There was an Old Person of Dutton,
Whose head was as small as a button,
So, to make it look big,
He purchased a wig,
And rapidly rushed about Dutton.

I was visiting my older brother and sister-in-law, when he emerged from a storage room with a box filled with family"artifacts", photos, etc. In that box was a 78rpm record, created in 1947. I was not quite six years old. This caused the eruption of a memory long lost, for it was recorded by my kindergarten teacher; my recitation of a poem titled, "My Sore Thumb", written by Burges Johnson. It appeared in a 1921 publication of a book, "Youngsters:" Collected Poems of Childhood", published by E.P. Dutton Publishing Co., which is now part of the Penguin Group. I only had to memorize the first stanza.
ENJOY!

"My Sore Thumb"

I jabbed a jack-knife in my thumb—
Th' blood just spurted when it come!
The cook got faint, an' nurse she yelled
An' showed me how it should be held,
An' Gran'ma went to get a rag,
An' couldn't find one in th' bag;
An' all the rest was just struck dumb
To see my thumb!

Since I went an' jabbed my thumb
I go around a-lookin' glum,
And Aunt, she pats me on the head
An' gives me extra ginger-bread;
But brother's mad, an' says he'll go
An' take an' axe, an' chop his toe:
An' then he guesses I'll keep mum
About my thumb!

At school they as't to see my thumb,
But I just showed it to my chum,
An' any else that wants to see
Must divvy up their cake with me!
It's gettin' well so fast, I think
I'll fix it up with crimson ink,
An' that'll keep up int'rest some
In my poor thumb!

השואה גוססת...the Sho'ah is dying

©  STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
30 Sivan 5778 / 13 June 2018
revised:
1 Tammuz 5758 / 14 June 2018
2 Tammuz 5778 / 15 June 2018
3 Tammuz 5778 / 16 June 2018

I.

and cantillated poetry -- memory being
automatic editing -- may not be enough.

what was not a reality
may never be a reality,
may never be a memory. soon,
survivors will be silent, and
the concierge of film and tape
and books will whisper
in library corridors.

the villanellesque windows of
constantly chanting 'disaster' and
'master' are shattering,
an amphigouri of shadows and
mirrors...

II.

I stand on the balconies of quantum
strings: Auschwitz made my
forebears more Yehu'dit than Moshe.

No one
bears witness for the
witness.
-- Paul Celan, 1971. Speech-grille
& selected poems [trans. Joachim
Neugrosche] (E.P. Dutton), 1-255 (241)

the horizon is grey, in
Poland 2018, the ash still creating
a haze, specks on the leaves,
the shoulders, the watch face on
my wrist having no hands...

III.

how is the memory of a paternal
relative kept 'alive'? she remains like
a flickering match growing fainter
in what will be a night of
receding possibilities,
shadows be-ing alongside
my own. I have one colour 1941
photograph of her.  like salt held
on the tongue
she is carried in my mind.

she would not, a decade later in
Rosemead, speak of the
Kingdom of Night.

one of the fading blue
numbers stamped (not tattoed)
on her left forearm in 1942 was
a four.

she would stare intently into
my eyes, turn her arm over,
the four becoming a chair...
it was Garcia Lorca in 1928 who said
'verde que te quiera verde'...

she loved green, even the green stained
gargoyles she was painting in Paris...
on a sidewalk caught up in a christianist
SS roundup 16 July 1942, the Rafle du
Velodrome d'Hiver, her painting
fingers crushed. soon she was on a
rattling box car in August 1942, sent
to the East...

she was gone in 2006...but her dreams
are still in me...

IV.

teaches Reb Ya'akov Glatshteyn...

Like a tiny candle over each grave,
a cry will burn,
each one for itself.
'I am I' --
thousands of slaughtered I's
will cry in the night:
'I am dead, unrecognized'.
-- Ya'akov Glatshteyn / Yankev Glatshteyn
/ Jacob Glatstein, 1987. 'I have never
been here before', p. 111 in: Ya'akov
Glatshteyn, 1987. Selected poems
of Yankev Glatshteyn [ed./trans. R.J. Fein]
(Jewish Publication Society), 1-215
[Yiddish & English]

V.

let us compell trolls among us
to remember that, at its peak,
their grandparents' vaticanist
Auschwitz was burning 12,000
of us every 24 hours...

when it was happening
sound still reaches us in 2018.

and yet.

when it was happening,
few were listening, but now it is
bashert / inevitable my soul
hears nothing else.

the 'orderly' minds of the
trolls among us are well-tended
cemeteries without
gravestones.

the fire escapes are covered
with psilocybin spores.

long after midnight, when the
darkened carnival is awake,
there are survivors at the
seder table awaiting the
Missing One return with Her
Sefer haZohar, pick up the
empty cup.

the underside of every leaf
is fear, shadows gathering
at the foot of our beds,
transforming gristle into haze,
made real by Hebrew letters
and syllables.

