The sukkah is makkif, and we bring it b’pnimius.
Ignorance, young man, is no excuse.
Run your fingers across the footnotes’ gleanings, and realize you ought to pray.
What affliction, bread of hunger —
eat it, and you are eaten away —
the vodka laps you,
and in understanding is a leather sole on your forehead.
The holiday is just a break-tide
set against the year-sea.
Sit within it,
weave its six-fold gestures.
It won’t help.
The year will flood us,
the ark will not be ready,
and salt water will get in your porridge.
Climb into the words,
wrap them around yourself,
and ignore the ravens insisting
that G-d wills your drowning.
You cannot stop the crowing.
Wave the white flag tied to the olive branch,
never write the damn book,
and retreat beneath the sheets.
Dream the night is full of holes,
a smashed idol.
The father of the inch of you that will not settle
makes a promise, and we are its words.
His wife slays a snake
with a laugh.
They are larger than time
and heavier than the earth,
but their eyes sparkle.
–in your dream, of course;
do not settle–
dry you with scorching niggun,
explain the suffering,
and reject it all the same.
Choices must be made;
____ believes in you.
You wake not because you must,
but because you should;
your family misses you.
Trust me: One day it will all stop lying,
and show you your true worth.