walk into the room
With your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked
And you say, who is that man?
You try so hard
But you dont understand
Just what youll say
When you get home

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

You raise up your head
And you ask, is this where it is?
And somebody points to you and says
Its his
And you say, whats mine?
And somebody else says, where what is?
And you say, oh my god
Am I here all alone?

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

You hand in your ticket
And you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you
When he hears you speak
And says, how does it feel
To be such a freak?
And you say, impossible
As he hands you a bone

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

You have many contacts
Among the lumberjacks
To get you facts
When someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect
Anyway they already expect you
To just give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations

Youve been with the professors
And theyve all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have
Discussed lepers and crooks
Youve been through all of
F. scott fitzgeralds books
Youre very well read
Its well known

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you
And then he kneels
He crosses himself
And then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice
He asks you how it feels
And he says, here is your throat back
Thanks for the loan

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

Now you see this one-eyed ******
Shouting the word now
And you say, for what reason?
And he says, how?
And you say, what does this mean?
And he screams back, youre a cow
Give me some milk
Or else go home

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

Well, you walk into the room
Like a camel and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket
And your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law
Against you comin around
You should be made
To wear earphones

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

Genderqueer contesting histories climate apocalypse social activist make a tax-deductible donation today starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity Rawlsian diagnosis basic earth cooperative existential Marxism for our times starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity

BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM!  THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM!  THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD!

You walk into the room with your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked and you say, "Who is that man?"
You try so hard but you don't understand
Just what you will say when you get home
Because something is happening here but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
You raise up your head and you ask, "Is this where it is?"
And somebody points to you and says, "It's his"
And you say, "What's mine?" and somebody else says, "Well, what is?"
And you say, "Oh my God, am I here all alone?"
But something is happening and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
You hand in your ticket and you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you when he hears you speak
And says, "How does it feel to be such a freak?"
And you say, "Impossible!" as he hands you a bone
And something is happening here but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
You have many contacts among the lumberjacks
To get you facts when someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect, anyway they already expect you to all give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations
Ah, you've been with the professors and they've all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have discussed lepers and crooks
You've been through all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books
You're very well-read, it's well-known
But something is happening here and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you and then he kneels
He crosses himself and then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice, he asks you how it feels
And he says, "Here is your throat back, thanks for the loan"
And you know something is happening but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
Now, you see this one-eyed ****** shouting the word "Now"
And you say, "For what reason?" and he says, "How"
And you say, "What does this mean?" and he screams back, "You're a cow!
Give me some milk or else go home"
And you know something's happening but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
Well, you walk into the room like a camel, and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket and your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law against you comin' around
You should be made to wear earphones
'Cause something is happening and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?

this poem didn't come easy. written amidst buffeting emo's, V will not be natural flow, probably flawed. You, self-chosen people, will come along, please, to see the process, and the proceeds too.
But as usual, the poem was write before me, needing only human kindness overflowing to guide the way.

V

V words lord, excluding all others,
phonetic juggernauts,
never met a V word
that had no personality.

victory is the one word that
my/our brains
think of first.

sure there is vortex, victuals, veer
and *valor exam,
the latter,
what ever it means is a gift,
curtsy-courtesy of auto-incorrect.

but it is victory
on top,
victorious in its own way.

try it on another if you must...
what is the word that starts with a V
that first comes to mind?

so let us talk of victories.

so oft, I write in the dark,
even as I do now.

came home soul weary,
face worn-worry,
gotta go out to meet
Peter Bogdanovich later,
to chat about his latest movie.

woman looks me over.
X-ray glance,
an MRI of my heart,
no deductible charged,
but oh yes, a co-pay due, indeed!

Peter will keep,
tonight you're-mine,
to bed I send,
right after we consume
Large Thin Mush,
cause pizza with shrooms contains
mood serotonins,
that erase the
"pain of the day"

that be a victory nonpareil.
a Waterloo, a Normandy landing,
that be a victory where
both sides hug and kiss,
and make with their long,
stubby Churchillian fingers,
V's all night long
with goofy grins,
cigars and bowler hats,
just to go along.

so here I am in the dark,
having been "put" to bed,
one mo' time,
slicing and dicing letters
into a word-salade,
instead of resting.

dreaming of the day
when I can no longer need to
pretend to be a Seuss, but truly,
can be writing poems for all my
children~friends.

one for each letter
of the alphabet,
teaching us to write
upon our faces
laugh lines thin and fine,
mine, ours, yours.

product of pizza poems,
some that come not circular,
but tonite shaped
just like a woman,
just like a
*V.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
are children that hate them quite a lot.

your house won't save you.
your finely pressed slacks won't save you.
your tan, ageless wife won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
is hunger nonstop.

your bill of rights won't save you.
your republican party won't save you.
your daddy of great renown won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
is circular plot.

your ****** won't save you.
your tax deductible donation won't save you.
your patience in line won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
are a few friends at a future funeral.

I cannot forget...
אני לא יכול לשכוח

©  STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
12 Shevet 5778 / 28 January 2018
revised:
3 Iyyar 5758 / 28 April 2018
19 Iyyar 5778 / 4 May 2018
20 Iyyar 5778 / 5 May 2018
21 Iyyar 5778 / 6 May 2018

Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan' (1964):
'Forget the dead you've left, they
will not follow you'

W.G. Sebald z"l (1966):
'And so, they are ever returning to us,
the dead'

I.

the Path / derekh is silent,
a vacuum,
resonating with the
footsteps of tzaddikim, whose
teachings transcend(ed)
the Kingdom of Night...

where there was no longer
kefitzat ha'derekh
shrinking of the road
jumping the Path
teleportation.

...un die vvelt hot geshivign,
taught Reb Elie Wiesel z"l...
& the world remained silent.

not existing for themselves,
the tzaddikim speak with the
Shekhinah from their throats,
and the mar'ot johanna
visions of johanna
are witnessed by breslover
chavurot on desolation row,
murmurations of starlings
overhead.

listening to them, we survive
to walk / dorekh
the Path, with kabbalists z"l,
R. Chiyya & R. Yose,
the chevraya kadisha
the holy companions,
a derekh through the sea,

away from the energy vampyrism
& relentless phantasmagoric
cyberstalking of
the phantasmagoric Queene,
who engages in quacker
cross-contamination,
while prising her mindfully
plagiarising lips (a mirror image
of a death's-head hawk moth)
for a crucifictionist wafer:

a tax-deductible, copyright charity
deduction for ontological delusions
long after midnight,
clutching her cossetted Yehu'di
hatreds like
a perforated osculatorium,
because, שמח בחלקו.

    ****

Reb Uri Tzvi Greenberg z"l, 1923 [trans.
Michael Weingrad]:
'For so long there has been no water
in the wells. Only curses. ...& suddenly
the icons scream in Yiddish'.

II.

Light is the absence of Darkness,
to acknowledge Rav Rebecca
Newberger Goldstein.
& the holy slow train moves
(when it does)
sideways across flat earths.

consider the post-Auschwitz dilemma for
an opus dei natz'ri  who cannot grasp
the etymology:

prae / before + posterus / coming after
praeposterus / reversed, absurd.

did Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan' influence the
teachings of R. Yitzhak Luria z"l ?

III.

memories are stalking & ambuscading,
& as you said, Reb David Meltzer z"l,
'the Yehu'di in me is the ghost of me'...

& now the hourglass is invisible...

the windows of perception
to be peered into,
not out of,
as hairline fractures
develop in the retinas of narrow-ruled
yellow writing tablets masquerading
as frenetic mirrors,

never glimpsing tzefiyat ha'yeshu'ah,
the expectation of salvation.

& we are here,  
witnessing cyberian corpses
erecting three-way mirrors to their
obbligato and  mindfulness for girl
children...the mantras of a white
supremacist ****** ****** trained to
effect genocide  at a distance, his
audible hungering  for the  rapture  
of an endloesung in his drive-by
dark carnival, having no
farraginous self to say farewell to.

Lilith, the Midrash teaches, ate the
'bones' of Her enemies, but the
****** uses prayer beads as
majong ***** fired from his cap gun.

IV.

'she' stands on the bamboo porch,
thinking the lotus leaves floating by
are a reflexion of 'her' crumbling
totenkopfverbaende phantasies.

long after midnight, she shrieks to
a cyberian Mytilene, her mind so narrow,
thoughts are forced to crawl through her
fossilised ***** majora, which she identifies

as a personal luchot ha'edot, the glass
**** molded by her proboscis tongue,
as it fabricates yet another delusion
of a 1967 that never happened.

'she' turns, stepping onto an
embroidered nationalsozialist
matt,  'her'eyes a frail ambassador
of demure malice.

it is a moment such as this, when 'her'
desire of wanting to have been an
Auschwitz  Aufseherin, cannot be  
masqued  as a playful Latrodectus mactans.

ephemeral fabrications cling to 'her' --
an unbroken dance of impetuous
mirrors, as 'she' remains on the
porch, clutching 'her' 'we' aliases,

thinking, somehow, they are 'her'
aharon ha'bris...



V.

interlude / הַפסָקָה

Kafka z"l:
'I am divided from all things
by a hollow space'

Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan':
'I felt that place within, that
hollow place, where martyrs
weep, & angels play with sin'

Rav Yitzhak Luria z"l:
after tzimtzum,
the withdrawal of
'ehyeh 'asher 'ehyeh,
there came to be
halal ha'panui,
'the hollow space'

R. Shabbatai Sheftel ben
Akiva Horowitz z"l, 1719.
Shefa tal [Frankfurt edition]
3.5, 57b [Hebrew]:
'Before the world's bere'****,
'ayin sof withdrew into its essence,
from itself to itself within itself.
It left halal ha'panui within its
essence, in which it emanated
and created' [emended from Reb
Daniel Matt 1995]

VI.

sh'ma...'mir veln zey iberlebn, iberlebn, iberlebn'
(Lublin Chassidim z"l, 1939)...
hear: 'we shall outlive them, outlive them,
outlive them'...

why did R. Moshe Sofer z"l teach
'Chadush aser min ha'toray' / 'What
is new is forbidden in the Torah'?

the trolls here & what they call 'poetry':
collections of letters on a flickering
moon-glow  computer screen behind
a suburban curtain,
letters having no glyphs or sounds,
all encased in Sho'ah denial...

and yet. white supremacist sock monkeys
cannot silence the memories of the
thousands of Yehu'dit children z"l
burned alive on pyres, June-August 1944,
in the holy natz'ri village of Auschwitz,
in october country.

לעולם לא עוד לעולם לא עוד

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...with thanks to my akhim / brothers & poets,
D.J. Carlile & George Dance & Will Dockery
for reading previous drafts...
...and to the memories z"l of David Meltzer 17 February 1937-31 December 2016
& Anthony Scaduto 7 March 1932-12 December 2017...chaver'im / friends
& for the 'or from R. Paul Laderman z"l &
R. Meyer Goldberg z"l

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
Torah אלילה Yehu'di Apikores / Philologia Kabbalistica Speculativa Researcher
לחיות זמן רב ולשגשג...לעולם לא עוד
THE KABBALAH FRACTALS PROJECT
לעולם לא אשכח



IN PROGRESS: Shabtai Zisel benAvraham v'Rachel Riva:
davening in the musematic dark

did you ride a dirt road to work today?
no, your tires glided across
the pock marked *** holed streets that are paved
and if you feel that you bought the cement, asphalt, and tar
then I guess we all owe you a round of applause
because you did this all by yourself no help right
can you eat a sandwich while waiting for the bread to rise?
or maybe your parents and mine grandparents and the like
paid a fair adjusted tax rate so we could have these streets and lights
the hospitals to heal and schools to educate
filled with people who work jobs you didn't create
and the socialist programs that make you so sad
have you been to a socialist country? we don't have it so bad

it's not fair you scream
the redistribution of wealth you haven't earned
that's their problem why are you so concerned
have you elevated your status and YTD to a quarter of a mil
or are you just like the rest of us just crawling uphill
there’s not a single person you know that sits on the Forbes' list
and if there is then this question might make you ******
did you do all you could for the greater good
or did you focus your off shore funds on your laurel resting brood?
is your deductible charity limited to the parish of your choice?
it's not like the whole world should be privy to your voice
if you read these words and think loaded with liberal bias
opinion is within our rights but maybe you might just
review these criticisms and see if they apply to the life that you lead
would you still co sign or even agree with the grand ole party

As ancient ruins
get picked over with pick axes,
these detracted sites
show spite towards gods,
plus absurd signs in dirt,
with blurred lines distraught
and new plots not deserved
for fickle followers disturbed
by death scavenger dealings.

