I had a dream This
One time where you were
All up inside and I was
all upsidown at camp
and there was rain and baked challah
with hair and dirt inside, but hey
why argue with free food?

And you were feeling me, making my hair stand
On edge and taking your time
Even though an avalanche was ready to hit
Come, bury me in snow and leave me to die in
Ecstasy, come, throw me off a building and
Let me fall into your dark
Gaze but don't let my boyfriend know, I don't
Let the devil out to play when he's around.

Baby, your fingers were lightning, breath like
Cigarette smoke and can you do
The french inhale because I want to be hot
Hot for you, but not only you
Don't forget, I like to roam wild, test
How far I can get you to go.
Manipulative? Nay, ingenious.

But somehow, you end up on
Top, getting me to beg for more, beg for you
To allow me to come and seep through
And you laugh as I grasp at straws,
Smoke some ****, boy, its how you feel alive
You're how I feel alive

Passion, pity, cause me pain
But just a little, I like to be handled rough
Hair pulls, slaps, punish me
I've been a bad girl, I've been naughty
Cheating on my boyfriend in my head with you and you're
EVERYTHING THAT HE ISN'T
And nothing that I want him to be, so let
My fantasy continue, see you in hell

You make all my muscles clench with just
A tiny graze of skin, a stupid
Text and I know you don't mean it
You just want some, trying to get down my pants, it's
A game to you
Maybe I want to play

****, I know I want to
Me, a girl like me
As if you could possibly
Hard, let me feel you
As you run your teeth down my
You, stoner boy, make me scream for
Can you make me feel?

sure thing, if you think that if living with your parents is a hellraiser: inferno summary's worth of movie: you're on it spock! well done, clap clap! oh, you know the first thing worse than an israeli? an american jew; antagonistic mouth-offs: once they start teasing with a feather (on pretend), you start to want to antagonise with an AK-47; oh right, and the world isn't like this? i wish israel was akin to the sacred hindu cow, untouchable, known as the vatican too... yeah, and israel-kamadhenu just said: *******! well... mind the arab, on the way out; and matisyahu shouting bongo-bongo in patwan, via the precursor of tashlikh... begging for a matzo bloated into challah! what?! you want a ******* brioche bun to boot?

the last fool left the last set
saying all that was worth said:
i'm hungry.

may i mind you to ask:
have you?

have you ever minded living with
your mother?
is it a hell, or a "heaven" to be minded
in terms of
asking for a gymnasium stipendium?
are you sure it's not both,
at the same time?
  to know one's mother,
is to twice acknowledge one's bother,
guarded by the entitled status of *wife...
it would appear:
   twice the wife,
makes half the mother...  
               as it would appear:
a mother makes half the wife...
english children abhor the idea of
parenthood, hence they shun their own
parents...
    and enjoy the "freedoms" of
being relieved from both child &
parent...
      they're firmly bound to a firm:
"relinquishing"...
   a set affair of ensuring:
that saturday night be the forgettable
chance for "sabbath".

i abhor the english language
for its acronyms and emoticons...
i am not m.g.t.o.w.,
or a :) face...
  i cut it short, i cut it sweet,

me?

     i'm just a pontius pilate...
i wash my hands clean from this "affair":
i have not time for the ugliness
of english in either
acronym or emoticon form...
i, royally, wash me hands clean:
from the ****** crudeness of "concern";

i have no ambition to worth minding
an ethno-centric "care"...
english has become ugly
in acronym and in emoticon "phrasing":
even by m.g.t.o.w. it simply
reads a biblical aversion of "concern":
by now, i am but a pontius pilate...
and?
        
        well... at least you won't have to
cite an acronym, but have the proper poetics
at hand.

Challah here, and cookies there.
Pastry ******* everywhere.)
Its what I live , and how I think.
In the air, and what I drink.
Cupcakes, pies, brownies all around.
But not a drop of sanity to be found.

The first thing I remember is breathing under water.
And what do you remember, dear and distant friend?

Lifetimes, braided together like blessed challah bread,
are intertwined, one into the next, sometimes glimpsed.

Living so differently, in music, through earthquakes and
tidal waves, we visit from one time into another,
to learn, to see life through one heart, our one unbounded
mind, the one universal soul that inhabits us all.

I have heard it said that after our ten thousandth lifetime
we can go home to our limitless beginnings.

Are we ready, dear, and distant friend?
Are you? Am I?

