#bunch
I dreamt of our house, which doesn't exist...
I'll light a candle in it and greet the dawn.
I'll feel sad by candlelight. I'll be missed.
I want you'll be near me in our house for long!
I'll walk into the garden, which doesn't exist...
I'll pick white camomiles and make a bunch.
I'll put it on the table. It'll be my feast.
Just fly into my dream! I please you much!
We'll stroll in a forest, which doesn't exist...
I'll mass there an armfull of autumn leaves.
I'll throw them into the sky. They'll be a mist.
And they'll be falling slowly under the breeze.
I dreamt of our house. And maybe is it?
It's somewhere over the hill, green all.
The garden is so very overgrown. I'll revive it.
I'll light the candle for you to come for all.
May 22, 2025
May 22, 2025 at 3:58 PM UTC
The free-flying bird
always eyes on the high
looking for a new blue sky.
If only, can it ever own
a little twig on the tree?
On a tree when does it fly
the next mo it sways away!
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 5:31 PM UTC
I get no replies of smiles,
I walkthrough a bunch of colourless miles....
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
this is a very important poem to me,
about me, and how Obama slurred my people. and never apologized
<•>
there are mornings when I wake up
in my nativity,
in my born/bred,
these struggling to be happy,
United States,
strangely hebrew-speaking,
Jamaican coffee
morning-thinking,
tallying up
what I am,
who I am,
commanded to be,
on this Earth
the labels that the
outward-looking apply,
the tags,
that you have caused
yourself to be defined,
been staked
to your claim,
in infamy and in fame,
that you have
by action and indeed,
have allow
to be presented
as entries on your
global entry passport,
with visas from the
lows and highs,
places where
your have sinned and saved,
all the acts accumulated,
and those,
in pain,
you have been a witness to
word titles that
tinge and suffuse,
summation of my presentation,
sampler of words
like
father, poet,
American,
even,
a for-real
community organizer,
and of course,
bien sûr,
a
Jew
the quality of all these life's papers,
which I grade myself,
I,
the harshest marker
of all
once a young man,
safely away in college,
under the fresh-air freedom of the
university's in loco parentis,
in the early years
spent quantifying oneself
nearly fifty years ago,
now he,
revealed and recalled
when
his college typed-letter,
lately uncovered amidst his,
recently passed mother's papers
"Don't know what kind of
Jew
I will be, but be assured,
that I will be a
Jew
all my life"
so here I am doing my post-sabbath,
top of the week,
right it down,
qualifying myself,
coffee enraged engaged,
a new Sunday tally
taking all my terms,
reordering,
re-prior-itizing,
what was prior, first,
is no longer
decades decay,
events sway,
simple words change me, stain me
nearing on five decades later,
when this
son of speakers,
son of humanists and
son of
writers,
son of proud
Jews
rewrites his list
today I write/substitute,
a new order,
a tag gladly taken,
a marker given,
some what in pride,
some in shame too,
first and foremost,
à la manière d'Lincoln
I am
of, by and for
"a bunch of folks in a deli"
proud member of them
that so identify,
for they are among those
that shall not perish from the Earth
those
happenstance-not,
bunch of folks in a deli,
I claim as
mine own,
as they would
have claimed me
no subtly professed,
a diminishment intended,
and now
an honorific taken,
Medal of Honor provoked and embraced,
proudly inscribed,
visible on my forehead,
in the black ink of mourning,
a Presidential Cain Citation,
a tattoo of letters,
not numbers,
now moves up to
head of the list,
I am
now and forever,
a member of that corps
(appreciate that double entendre)
I am
Je suis
JE JUIF
"a bunch of folks in a deli"
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
Love wins?
No, man.
Love IS.
draw a line
divide until you can't no more
realize
its all one big
firmament of a world
but we have to fight
survive
it's fitting
and kind
to do so, they say
so they say
they say so many different ways
so that we don't catch on
speak only hearsay
until the day
we die
and our estate
is taxed back
to Washington
rolling in pennies and lying,
with ******* and dimes
"Oh you're mad,
you cute little Jesus you,
go get your whip
let's see what you can do.
Jesus didn't DO
anything
he lived and died
and metaphorized
his life
in a way
we could recognize
because we only live
in a land of metaphor
totally divorced
from the times
Get with it, kid.
And Siddhartha
and Allah
and all the other pristine figurines
said
"Y'all are doing it wrong"
Of course we are,
spinal tapped out the moment we left
so far east of Eden,
we're chasing the sunset
It'll come
we'll blast off to ride chariots towards all the fun
maybe philosophize with Aristotle
on Kepler 281
-c
So stop with the pain,
stop pushing the wheel
stop teasing your souls
with vengeance and zeal
just be,
be free,
be unshackled of soul
let yourself go,
that's all Buddha told
and Christ,
and Allah,
and Laozi
more
You hate it here?
Grab a gun.
Blow out the floor
Or the roof of your mouth,
End it quick, without pain
watch from the heavens
as your crimson life drains
I've seen it once,
I've seen it a thousand times before
And it just keeps rolling,
Keeps moving onward
A drop in a bucket,
a drip in a sink
swirling and *******
a vortex of dreams
deep down the end
that swirling stream of
tunnel
Where do we go?
Why spare the trouble?
Perhaps something
amazing
toiled and fizzled
for 13.8 billion years
to hear you whine and drivel!
It's okay.
Breathe in, out, back in
if I have to,
I'd recommend
you read this again.
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 5:14 PM UTC
A sunflower looking for its sun,
A candle looking for its match,
Stick with whom, with you?
A moon looking for the sun,
A bee looking for its queen,
Sizing things up, with no one?
A sun waiting for you to bloom,
A match waiting to be lit,
Upside down, back to you.
A sun waiting to be found,
A queen waiting for its honey,
Bunch of thoughts, I'm alone.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC