#deli
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
I could never put into words until now
the warm sensation of menstrual blood trickling down my hand
or the smell of dried blood stuck to public hair
and how every time I walked passed the butchers or deli department at the local grocery store
I could recognize the smell of blood dripping from tissue left on white sheets displaying the cuts of meat
sheets the same color as the toilet paper I use every month
to examine the clumps of the ****** that flow downwards
to be born life-less much like a flank stake behind the glass case
Aug 7, 2020
Aug 7, 2020 at 12:33 AM UTC