Frum family

Obama girl

Some say: All politics is local. In the case of this Obama supporter, seen on the B train in Brooklyn, such is the case.

High Holiday Dispatch

It is

on days like this,

I think of Spielman

And how he sounded the shofar

"You must have heard him."

I wrote to a friend,

in Boston.

I was boastful.

Proud.

... To have been part of that

breath

of life,

in Brooklyn.

On some Sabbaths.

I think:

"These people don't get it.

They don't realize,

how lucky they are,

to have such a place

as this

at the corner

of Garfield

and Eighth."

They are not grateful enough,

I maintain

in my mind.

... Caught up

in judgment.

What happens to us,

on days like this?

When we atone.

… When we reconcile

The arc of our triumphs

and pain

With that of our sorrow

for

opportunities

lost

had we

but remembered god.

What happens is

We get dressed up

And write a check

To discover

that God

doesn't deal

in bribes.

That as much as we can be bought,

The commerce of our souls

Is a different matter

altogether.

We must,

if it matters

if we aren't

just dollars

and cents,

We must

become god.

.. . With our lips,

Around the instrument

Of our choosing.

the new math

it is sundown.

the jews bow

toward jerusalem.

i scrape

the interior

of my soul—

the chasm

deep—

my skull,

its

easily-plotted

circumference.

... its only measurable geometry.

fiction

fact

the difference—

rising

falling—

like the dusk.

meanwhile,

the jerusalem sky

bursts

with calm.

Men (for all of the straight men, who wish I wasn't a lesbian.)

i love dick.

i love

his attitude
in the marketplace

and on the floor

of intellect.

his drive.

his muscle.

his rhythm

on a field

yardage contingent

upon masculinity.

i love his cock

in ballet tights.

his depth

especially

at the Met

his ambition

his attraction

to me.

his ability to bravely escort liberty home.

his power ties.

his power lunches.

…and how much i have been a part of them.

still

he remains

inadequate

when i disrobe

desire.

England's Rose

princess diana is dead.

her sons

will have to change their plans.

rearrange their schedules.

get ready for a funeral.

understand

mommy is gone.

they will have to reach in

to themselves.

be brave.

be regal.

and mummy

will still

be

dead.

Charitable Deduction

there is a pile

of clothes

I have been meaning

to drop off

at the salvation army.

you know the one—

by MIT,

where the fire station is—

near our first apartment.

one day i'll get there—

i'll stop meaning

to be charitable.

and just concentrate

on that pile of clothes.

Crayon Soup

when thought wields you,

i implore innocence.

that of

the innocent hope that

you will matter

years from today.

. . . years away

from whatever trust we manage

to borrow

beg

steal

our minds,

hearts

creditors, debtors

in the rugged exchange

not always brave.

when we are years away

from today

its potential

for

perversion

or

neglect

or stupidity

or dishonor,

i don't want to find myself

beside you

our ruins

heir apparent

in our bed

in the morning,

when we face the morning sun

snow gilded

upon our favorite branches.

yes

i desire

innocence.

so i maintain

you

in my heart

soul

mind.

and i learn

what hope is.

and i become it.