Waitress

She says sometimes an angel

will appear, and you won't know it.

Driving US 1 out of Narragansett

the map says you are close to the sea.

You cannot smell the salt,

there is no scent of cod or clam;

there is only faith.

The waitress in the Newport Café

wears the uniform, plaid

shirt and khaki slacks.

You don't recognize angels, sometimes.

I said she was Russian,

my wife said she thought the girl

was French, the girl smiled.

I said she had the smile

of a matryoshka doll.

The girl said her name was Lidia, she

was Russian. Most men thought

she was Russian, most women

thought she was French.

I wondered if there was another smile

inside, and one inside that.

She didn't heal my sore back

or shorten the seven hour drive.

A day later I remember her smile.

Sometimes angels simply tell you

you don't need more than you have.

"Waitress" will appear later this year in the book, The Right to Depart from Plain View Press.

A Book, A Book

My first book, The Right to Depart is in production and will appear early in the fall of 2008 from Plain View Press (Austin, TX). In addition my work has recently appeared in Thema, The Aurorean, Aura Literary Arts Review, Cairn and Poetica Magazine - Reflections on Jewish Thought.

THIS POEM

This poem begins

with infinite

possibility

SOZAN’S FOUR DON’TS 鐵笛倒吹 九十二

You may seek to follow

the path of the dove

a fool know many roads.

You may wrap yourself

in fine linen, an infant

wears only his skin

and knows this moment

is already gone.

Think long before you speak

of how to walk

along the path, of where it leads.

The baby says nothing,

will not speak of where

he has been,

where he is going, for to him

there is only here,

and silence

is descriptive enough.

DEEP IN THE VOID

There is

a mote

in God’s eye,

the ashes

of the 6 million.

-------

First Appeared in European Judaism, 1998.

UNCLE

My uncle writes his journal

in cramped Yiddish, English

will not do, it lacks the words

he says, to describe his world.

He describes the flavor

of the capon left to stew

on the stove, the sweet taste

of carrots and prunes.

He carefully notes the thumb

of the butcher sliding onto

the back of the scale, applying

just a dollar of pressure.

He writes pages of her

monologue, the slow twisting

of words stuck under his skin

like so many shoots of bamboo.

The language is sweet, he says

and when it is lacking, he

can reach into its roots

and graft a new word.

His journal sits on its shelf

gathering dust, its words

lost on my tongue, a tome

consigned to history.

Appeared in Cold Mountain Review, Vol. 25, No. 1 (1996)

ELEGY FOR A POET

(for Allen Ginsburg)

You died quietly in your bed

friends gathered around

the cars and buses of the city

clattering out a Kaddish

to a God you had long ago

dismissed as irrelevant.

We would have expected

your to howl, to decry

the unfairness of it all,

but you merely said

it is time, and slipped away.

Who gave you the right

to depart without leaving us

one last remonstration

against the insanity

that surrounds us, one last

censure of the fools

who we have so blindly chosen

to lead a generation

into a hell of our creation.

You had your peace

but what of us

left behind, what can we

look forward to

in your absence

save the words we know

so well, can recite by heart

that no longer beats

in your breast.

First Appeared in Living Poets (U.K.) Vol. 2, No. 1 (Jan. 2002) and reprinted in Legal Studies Forum Vol. 30, Nos. 1-2 (2006)

SEPPO’S WOODEN BALL 鐵笛倒吹 八十九

The teacher rolls

a wooden ball

past the students seated

around his feet.

Will you pick it up

and return it to him?

The teacher rolls

a wooden ball

past the students seated

around his feet.

I sit still

and let it pass.

Which of us

deserves the stick,

which a silent smile.

Buddha is killed

by a student

along the road

as both are enlightened.

HARLAN

You came, Harlan, to Rochester

somewhere in an endless winter,

Ellison in Tundraland you said

we all chuckled approvingly.

You said a short prayer

climbing into the rusting Opel

sliding on the edge

of oblivion, and

the approaching snowplow.

You stood, hoarse, smelling

of Borkum Riff and English Leather

a tweed jacket over a polo shirt

and thinning jeans

and told us of the insanity

of television, a medium

pandering to idiots

and we nodded, hoping

you would finish before

the Star Trek rerun.

We sat in Pat and Sandy’s

as you consumed two orders

of fries, and a dwindling

bowl of ketchup. Later

we sat in the Rat, staring

at the empty bottles

of Boone’s Farm until

you took pity and ordered

two pitchers, you were

our patron saint.

Solzynitsyn was exiled

to a cabin in Vermont

staring as the leaves greened

and fell under winter,

you served your banishment

in the land of lost souls

miles from any reality.

First appeared in South Carolina Review, Vol. 33, No.1, 2000

ESSHŌ’S PATH 正法眼蔵 三十七

If you are seeking the way

do not consult a map

and most certainly

do not follow in the footsteps

of the wisest person.

Do not ever ask directions

for it is only when

you are utterly lost

and have no idea

which way to go,

that your every step

is a step along the Way.

Four Years and Counting the Bodies

HOLY ARMY

A millennium ago

the army of the lord

dressed in mail and rode

proud steeds across

barren lands, swords

flashing in a red roasting sun

washed in the blood

of the infidels.

They stopped for prayer

blessing the bodies

left along the dirt track

left by their hooves,

a common grave

for common faces

differing only in the color

of skin and hair.

In this millennium

the army of the lord

slouches outside the mall

rubbing hands against

the chill, the bell bleating

against the night,

a barren moon reflects

off the red kettle.

As they locked the doors

he pulled the flask

from his hip pocket

and thought of the bodies

passing by, swerving

to avoid him, and the

forty dollars he would get

would warm

his frozen skin.

First Published in Lullwater Review (vol. 9, no. 1, 1998) and republished in Legal Studies Forum (vol. 29, nos. 1-2, 2005)

GENTO’S WATER PAIL 鐵笛倒吹 二十語

In the garden

what do you see

in the old bucket,

is it still water

reflecting the moon?

Is it a cloud

resting in its travels?

Turn the bucket over

what do you see within?

Does the Bodhi

reside there?

And here it begins. From nothing remains nothing for now