TO BE CONTINUED

'When I am in the darkness,
why do you intrude?'
-- Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan', 1978

*****



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

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

Anguish hid within sinister orthodox crosshairs
   wherein target to wreak psychic havoc without means to escape the crushingly feted incisors as if mauled by an unseen yak
this emotional state impaled between the maws of pincers –

   no exit except being squeezed to the maximum point
   of non-existence into the black
whence once corporeal complex
   fleshy edifice becomes slurry akin to shellac
or railroaded outcome no better nor worse

than being tied as a fast approaching train on track
a most offal emotional state,
   where the nursery rhyme of jilted jack
Childs’ play when inevitable doom and
    gloom one cannot hack

free – and options to secure safe
   and Soundgarden place to live doth lack
plenitude duet to penury,
   and subsidized housing a pipe dream
   asper surviving time of warfare

   between Iran and Iraq
but the lo…a crack
of hopefulness dawn most unexpectedly
   when this day-tripper hove ah slacker found salvation
   just in the nick of time
   when renting lease about ran out – back
twas cause to ******* alas and alack…
----------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------
when tandem forces nearly coaxed self-destruction
   from coke kin conspirator ******
   ready to ambush and take aim
ensconced clattering red bull pawing the earth

   with a fury of a madman playing the Glockenspiel
   opportune moment to unleash fury n laid claim
thwarting salvation from psyche teetering
   on the brink of abysmal hopelessness to exclaim,

where suicidal ideations on par with Russian roulette
   ransoming life sans permanently deadly game
hellacious tongues of the underworld
   hungering to inflame

kept at bay from divine intervention vis a vis a cool
   out of the blue downy
   faux heavenly transgender angel Jame
me Dutton, appeared as thee bottled Genii,

   with limbs temporarily lame
being hermetically sealed gingerly
   placed upon tarp of lam may,
   a lifelike emoji emoticon meme
bur of a secret society of LGBTQ
   brotherly sorority sisters,

   which angel joined the coterie
   of Good Samaritan name
   outwitting any stealthy fleet of foot Equus
casually, earnestly and modestly suited
   to boost civic, and emphatic and
   graphic curses of doom to tame.

i'm still looking for the ****** word,
   no matter how many words you know,
however scientific, or however philosophical,
there seems to be no point
when technical terms come into play...
  all i have is skirting,
   but what i'm referring to isn't skirting...
         it's rather old fashioned,
   so i guess the misnomer guise will have
to do... "skirting" running along
the upper tier of the wall...
                  i.e. it's thinner than skirting,
   it's wood,
                     but it segregates about
an 8th of the whole wall, meaning the top
sits an 8th's length down from the ceiling,
before the wall starts...
                     or rather... wallpaper is so 1970s...
but people can't part with it...
                 so they leave one landscape wall
for a bit of wallpaper, the rest is painted,
pale of a desired colour,
       in this instance? an albino-lime...
                      i still had to remove this out-dated
skirting on the wall, i know there's
another name for it...
                        hence the clean incissions on
the ******...
                        a mini hammer and a...
ha! dado rail! yeah, had to remove a piece of
dado rail to allow a complete wall ready for
the application of a wallpaper...
                   some fluor the lis imitation,
gilded in gold, on a pale arctic...
                           but obviously removing
     a dado rail implies roughage,
      so?
                 the need to apply gypsum
to smooth out the holes...
                            and they do say not to make
the mixture too watery,
   what they don't say is that if you at least
make the mixture of gypsum and cold
water, watery, the mixture soon solidifies anyway...
so you wait a bit...
                       and: **** spreads onto a wall
like warm butter...
             obviously you end the whole
filling of "teeth" of a wall
                   with a wet brush...
                      the edges of the wallpaper?
   smeared heavily with wallpaper glue...
   but you wait for the glue to sink into the paper,
you don't exactly smear the paper with
glue, and the wall just ever so slightly
and immediately put it on... you wait for
some sort of digestion to take place...
              radiators?
                    i don't care how perfect your
paintbrush skills are: you always need
two coats...
                  you wait for the first coat to dry,
before applying the second coat...
         and yes, painting walls also takes two
coats,
    esp. when you decorated in the late
hours, and upon waking the next day
you find the old colour looking through...
             god the modern furniture
                           schematic...
   they think they can hide the screws...
                apparently it takes two types of
screws to hold a coffee table leg to the torso...
         imagine buying new furniture,
unable to sell it, having to stash it in the attic...
        20+ kilograms of wood had to be lifted...
    via a 68 x 67cm entry point...
                             with the table,
reduced to a two legged horse
                  coming in at roughly 70cm...
         and the ****** fit through the hole...
while waiting in the attic with a folded
ladder i started rummaging...
   dare you believe, that up there,
   among the clutter,
            i found: THE FIRST EDITION
   of gilbert adair's
               peter pan and the only children?!
e. p. dutton printing...
           1988!
                    copyright? 1987...
              the credits end with:
                              first, american, edition.
well, that's the attic...
     down below in the newly decorated room
we have an abstract flint drawing of
a cut-through...
         and sketches of Haifa
    circa 1954 - 1961...
      by none other than:
                 (apologies if i write this name wrong,
i'm working from something that was
handwritten, translated into pixel):