Instead of a sickle
it wields a shovel,
distorting the calm presence,
wrong bearings bring up
consequences long coming.
And these phantoms now creep
throughout ghost town dungeons.
Skulls and bones abound, cousins
and other kin found fundable.

Love becomes a couple
archeologists who unearth puzzles
pulling apart logic
no longer deductible,
so loan me your conscious
I'll connect it to old ones
we'll slowly dissolve into
improbable causes, duped.

stands in her way
she can’t afford to pay
this outrageous price
to make nice the lives of
these therapists
who sit in the chair half-asleep
deep in thought about something else
not paying attention
to the hurt she’s projecting
and the heavy drinking that nulls
those raging voices
inside her skull
beneath the puffed-up bozo hair
and heavy makeup and flair
is a very lonely woman
whose health insurance doesn’t cover
the cost of mental health
the system’s flawed
as much as its shrinks
it stinks
and to stop this pain
all she does is drink
nips for 99 cents
is cheaper
than any prescription
and helps with
this affliction
until –
there’s a better health care system

Ten and Nothing*
     or *the blades of karma

Lean not against my walls, push through.
I'm the patron patience you've been seeking,
and saint of the secrets keeping you. Scooped
from the ditch out of which you grew
and were cast back into, I found you,
drooped and slinking. I picked you up

and fastened your stinking habits to my brass.
Not for thinking everything I retrieve
from the pits and slicks and sinking eaves
need be carried or repaired,
maybe only spared or made aware
that being sick is far from being buried.

I should know a shifty snitch will only
trench and trudge to see glue used
in lieu of a proper stitch. The bench
was proof, too. My sister's chagrin
as you refused an outstretched clutch,
shillings cinched up, a clenched fist
calculatedly compassionless.

Have you enough tax-deductible tallies
on the slate that hones the blades
of karma's discriminating grate?
Uncurl your ornate petition
and show us all the stones you've sown
for admission through the pearl gate,

The finest few ford fortune's river,
spite shaft, shiver, and devotedly make
a living of giving just to be a giver.

Tell me:
Would you smile if it was tax deductible?
If your mother saw you kicking that child would you stop?
Or is love just an accessory you adopt for holier days...

Since when is justice to be served by 'that other guy',
pain to be experienced by those inferior to you;
If kindness were a song would you have the voice to sing it?
Or are the only words your chords are capable are of: if, should have, would have,
all more elaborate phrases for the word 'coward'.

Opportunity was not presented to you so like an unwanted gift so you could get a cash return-
it was to be drained of its potential and scattered to the world in a prism of hope.
But those who have the most access lack the most vision,
a single mother in the street knows her need but the 'big man'? Can't even see the street.
A voice that is more expensive does not merit more importance,
because you deserve anything and have been left wanting,
does not allow for neglect.

Does it sometimes feel to you
that there are eleven days in
the week?
if yawning was an Olympic sport
I'd win in the final.

and it's still quite dark
even outside of my heart.

96443
is this the number that
will define me or just
the carriage I'm in?

I didn't win the lottery?
poor me.

But I look at it this way,
I'm alive and
it'll be the kind of day I
want it to be.

'Make it so'
echoes of Star Trek a
few years ago.

The tube turns into
a troop carrier,
an
army that can't liberate
itself,
the 'dawn patrol'
under somebody
else's control.

Are you getting this ?

we're walking our way
into less and less pay
for more and more work.

We'll all be begging soon.
except for the idle rich,
that'd be too much like
work for them.

I am not Isherwood,
but I can be a camera,

I think she's trying to hide
what do you think?

I think thinking should be
tax deductible.

It says a lot when
you realise
you have more friends
from back then
than you have today.

