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.