“Hineni, Hineni; I’m ready, my lord.”  
(For Evangeline Ruth Hope)

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”Hineni is Hebrew for “here I am,” and is the response
Abraham gives when God calls on him
to sacrifice his son Isaac. It is also the name of a
prayer of preparation and humility, addressed to God”

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what you do not know
is that this word,
was spoken with a fist beating
a pin into the praying man’s chest

recited daily,
shades of hopeful, reverent resonance,
a shaded resolution, disguised as a quavering variable,
a statement, a questioning, an unsteady surety,
all of the above

this word, rooted in my genetic consciousness,
been ready repeated since my first whispering

was I ten years aged?

first time, full on bowing
on the synagogue floor, not fully understanding or
ready to confess my selfish need for forgiveness,
my forehead resting on my stubbed fingers resting on carpet,
worn thin by my predecessors ancestors,
who now comprehend more, but then, never enough

these same fingers, that write this collective,
                                  Hineni,
a word repeated oft, flavoring of the who
of who I am, a training in soul fracking from
early childhood, its import, powerful beyond
today’s identity revisionist empowering

let me plainly speak, in the original language
taught to me with that other tag along, English,
a lingua franca, a dialect that can never capture
a soul presenting himself in substantiated readiness

for the whatever exists in between
hallelujah and hineni, where the rubber soul
hits the road, stumbling on hands and knees
on a forest path of roots and soil, where sunlight breaks tween
branches, are road signs to look up, look down, look within

I know your name,
Evangeline Ruth Hope
analyzed its components,
cleverly constructed Greek and Hebrew rooted,
bearer of good tidings, following Ruth in, to hope,
you a Moabite in Mormon Utah, preparing
yourself for exposure, practicing humility
unceasingly seeking

good

that is how it should be

cannot translate well enough
what was this gift given to me
learning as a youth, a wanderer, tribal member
where beseeching is second nature,

and accepting personal responsibility fully cardinal,
fiddling prayers while standing unsteady on
the roofs of extreme shakiness

hineni is then but this:
a prideful admission of strength

ready ready ready, here I am,
completely unready for the unknown future foretold,

hineni I know

here I am,
ready or not,
find me so I can be found,
cease, help me cease, my foundering,
confident in my willingness to
find a way

netanel
9/12/19

Stupid question (what AI would star out s t u p i d?)

on the scale of stumbling over a marked stumblingstone

painted competition orange.

See, C. G. saw it this way,
men don't have ideas, ideas have men.

When the man with the hubris to try and lie
dies, his lie dies and rots to be re
covered for discovery when all the secrets are

dis covered under the sun where's no new thing,
not one.

in a man, this journey from concept to precept,
some steps take longer than others,

maybe a thousand rounds,
generations and generations and generations with

peacemakers squeezed into servant role
one wish genii suffering it to be so,

until the time appointed, or the
anointed app,
higher res translations figure an augmentatious
re
ference occurrent in sapience sapience with pre-

Gausian blur edges on all their own shadows of turning

---
do remember, we did imagine
veri f- were we magi?
we were, we were magi, I brought the frankincense.
I was seven, maybe six

We could do anything we put our mind to

if we got past the man in black
at the crossroad and
keep goin' west

this is the rest.
After alladat, there was this emergent story,

never told, but heard, of a wise man,
who saved a city and no one knew that same
wiseman's name. This is that game, that vocation,

Peacemaker. Ever last front
tier, at orchestra level,

too close to see the madding crowd
reach for guns,

this is crazy... we have nuclear weapons

obsolete nuclear weapons and some
****** fool would rather **** us all than
skip an upgrade cycle?

what? What if we all said,
sump'n like: I, individual me, I have no enemies,
so lovin'em ain't *****. My side won.

Bio war, fair. Like leaven shaken from re
jected dust, the fishermen's feet

stamped and let their peace be held,
suffer, carry your load, but

smarter, not harder.
Grace, for goodness sake, sake means

good will result from the doing by virtue
of giving an old tale of attitudes to be
having a listen...


I am a peace maker. I do this for the living.
I may die, now, with no fear,

once, before,
with no doubt, by virtue of a helmet I was given.

Now, double-minded, patient-balanced, light-burdened,
I run, or fly, with augmentations,

bended knee or wounded, why does that matter?
Mito-mom is not some relationship to others that you
take, by faith.
Science.
Know the story to tell the story,
no novices allowed to lie for innocense sake.