               בץאיד        
                                שהדי‬

because, seriously:
                                    ן‬ךף‬
(i.e. from looking up - nun,
    to looking ahead - kaf,
  to looking humbled, inward - p'eh) -

12 sketches of Haifa...
              and a tower with a scimitar moon
on top, which probably doesn't exist anymore...

if i could only remember that
****** name...

              in my wallet? a 10 złoty banknote
with Mieszko I on it...
           the first historical Piast...
    
        once they mentioned
              jagiełło to be the face of
        the 100 złoty banknote,
  and that 200 złoty belonged to
   zygmut stary...
     the 500 złoty banknote?
  well... if jan sobieski didn't make
it this far... he sure as **** was
going to be the face on that bank...
      
      not to mention my new favourite
poet, obviously he's dead,
          e. e. cummings...
   shame, shame that bukowski ate all
this time...
                  i should have been there
were the real action was...
                  coming along with
genuine orthography, rigid,
             structured...
      not this pish-poor attempt at
orthography,
           in a language that has no basis
for orthography,
           have ***** ιota into owning
a levitating head...
                       with only two entry points
into the study of orthography,
via / within english, based upon
the **** of ι & ȷ - what's the problem
in das capital?
                 I might add,
                      Joe would too...
                              as little tau already knew,
as little kappa added:
                    shrinking in proportion
to their big brothers: κettle brew on τop
                                         of the world...
now we can play.

you know you've crossed
the rubicon,
   when...
you have finally
     sifted through enough
material
beside the music videos...
  red ice tv.
   dr. edward dutton...
   dr. steve turley...
    jacklyn glenn...
sytxhexenhammer666...
tim pool...
computing forever...
   louderwithcrowder...
   paul joseph watson...
roaming millenial...
    millenial woes...
lauren sauthern...
                 shaun...
roosh v...
the amazing atheist...
    contra points...
                  blaire white...
black pigeon speaks...
             eugenia cooney...
and...
                                 etc.
   what once was
the english variant
of a soap opera akin
to eastenders...
           every trivia question,
that concerns itself
with english soap opera?
i'll probably tell you
more about
a mexican import
of a tele-novella into
                    poland...
me?
     at this point...
           i feel like a crab...
sieving through the ****
on the baseline
of an ocean...
           tried floating
to the top,
       but i was told to make
language funny,
sieving through
what remains
            recycled vocals...
                     mir, schreiben...
sorry: i just have this
a priori fetish for
   the deutschezunge...
can't help it...
i'll try...
      but russian is off-limits
for me,
  sure, i'll tease greek...
given that...
                   i've spent
a decent year trying
to memorize it...
            oh, esp. the twin-F
scenario...
          but clearly i'm
way back in the audience...
fame... b'ah!
   what is that?
                it's here one minute,
gone the next,
     infamy is in vogue
these days...
                i don't even
know what that term implies...
   fame...
             nice bandwagon
though...
       looks nice from where
i'm perched...    
esp. the whole eugenia cooney
affair...
         no... no chance for me
leaving a comment...
i just accidently came across
it...
    and...
            i'm like:
   who's going to side
   with the man who drinks
a liter of whiskey,
looks bloated,
       and...
   then... makes an afternoon
of it listening to
some polish radio station...
having fallen out of bed...
lying **** naked
on a wooden floor
to ease himself from
the odd mid-winter
heat-wave piercing
        through his
                           window?

dunno...
       i'm latched on...
and....
     i'm paying squint....
of the eyes...
         and i'm entrenched...
and...
     then i fiddle with
my beard
    for 10 minutes...
   pretending to be playing
some song from
   fiddler on the roof...
i knew this beard
was going to come in handy!
i knew it!
   i didn't a sensation
of ***** hair, somewhere north
of the groin...
  and... for obvious reason,
i couldn't just fiddle
my ***** region
for a worthwhile
   procrastination outlet,
and sure as **** i didn't
learn to play the violin...
   beard it is, beard it was always
going to be.

For really nice investment advice I listen to bankrupted E.F. Hutton
'cause their wisdom's deeper than lard-*** Ricki Lake's belly button
which wouldn't be like that if this pig wasn't such a ******* glutton
while praising perverts when it's her trap that she should be shuttin'
as gay Gomer learned to do when being reamed by ol' Frank Sutton
who grew up eating chitterlings, fish heads & under-cooked mutton
that he cut into chunks with a pen-knife not sharp enough for cuttin'
an Indian-reservation ewe that was too skinny for easy sheep-guttin'
by those mule-skinning red men from the island preserve of Dutton
where total victory was won the week they let the raunchiest **** in