They tell me
that hospitality is
a calling,
a vocation,
I think I
need relocation away
from the madhouse.

this is
industry,
a production line
where the turnover of people
is greater than the sum of their
time.

It's okay if you can paint that
smile on your face and
keep it in place,
but for me
it's just industry.

and one that needs looking into.


When the animals take over the zoo
and you're paid in peanuts
while they drink the honey
It's not ******* funny
it's more than off key
it's another example
of corrupt industry.

On a more serious note
who did you vote for?
the company that keeps its
workers tied to
drudgery, who then have to claim
from the state to top up thier
pay?
which means
on top of your service charge
there's
an extra charge on you
so you can dine with the diners
down at the zoo

Tax deductible
reprehensible ,
minus
expenses
dinner for two.

It sits out in your driveway
a glittering metallic sculpture.
It costs more than your house,
you love it more than your spouse.
You can hardly drive it, it’s too high,
you can barely park it, it’s so wide.
Like an exotic compulsion, you need it,
though you can barely afford to feed it.
There’s a cockpit with winking tech,
offering a printer, wi-fi and refrigeration.
It can pull a house off its foundation.
Is there a tendentious ecological statement,
in this prestigious monster you claim is for work?
Is the fact that it’s tax deductible just a perk?
With this polished and pampered machine,
you get the rewards of effective parenting,
as it literally reflects the care that it’s given.
It’s a spaceship ready for expedition,
what else in creation is as elysian,
as your gigantic pickup truck.
.
.
songs for this:
Dreamin’ by G. Love and Special Sauce
Driving by Everything but the Girl
Get Me Some by Drew Love, TOKiMONSTA & Dumbfoundead

take
slightly above the minimum amount for the maximum benefit,
it's recommended by those who
recommend things which are recognizable by their generic names
and we all know what they are.

I swallow hard to keep my tonsils
from falling out because I know
that they'll be taken if I don't
and don't say that they won't,

medical practise can practise elsewhere I'm keeping my tonsils in there, inside of me.

two grains of high grade will make it all fade away.

I want no trouble
dreams here are tax deductible,
sleep,

and that's how they ***** you to
the floor and then glue you to
the paper thin walls to
intravenously inject you with
viruses,
infect you
and
no one to protect you
because everyone's
******.

These are
the new ties to bind us
to blind us
to remind us
we're all somebody's
*****.

Designer time
making moments that hang off the bangs in your hair
and sharing the plan with the minute man,

missiles are made from marmalade, my
jam sandwiches from the half hours that
two chickens laid,

I'm inside an arcade game
machined into the square route

Dreams are peculiar
I won a toaster or one of ten
other innocent prizes, but I was
sat in my shorts, not satin shorts
but they should have been

then I woke up in Benidorm
or Bangladesh
with Oliver next to me
saying
' another fine mess'

He travels freely
could be astrally
I'm not totally
sure.

They're in colour
which is tax deductible
on the yearly return

and what do I learn from this?
how to kiss like Valentino?
sing like Shapiro?
dress like Michelangelo?

Nothing like a tryer
so I always try to remember
which is nothing like the real thing
in the meantime
I dream on.

Save millions of dollars on zero-deductible Mojave Desert avalanche insurance from the Mojave Desert avalanche insurance experts at Mojave Desert Avalanche Insurance Specialists, exclusively providing for the Mojave Desert avalanche insurance needs of Mojave Desert avalanche-threatened residents.

If I hustle, causing multiple scuffles that ups to multitudes, double your deductible, ruffles insults the truffles chew, **** with words, but yet those curves serves me no bonuses, chuckle these obstacles with the prostitutes nobody notices, these motives will get distorted when you can't afford to sort it, accorded, the Porsche's portrait proves to you, you can't ignore it, and store it, it's now rhetoric in its sight, so it's historic, you for it, and just adore it, but I can't, I rant and tore it, my poses to me is roses but to them, their noses closes, it doses, how their opposes can become my opponent, I shown it, I can't disown it, and the fights, they just condone it, so flaunt it, it's how you want it, gon and take all your components.

Make your checks out to
we'll pollute the world for you
it's deductible

                    Kelly McManus