after all these years, judaism still retains a certain flavor,
a recollection the eyes can't relate to the brain, more primal,
more ancient, less tameable. it is the hiss of yarmulkes
sliding off heads to hit the ground, it is crucifixion and a chance
to redeem again, and again, and again.
my great great grandfather used to drink out of this real silver
wine cup every friday, engraved with his initials. some might say
this was presumptuous of him. have jews earned the right thus
far to say this is my sabbath, and i shall do tradition a curtsey
and say what is right for me? am i allowed to yet?
jesus i wish i knew you so i could say you were real. everyone says
you were, my people and their people alike, they say you did some
real good things and you died for me. who are you and why
can some joe off the street, some dick or debbie or jane, and
even after all these years of history and reading, i still can't find
you anywhere. some say that not knowing you is no better
than masturbating in st. peter's basilica, but i think better.
the flavor of judaism is a sweet and bitter taste, borne from the
desires of men and the obedience of women. it cuts like broken
glass on the floors of our grandfathers' shops, and it tastes like
servitude sometimes, like a duty to uphold the dusty honor of the past:
an honor, nonetheless. and we got some dusting to do.