Wednesday, May 31, 2006


[i] Blessed he that gave a tri-book, to a tri-nation,
Through the third one, on the third day of the week,
In the third month
[ii].” A guide through tri-bulation.

In the first month: barred in heavenly bliss.
In the second: toil the earth’s darkness bleak.
– Oh, but in the third: heaven and earth kiss.

One knows just oneself: is One unified or lonely?
Two knows not another: does Two hide or seek?
– Three is one and two: Three must be one and only.

“Lofty lowered to lowly” – are the lowly to blame?
“Lowly elevated to Lofty” – was it a lofty eke?
– Lofty and lowly need not travel to be the same.

The mind journey’s only as far as it thinks.
The heart beats only until it gets so weak.
– But the essence never gets lost in inks.

There are those that say, “The Body is our God.”
Others say, “It is the Soul of which the Prophets speak.”
– Both make a life; don’t we need the tri-pod?

Southpaws would have you believe right is wrong.
And Benyamins say, “Don’t be left in the reek.”
– But isn’t the straight path shorter than the long?

Are you going to be tied-down in world’s finality?
Are you going to run to heaven’s endless creek?
– Or are you going to unite the two and create reality?

For one is one, and two is two –

Only three can unite me and you.
[i] Inspired by Lekkutei Sichos, vol. 2, pp. 301
[ii] Shabbos, 88a; Rashi – “Tri-book”: Torah, Neveim, Ksuvim. “Tri-nation”: Kohanim, Leveim, Yisraeilim. “Third one”: Moses (Miriam, Aaron, and Moses). “Third month”: Sivan (Nisson, Iyar, Sivan).

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Talking To Myself

Stop. I feel like saying don’t go. But who am I to say that. I talk to myself, all the time. Stop eavesdropping you sneaky thing. Some things are private. But, then, it wouldn’t be interesting if it were public, would it now. Are you still listening though I told you not to. Good. I told you so only to make it interesting. How would it sound if I said gather around y’all, come hear what I have to say. Wouldn’t that work, work to chase everyone a way. So, I make it exciting: I whisper; I tell you don’t listen; I throw suspicious looks at myself. And you get excited, as do I. You’re excited for you listen in to a private conversation between myself; I am excited because now I really have something to talk about.

“Who wants to be excited anyway?” I ask myself. “Everyone,” I answer myself. “That was a rhetorical question,” I tell myself. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” I reprimand myself. “Don’t talk down to me,” I say to myself. “Look who’s talking,” I cynic myself. “Touché,” I reply to myself. “Ye, I always get the last word,” I rub it in to myself.

They say talk is cheap. They are wrong – talk is free, free speech. Talk all you like, but don’t say a word. Saying what you talk would be wrong. Talking what you say would be weird. So don’t mix your talking and your saying. Do you hear what I talk; do you say what I hear.

I listen to myself talking and I don’t like what I hear. It’s kind of funny listening in to yourself talking to yourself. It’s like listening to a recording of your own voice – I don’t sound like that.

They say only crazies talk to themselves. I wonder if they were listening in to themselves talk. Not only crazies talk to themselves (true, only crazies talk crazily to themselves, but) even normals talk to themselves – albeit normally.

This is writing: talking to yourself so others could listen in.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Blindly, I See Him Looking At Me

In honor of my grandfather's first yartzeit (anniversary of passing).

He sits there amused, watching the goings-on of a narrow-minded world. The nitpickiness of neophytes disguised (or undisguised), leaves him grinning from tear to tear – Why don’t they just open their eyes? he wonders.

It is comedic, sadly comedic I’m sure, as he watches the bespectacled lemmings: we run around like blind mice, and, when he tells us so, we say, “Not true, we are not blind mice at all – we are merely blind”.

Blind indeed.

We sit here mourning: the tears potent from a year’s maturation, the emptiness as unfulfilled as eyes filled. And he writes:

Why do they mourn for me when I rejoice for them?
Why do they cry up to me when I smile down at them?
Why are they empty of me when I’m full of them?

Anyway you put it, he is not here. No matter how brilliant the mind’s response, the heart’s question is never answered. And he is hysterical – Vus bulbest du? What the hell are you talking about? You think it’s about answers and questions? You are young, just be.

He is surprised – There you sit, crying over my no-show; you think I’ve disappeared, so you’ve despaired. O, you foolish child, why not look past the decay of skeleton and into the eternity of spirit; why not scrape away the surface of the body so you can touch the essence of the soul?

Yes, I know, a blind man cannot see his blindness; an ignorant man knows not of his ignorance; a sleeping man does not feel he sleeps.

But, alas, I, I who is neither blind, nor ignorant, nor asleep, can pry-open your eyes, teach-away your ignorance, shake-off your sleep.

Just let me, please. I know you do not understand – if you did, it wouldn’t be worth it – but, still, just believe in me, trust in me, have faith in me, for here I sit, in a place eternal, believing in you, trusting in you, having faith in you.

I’m sad, but I do not mourn: I'm sad because my eyes are closed; I do not mourn because I know his are open.

I mourn, but I am not sad: I mourn because I cannot see him; I am not sad because I know he sees me.

Ah, yetz't du redst - now you're talking.

a piece i posted a year ago on this blog, right after my grandfather's transition to places better

Sunday, May 07, 2006

Is He Serious?

Most people do not know
Everyone is so confused
Not yours truly though
Always I stand excused
Come fire or even snow
He who lives abused
Eagerly looks high and low
Myself I just stand amused

Merely a flash a thought
Enters my overworked mind
Not thinking what I was taught
Don’t like knowledge of that kind
Especially when it is bought
Like a shopper’s gleeful find

Just want to do something new
Always in an innovative way
Careful not to copycat you
O to write an original screenplay
Be it false or maybe even true
So long as it ends in hooray
Of course you hold me a shrew
Nevertheless you can kiss my touché