It is obligation, and it is tension.
And it is the blues.
It is estranged, and it is entangling.
And it is an old family.
To have done the entrenchment as
To have done anything as a safety…
Let the hoax-swaddled preach,
and let footfalls follow
in firming belief that it is the blues,
and that is a blues, too.
Luther, Aaron, Paul, Spenser; the
of the loving dawn.
A terse summation adores her breast-
printed as hues of a rosy source.
O those minions—rains black,
O cherished base on a bedeviled
assembly of shredded, rubber
in imbalanced anger, soaked
by Zeyde’s unfettered white spit.
I hear the charismatic,
old man’s wives were all shiksa;
His tahtee, just another
gunif–nit. My eemah: the vain-
glorious quiffe, found Abah
stoked on with that whiff; Believers?
Goyishe trash and yiddishe rash;
Statists; Ethno’s; Machers
Their ear stoned deaf to a grandson’s
cry. To leave Egypt and wind-up
as wanderers with this guy?
Yes, I’ll greet you when; Yes,
an apostasy foments in the stems.