In these ways unlike any other
You have made me a bigot  

How can I trust someone
With your nose; broad as any stereotype
Your eyes; The color of over-circulated dollar bills
Your lips; billowing, plush, plumped like a fresh Challah
Over-flowing like your Manischewitz Wine.
Lying mouth
A liars mouth

You look like a lender
You look like a heathen

You are an Aryan Mother Mary

Your hair is blonde. No, it’s yellow. No, it is ***** blonde
***** blonde

Stop controlling my multimedia experience  
Mismanage the tasteless fruits of my love no longer

But who am I to hold your cultural tropes against you?
The way you hold my state of mind
Up to my eyes, only to make me see what it is you view

You are the jew. And I’m the one burning alive.

Sitting on the bus
my Israeli Paul Revere seminary nightmare steps on
armed in pantyhose, eyes stretched
wide by a thick black headband
Dense Brooklyn accent, perfect Hebrew.
Laughing on the phone, she
tells the details of the most recent terrorist attack,
a family of five murdered in their home,
a baby stabbed in its cradle
She said she’s just come from the memorial in Jerusalem,
where hundreds of Israelis stood in the streets sobbing and
screaming for vengeance
A sea of black hats, writhing and angry
She said they showed everyone
pictures of the bodies,
so they would know the horror of what happened
And as she sat there smiling, broadcasting the news like
a recount of a primetime television episode,
I sat
on the verge of tears
and watched the rest of the bus sit stony-faced,
distracted and desensitized.
We drive through
a market place.
An
old woman gets on clutching
a challah swaddled in plastic, sleeping salty.
(The bus is full off babies,
but none of them are crying.)
Meanwhile, in Gaza
the murders had another crowd
of people filling the streets,
dancing.

Today,
I promise,
I will finally write.

I'll write about the first time I tasted plums,
(Cool and wet and biting)

Or the soft euphoria of house parties and hookah smoke,
(Like cashmere and night in the blood- already heavy with *** and promise- while grinding out hallelujahs to bass and rhythm and cheap liquor)

Or the feeling of my father’s calloused palms when he took my tiny hands in his, my feet atop his own, and sang to me- riotously off key- the chorus of ‘My Girl’ in a tiny kitchen in Camden; Me laughing, hyena howling, and shouting ‘AGAIN! AGAIN!’ echoing until dizzied by the happy noise.

Today,
I promise,
I'll get it out.

I'll take pen to page, and tell you why I sometimes feel oddly bereft at the sight of a trail of some long departed snail or slug, iridescent in moonlight.

Or try to explain why the scent of lilacs remind me of my mother, that the taste of honeysuckle blooms and the feel of summer warm dirt in my hands makes me feel closer to her, and sometimes a taste of **** cherry pie will ease the gnawing ache of nostalgia and wanting of her more than any simple phone call ever could.

Or tell you how I feel scared and angry so much of the time, (Poor thing that I am- all brown skinned, fat and too loud- in the thin white crushing silence that hangs like a humid fog in streets and office buildings.)  How I feel so hunted in a world of poachers determined to use my teeth for piano keys, pluck my plumes for gaudy decoration, and consume me, a nameless  milk soaked calf, only to complain that all the bleeding I’m doing has soaked the plate and my tears have over salted the meat.

Today,
I promise,
I’ll make it plain.

I’ll be inspired by verses written on the thin onion skinned pages of a Bible my grandmother gave me,
find beauty in crushed glass sprinkled over cracked asphalt and potholes, and taste love – young and sweet – when biting into the soft, ripe flesh of a mango.

I’ll tell all my secrets to you, re-name you lover and villain, and share my most intimate spaces; crack open my rib cage and let you nestle in the pumping chambers of my heart, sustain you with the air of my lungs and food from my own soft belly; invite you with open arms and closed eyes inside of myself to read all the words I’ve scrawled in miles of veins and on sturdy spine.  


I promise,
It will be today.
And yes,

The dishes must be scrubbed, my winter coat needs a new button, and the cat must be fed.
These things will happen, like all things of daily realities: new socks and defrosting chicken and late student loan payments.    

But,

Today
I am searching for divinity in between the pages of moleskin note books and falling in love that tastes like honey and lavender and sweet raisin challah bread.
I am mapping out dance steps in hookah smoke and tiny kitchens.
I am lifting **** cherries and warm summer dirt in shaking palms as a ward against poachers searching for all the ivory and meat in me.
I am tracing holy verses across my grandmothers soft, thin skin; the scent of mangoes about the words; keeping her safe in soft spaces of my marrow.

