I’m tired of the slipstream,
not a war
on the seafloor
as for who should be
my feet are in cement
I don’t know how
my knees are too knobby
I’m tired of watching
I need a new hobby
I live in a paint box
squeezed between rusty cans.
Crayons pile up.
Brushes irritate my nostrils.
The box is flung open,
Olivia throws out carelessly everything.
looking for her balloon.
Flat on the floor
Run over by mice.
A hairy hand throws me back,
A brush in hand
I paint the floor
from a split open pink can.
Crayons draw green purple circles
The baby laughs and throws up.
At night the garage is quiet
except for the red Rambler coughing oil,
dreams of another cross country.
Marveling at the Grand Tetons
and the majestic Pacific shore.
Hanoch Guy spent his childhood and youth in Israel surrounded by citrus orchards ,water melon fields and invading sand dunes. He is a bilingual poet in Hebrew and English,.
Hanoch is emeritus professor of Jewish and Hebrew literature in Temple University
He has taught mentoring and poetry classes in the Musehouse center in Philly.
Hanoch has published poetry extensively the US,Israel and the UK in Genre,Poetry Newsletter, Tracks , the International Journal of Genocide studies Poetry Motel,Visions International,Voices Israel and several times in Poetica where he won an award
He has also won an award in the Mad Poets Society.
Eat shit, roll over and die,
I face my day with every cast of the die.
Ah, don’t ask why in the mirror I spy
this oddly even cast in my eye,
as if the mind hobbled in a cast. Just
ask to – to stay in God’s eye just –
flee my reverse face trapped in the glass,
while I recite this verse for a cast of one.
I – bar through fist – eye at infinity –
contemplate, through thin flesh,
the humdrum on today’s plate:
iced veins at the office,
marching in vain
to tedium’s fife and drum.
To the job I hate, never make me late.
Eat shit, roll over and die,
I fear my day with every cast of the die.
It is the vapor of something, I don’t know
a nebulous longing in the guise of an ache,
that rises to fill me up with your diamond eyes.
Anxieties have wings; existence is a drag.
The air is a constant lack, I breathe. Bones chime,
and fill the vacuous spaces inside my body;
the interference pattern of death and boners.
Sometimes, I want to buy me a lying drug,
telling me that I am living a Bollywood movie.
It sucks, but it won’t go forever.
Do I want to be comfortably fooled? Or do I want
to be naked down to my last molecule ?
I am not made in schools, books or churches. And
I am not going to drag the corpse of last few thousand years,
like I am told to. One of these days, I just want to
be a duck or a stupid pig. What are you going to do about it?
“Form is emptiness. Emptiness is form. “… Diamond Sutra
“Form is background. Background is form”….M.C. Escher’s Sutra
“Wave is particle. Particle is wave”…Heisenberg’s Sutra
“Matter is mind. Mind is matter”….Jung’s Sutra
I am going to have a slice of sky for the breakfast today,
to celebrate the oneness of sublime and junk. And of course,
you are not invited, because you and me are always one.
They were the women’s beer league
champions four years running.
Most were built like Bay City Bombers
after Raquel had left the team, all, that is
except for the pitcher, short fielder, and
second baseman, all of whom looked
like pixie dusted vestal virgins but were
known to scream like harlots when their
men went down hard where it mattered.
The MVP was part Calamity Jane,
part Blaze Starr, an authentic bad momma
who liked to play softball while the sun
shined and hard ball all night after post game
parties. “I’m the MVP all right,” she liked
to say in between shots of Ole, “Most
Valuable Pussy.” Made the police blotter,
the six o’clock news, and the DWI Hall of Fame
all in one night, driving so far over the limit
she was medically dead. Created a drive-in
door and window, totaling a car and a Stewart’s
Convenience store, in one go. Was quoted
as saying, after the EMT’s scoped her for
obvious signs of injury, “I never felt a thing.”
In the fairy-tale book, there’s illustrations by Rackham.
If the words themselves won’t give you nightmares,
I guarantee the pictures will.
Red Riding Hood is so innocent, you’ll fear for your children.
And the wolf is fooling nobody.
Not even the worst grandmother has teeth that sharp,
snout that long, hair that thick.
But that’s the point of childhood isn’t it.
Start with the nightmares and grow from there.
Aren’t we all grounded in witches hauling themselves
up towers on a princess’s long gold hair.
Or dragons in caves. Or giants smelling blood.
By the time the warnings come around
to strange men in cars, kids from rough neighborhoods,
we’ve shuddered from clutching trees, invidious gnomes,
larcenous beggars, talking toads and, worst of all,
little boy and girl devourers.
The predators, the tough kids, just add to that
roaming band of evil-doers.
And later in life, the ranks of ogres thicken…
co-workers with a sharp knife for your back,
women who cheat at every turn,
so-called friends who rob you blind.
And that’s not even taking into account
bad drivers, clumsy fork-lift operators,
hunters with lousy aim,
and politicians who would send you off to war.
It’s a dangerous world.
It’s a dangerous imagination.
I’m reading my child a story.
I’m showing him the illustrations.
He won’t sleep well.
Nor should he.