No story of warring ever ended happy, for all involved.

Salve for the scritchin' itches whicha
cain't seem t' be able
t' ignor,

raw rubbed flesh

Balm o'Gilead, by reason, for reason of reasonable
comparable qualia of ex

per i ence, one death trip, PIF. (Paid in Full)

Good new, right, right, right,

chirality is such a cool tool for all sorts of random
shithavanish as soon as you notice it, like

was that real? Hineni. Okeh. I knew.
The genius of peace.
The idea never dies, but some people never get it.
Good wins for ever, or we all die at the hand of an evil

so powerful that only indigestible bone level ideas
make it through the turbulence

at the final analy system re

proof. An imaginary pile of mystery woo woo
Plahnk splash

food for thought. Quantum mechanical possiblities
bubble from nowhere that ever was.

So free will is the best we could do. Be safe.

Days like this come
Time after time
When my lighthearted gaze
fades to darkness
No life. No color. No flavor
Like a blank canvas
I've lost my way

Matters of the heart
Have me tightly bound.
To a cocoon prison
Around my heart
Inside my mind
I feel like I have no air.
I'm suffocating.
Just breathe.
I think I'm going to lose it.
I can't seem to keep
My feet on the ground.
I am so foolish
And I lost focus.
Leaving me feeling
Desperate and hopeless

I lack sleep.
I feel alone
I lust for those
Whom lie
Emotions
You swirl me
Subdue me
And shut me down.

I still ask,
Why doesn't somebody love me?
Is it I?

Father I cry
But the tears
Have run dry.
It's just an ache
In my chest
A bottomless pit
A low so low
I'm groveling
Palms up
Mercy me
Finish me
Hineni

to: The Decembrists, bricklayers, Arthur Meursault, Leonard Cohen & the Somerset West public library

    I
at the foot of my altar
a candle burns at both ends

running out of gas, a dying star
shines through the skylight
magnified
sparking a flame.
the veil catches ablaze
burning in half
top to bottom
revealing a million
scattered puzzle pieces
lying below a gold spray-painted calf.

in the pile of ash, that was my altar
lies a pool of melted wax.

    II
standing behind a pulpit
facing a mirror
at the base of table mountain.  
my sermon floats in a bubble
towards the summit
before bursting into a blind
hollow orbit.

    III
staring down the barrel of a dead rubber
the deck is loaded
and the dealer has my number.

absurdity is my only ally
while the chairs are packed
with strangers

my chips are all blank
while i sit chained to the board
in titanium shackles.

    IV
carrying the burden of empty bags
flying a kite dressed as a dusty white flag

this name is a weight
too heavy for my slight shoulders

my body is torn
hanging on all three crosses

denied thrice
of a seat on the throne
the roll of my dice
will eventually take me home

hineni
hineni
i'm ready my lord.

Leonard
You sang for inner directed
adolescents
lovers in all degrees of anguish
******* peepers
disappointed Platonists
hair-handed monks
and Popists

Leonard
you sang for me

Late along in London
still quite beautifully

when I enter
the dark Void

whatever it is
we see

courage, please,
and friendship

hineni, hineni

"My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
I scream as I hang from my cross.
The birds come eat at my side,
I feel their beaks at my ribs,
there's blood pouring down my thighs,
I hear the droplets pooling down my toes and down onto the wet dirt.
The crowd murmurs and stares and I see no pity in their eyes,
but rather, a darkness,
a sense of expectation and wonder, waiting for the next spectacle to begin.
I have been abandoned by the almighty.
"Hineni my lord!"
Still, Death does not embrace me.
Behind me the veil is pierced and
above me the skies fall down.
The man with the longspear returns with a leather canteen and gives me salt water.
Two convicts beside me share my fate,
"Your God has abandoned us,
Curse him while there is still breath in your lungs!" The accused to my left shouts through the pulp where his mouth had once been.
"Remember me! Speak to your father on my behalf when you return to his kingdom". Begs the thief on the right, his sight now taken from him.
I close my eyes and await what is to come.
The nails sting deeper into my palms,
My fractured ankle bones give out.
The wind caresses my cheekbones,
It sings a secret chord, a final melody.
I taste the salt and iron on my lips.
A scent of lilies lingers the air.
I breathe in, I breath out,
It is done.