a new oppression
Into a stereotype
Into the **** of a joke
Into the law offices and bank teller of the world

Go back a little further
Back into Poland
Before 1945
Think 1944
I know what a needle and ink on skin feels like
But I cannot imagine it by force
Forced away from the laws of my religion
A name, reduced to a number
24601
No
More like A-98288 on a forearm
No
I can feel the burn
In my eyes and in my lungs
Not from the gas and the filth
But from the pain of generations of jews and others labeled as different
As not pure

I feel the pull
The connection
Severed
My grandmothers 14 siblings reduced to 3
Back to 1945
I feel…
Empty
My existence no longer focused on minute by minute survival
I feel…
A flutter
Of anxiety, of pain, of…
Hope…
Brought on by these men in uniform not seated in hate
Hope that we might live
Hope that the end is here!
But not the end that we have prayed for

Fade into color
I am standing in the spot where history almost erased me
And I remember all the years of oppression
And I can see how it continues
And I can see how it needs to change

I am standing in front of my peers
Asking
No
Begging you to see what I see
I am begging for change
I am begging for peace

When I was a child, I was told the story of my Grandfathers mother she was a refugee from mother Russia.
He told me that we were no longer considered white that is a luxury.
And we have become subhuman in most places.
We were either locked behind iron walls to be kept in or out.

He told me how they sacked and burned our villages.
Then they proceeded to chase us on horseback, with swords pointed too the distant future.

She was led to the nearest boat, headed towards The Land Of Opportunity.

At the island she was locked away for Tuberculose and possibly Lice
When leaving she refused to put an X for her name for obvious reasons.
So she signed ****.

Years later I found out, she had opened a pawn shop down south.
In what now is the forth most segregated area in the states.
She sat outside with a shotgun in a rocking chair and windows barred.
when there King died.

Sadly, the last thing remembered by my Papa's mother including my family is a fist fight.
In Santa Barbra.
I saw the look of panic and pain on her despondent face.
At this point that look was a common occurrence in my day to day life.
Hence, the reason I wasn't allowed at the funeral.
I was locked away at another rehabilitation center.
For crimes I had of course never committed

Since then I have not laid any tulips or morning prayers.

Jesus Christ was the greatest Jewish man who has been on the Earth.
The world became a far greater place on the day of his birth.
When Jesus was nailed to the cross, he died for people's sins.
He's in Heaven with his father now but we will see him again.
The Jewish people have been persecuted and that's a disgrace.
Jesus is wonderful and he'll be the savior of the Human Race.

It's November, I feel the war is almost over,
Poland will find peace again. But the war has taken me,
for I only feel the blackness of sorrow,
all of my strength is falling apart.

Oh, my spirit is falling, falling like the purple sunset,
My beloved,  
   I'm fading in the cradle of your prayers
All my soul is hungry for strength,
   the sweat under my side
and the thorns of confusion and heaviness
are only growing stronger.

Keep me awake, dear.
   Tell me about when we met,  when you
smiled with curiosity  when you first saw me.
  Tell me about the time when we hid and laughed
behind the schoolyard,
   right by the flower fields where we played hide and seek.
The time when our souls  only sung with power and laughter.

Now beneath our old house, our home, I can't hide anymore.
I can't hide the hurt, the pain, the sorrow, but I do know
the flames of grace burns over and over, so don't you cry.
The psalms we use to sing, they also heal, yes, they also heal.

So remember me,

   and the star I gave you, for then I'll be with you,  

near the altar of your heart,
by the silver rivers of memories and love, because then

I'll always be your hero and heart,
your wildfire within.

You woke like windows,
shattered in Jewish hellfire,
shade by burning books.