G-d and Country

G-d and Country


with fug asthmatic breathing
my soul was frum, growing
appendages all gangled
looking gangrene without G-d


let me incubate each
sacred law incised
inside atoms of Adonai
addled by every attic cry

genitalia of an immigrant
in the land of two halves
all haze, a blur interred
in maze on maze of


Obsessive, abscessive, whatever

A kalashnikov carotid cold
we ate from bowls, our fingers numb
HaShem stayed in the desert
bringing pillars of flame to grow glass

I speak with trees, branches twisted
wicked like my own tendons
I must lock the door before I sit
can’t you let little rituals pass?

I clean my ears twice a day

I pray so many times my
mouth is a field of sores

friscalating like children
cutting up an ice rink

If I eat, I eat in secret
as fast as I can swallow
so my stomach will swell
and feel the fire of space

Oh G-d, speak to me for
forty years, let me fiddle
these tassels til the ancient
skies burn overhead again

queries of the quarry

fight with a hearth flame,
not some lack-luster
sun spot angst-bile

wear a truth you have lived,
not one you profess to know
because you read words
proclaiming as such

be helpless in dagger flotsam,
a hand will always breach
the surf grasping for you in
your flail sign language

shave your head,
let your thoughts
breathe the air

give the night it’s sacrifice
of color-shine kleptomania

Sinbad O’Connor

Sinbad O’Connor

Done Fucking Around

Adonai mingles among
the fibers of my shawl
cleansing it of dead skin
flecked from white boys

looking to violate because
they’re “products of the
patriarchy too!”

and they’re so “logical”
and “rational” unlike
us women-folk

so I guess rape is
just a logical response
to rejection, I mean
why should women

be allowed to say no to
that grimy dead fish penis
that you photograph and
send without permission?

sorry, but we aren’t all
social Darwinists like you

this time the predators
will be cut down
and the victims will
dance in the fire

In need of Portland friends

Living in your car ain’t all it’s cracked up to be

the newest immigrants

I’ll hide in a 1920’s moving picture
and I’ll glow the way they do

I will be the Polish immigrant
hiding her last name in white

and the bullshit part of it all
is hate can be over something
so arbitrary

and yet you can still die from it

fit for a queen

you can count the years
in a lightning strike
you can chant the silence
between barbs of skywrite

because rain is permanence
the way an echo is permanence

and a termite digs a grand hall
for a queen, no bigger than a hand

dwarfed, with no idea
or maybe no interest

because grand is grand
and the termite is proud of her work