Sunday, April 17, 2016


And so my aeroplane has turned into
ice and I bend myself down before you:
God-King Master of Winter, Fiery Furnace
and all that you are. Lord High God of the
Many. Enticer of all my dreaming and dance.
I will go away, ever not satisfied, knowing
my mind is your bloom, and the everlasting
drunk which I live through will so sorely break
open my wounds. The New Brunswick bus stops
here, five or six times a day  -  sometimes no one
gets off and ten get on; sometimes three get off 
and one gets on; and sometimes it's all perfectly
even again. I'm in Highland Park now, awaiting
the purple evening to fade : all these guys in their
serious yarmulkes keep going by, talking deep and
effusively, alone. Whatever day of the week is this,
it's theirs and theirs alone. I grant it now to them.
If it is only their God who demands this attention,
over and over and over, I, for one, think there really
must be something wrong with Him, and all of them,
all that there are. Sholom Aleichim Amen baby.

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