Today,
I promise,
I will write.

Always use the best you have...first

That what she says, when she makes us breakfast.
Then the next best, and the next...
Then life will always be curving, on a tangent of the finest line,
Linen before cotton, cotton before paper.

She brings champagne and fresh orange juice to our table,
challah so soft, we could lay and love upon it.
All I have to proffer, tears-of-the-saddest of souls and some
scribblings, and a philosophy of fear, hoarding,
lest the day come of none,
when I have a true zero.

She smiles.

She says:
Nonetheless, I think I got the best of you,
I am-contented, for now,
for each new last poem you surrender up..
will be, the best you have,
and your eyes see poetry continuously,
your poems reveal your courage,
that which I recognize, that you cannot hide.

August 31

Abbreviation for
Christchurch.

Could be called
Challah, but the
Mosquevites are
not welcome due
to New Zealanders
preferential name,
which is GodsZone
and no variation of
of Jesus is welcome.

So much for the society
of egalitarianism they
allude to with conviction!

Around high noon
today March 19th, 2021
***** impaction I did plaintively croon
until effect courtesy amitiza, which
prescription medication
(in short a laxative)
served as amazing grace saving boon.

Once activated - impossible mission
to suppress strong urge to excrete,
linkedin, kickstarted and coaxed
soon after swallowing medicament
'course yours truly needed to defecate
while taking shower and washing hair
which sudden incontinent spate
comprises anecdote, I poetically relate.

****** obstruction found me doubled over
with lower abdominal distress,
whereby comfort found
me unable to lie
down nor sit upright
(with back padded with pillows
against the cellar brick wall),
thus severe bloating
a bonus well nigh.

Methought generic garden variety fellow
invoking libretto ohm resistant understudy
waste not want not allowing, enabling
and providing relief,
without successful defecation
despite the oppressive urge
to bolster Uriah heap of balled up
and tuckered out five foot and ten inches
of lovely bones, thence mouthing retraction
of former thought to cease existing
though a non-bull lever in
power broker qua mankind
relief at long last provided
posterior answered prayer
yet, this scrivener scrutinizes his
recurring pain in *** mock jagged torture
and asks rhetorical
one word question "WHY"?

Methinks constipation doth spell
worse fate than hell,
which latter named state experienced
while Harris family lived
at 1148 Greentree Lane, thus warrants
the following "fake" farmer
almost a dozen years ago
to craft verses about Penn Valley dell.

Digression away from titled theme:
Circa: 23rd of Tevet, 5760
to 15th of Tevet, 5770
in accordance with Hebrew date
converted, asper Gregorian
Calendar courtesy of Google,
which place of residence i.e.
tract 1950's housing Penn
Valley, Pennsylvania, we
(myself, missus and deux daughters),
we overstayed our welcome
during that decade
abysmal cruel fate,
where surviving members
of spouse's birth family did execrate
and admirably, royally, supremely, et alia
succeeded beyond their wildest dreams
to invoke, foster, andcreate
perdition during first decade
of second millennium Anno Domini

They would not tolerate
my mental illness (schizoid
personality disorder
with ample helping of
high anxiety, and panic attacks),
**** sitter ring excruciating
difficulty maintaining employment
as reason to denigrate
pushing this struggling
young family to absquatulate,
especially as figurative toxic
barbs didst accelerate
soon after, we sit foot
upon cluttered premises, jam packed,
which haphazardly (helter
skelter like) didst accumulate
(steeped amidst, a hoarder's paradise),
elusively east of Eden
teasing chronic pennilessness.

Yours truly, humble fellow,
whose person others
found an easily convenient
scapegoat to humiliate
marrying into a blood
of bigoted, pigheaded,
and small minded obdurate
folks intolerant of every creed dance
except frum Israel, and/or an affiliate,
this un men sheen hubble,
and purported "moocher"
said accommodations never cared
to earn good graces
of MainLine rich Jewish culture,
this atheist among hoi polloi,
a roll (i.e. challah),
he could never assimilate.

the false story is that I was only loved by my dog
that he was the only thing that understood me  truly
it is a story   with no plot   just about a chubby girl who
walks around with her sick coughing dog    but the truth is this-
for 10 years he didn’t cough

in fact    he jumped like a gazelle into bushes at the small park
and  ate challah bread every morning     we served him
boiled chicken on his birthdays  he’d open my bedroom
door with his muzzle like he owned the space
and he would sleep on our beds
with no shame

and that   well, that’s the true story