Hey man I could use a public pen pal Theda.
Well I am writing this to you hes with j in mind. It makes me crazy that she has to be where she is.
people drop bits and pieces of their lives
like snips from their diaries I suppose.
I know she is where she has to be hes, it makes no sense to me, I am just diaspora. This whole thing of having a homeland is alien to me.
I think of Red Emma and the deal she got from her adopted homeland, and I can understand Golda Meir a little better.
Thinking about your diary poem. I got pictures from the gone world
And vivid eidetic memories of the "first women" they circumsized my heart they owned me
Reminds me of those Native American myths of "First Woman"
First sisters.
Some tribes of American Indians considered themselves to be the only true people.
It took me the first thirty three years of my life to learn that a woman is a woman is a rose,
An Irish rose or a rose in spanish harlem
My mother's name was rose,
But the one who spooked me the most was my grandmother,
something weird about my memory, I can't remember a melody two seconds after the last note has faded into remote consciousness but I can remember baths she gave me in her kitchen sink. She played this little piggy went to market and for years I thought I had eleven toes.
Just digression for J
something might amuse her
or confuse you
just a moment distraction from the anticipation of the next boom
has it come to that,
I hope not
you got that zen thing going right
she meant me no harm
I am sure she never imagined me remembering
it could all be a trick of the light
it probably never happened
I am much too vain about my memory
Boy boy do I remember those baths
they were great
I was a very clean child.
long time woman hater j
it took the shiksa from smith college on a queer sultry day in NYC the summer they executed the rosenbergs.
Before you were born I think
I was going on 13 that summer
a spooky feeling to be a Jew boy in the promised land that summer
I hope I digressed you for a while
Ah Hester
just another careless fart
if you read this thanks
for the keeping in touch
sincerely
still trucking et al.
this my nom de guerre
my take no prisoners
go for the throat
sock puppet
till the war is over
which war you might ask
"The Hundred Years War against the Cows" Firesign?
Bubbie in the Baltimore Sun April of 1970
She circumcised my heart
Always out on the fringes
That house on Eastern Avenue
I can remember so much about it
The images from my first nightmares
or the earliest ones I can remember
Go back to World War Two.
Just second hand smoke from the frightened adults around the wood stove in the front room where she kept her big floor model radio and listened to the war news.
The
shiksa that was so stupid about electrocutions.
She opened my mind.
A racist term, but my grandmother had me convinced that the only real women were Jewesses.
Marginal Man
when tinker jack met hester prynne
I am done high jacking
pardon me
I can't get these red shoes off my fingers.
not quite an inky death
but I am dancing
the keyboard jitterbug
