frozen in time
despite what neuroscientists tell us
there is no map
amongst the sulci and gyri
to that place
where we play
you and I
winded around
as coiled roots
forever balanced
at the precipice
waiting for the fall
–
Confessions of the poet (the Ghetto- Venice, Italy)
What confessions are revealed
over coffee in lesser holy places
what inspirations emerge
when maths turns to music
what lost dreams of wandering
of burning like a Roman candle
a brief but brilliant life
a vagabond alchemist
what longings
what urges
a master of the art he tries
to seduce with the plumage of his wit
Leaning forward he whispers
That writers’ block
Is the price he pays
for abstinence and piety
she understands
but rejects the role
of muse
Can he shed the mask
tell her honestly
that in search of love he
leaves the ghetto
that when free of the barrier
he sews his foreskin back on again
that though awakening beside her might be sweet
it is in these alleys alone
the echo of the shofar
fills the void
anchors him
liberates words
–
Reminiscences on finding a faded photograph
You looked straight at the camera
head slightly tilted
wide smile
though together almost two years
you never wanted me
to pick you up
at your parent’s house
because
as you told me
you were concerned
that they would think I was not good enough
for their little girl
which led me to think
maybe you too had your doubts
coward that I was
I never asked you
if that too was your concern
or told you
that you were chubbier
than I preferred
or that when you smiled
the world brightened around me
I did tell you once
that asleep
you looked like an angel in rapture
and when you said “really”?
I said “yes”
I did not lie.
and you rewarded me
with a smile
–
