⁣ 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝟏𝟏
⁣
I always thought it was me
But really, you’re possessed.
⁣
A friendly ghost.
Doped up on Casper antidote.
⁣
And I roam,
still looking for the next.
⁣
At the usual haunt, on the hunt,
I turn up
the dialectic
to 11, to ascend.
⁣
In a sense, it’s dielectric—
the dollar’s innocence.
⁣
It’s a practical defence.
Verbal measures beat into melody,
while the sweetest nothings 
play pretend
until we tune them up again.
⁣
In the name
of letting go of holiness,
hope, and letting squalor find your friends.
⁣
When it’s spoken, there’s a resonance,
but it’s empty, so it echoes,
and I’m too empty to repent.
⁣
Riddles lost in permafrost,
but you never know.
⁣
Watch out—
you’re on the lookout for handouts
with your hand out.
⁣
And I’ll gladly hold your hand.

—J. Katz

To prostrate is a paltry tool—
assume a man or woman’s stool.
Use my hand
to wipe your drool—
use my heart.
It’s nothing new.

Like a car left out all winter—
turn it over.
Check the gauges.
Change the tires.
Pump them full.

Make sure it still works.
Then tinker
with my ticker.
Certain
it still hurts.

I just want to take you there—

incantation
before the prayer.

Who was really on their knees?

I built the spires,
the tower,
lit the fire—

but you gave me
all your air
to breathe.

Dove into your holiness,
punch my card
with swollen fists.

Pain you were meant to alleviate,
but you sit there, smiling,
behind the gate.

Does anything decide my fate?
If I’m aligned,
why
isn’t my line straight?

It’s almost gone,
that open door.

I might have lost
the holy war.

The light that spilled
is duller now.

I used to try—
everything wore out.

Giving up, though—
I’m not allowed.
 

Is it pride?
or was I just programmed
no way out

I need a little Rumi when I ruminate.

A little shoulder Rumi,
a pocket Rumi,
a tucked-away, under-my-top-hat Rumi —

A night-table Rumi could do.

I need that holy, roly-poly —
a somersaulting, bowling Rumi —
tumbling through me
down hills
I’ve resigned to climb,
sharing his wisdom as he passes me by.

A part-time job — and on his days off,
even on quiet days, I still hear his song.

Of course,
I’ll share my little Rumi with you.

even the fucking snowfall
 

even the fucking snowfall makes my heart hurt for you
the last time I was warm inside I was warm beside you

in the caverns of your blankets
the sunken roll of doom

we never wanted to leave
just kept falling through

wrapped around me
my arms around you

we wished, and wished
for a winter’s day off

to be swallowed up

by that big bed,

in your tiny bedroom

It’s hard to stop,
Writing so loosely.

Like charcoal or chain oil
clumped on your fingers.

At some point
you’ll smudge it anywhere clean and soft enough to take the excess.

At once dirty and presentable.

Privately appreciating your own grit.

For not needing soap or water.
Or solvent.

Scribble scrawls. Mashing keys.
Rhyming riddles. Caked with glory.

I promised you pretty.

I’ll give you presence.

But don’t expect patience.

—J. Katz

I started to hate being inside public spaces, the bus, the bank, the fried chicken spot. The busy street.

Well—at least when I’m tired.

I’ve never sang more in my life. And I’ve never listened with such a beating heart.

But sometimes I don’t have the potential energy to disturb others.

And some nights even their music is too loud.1

𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍
⁣
⁣
Did I ever really tell you
about all those nights
that stole days—
times my soul fainted,
and I left this whole plane—
and you’d get afraid,
⁣
thinking I hadn’t changed.
⁣
It was hard to explain.
A crazy belief.
But it was always
you and me
on the periphery.
⁣
I thought I had to
climb to those places
so I could better see.
⁣
When all you wanted
was to offer
your eyes—
and a hand to squeeze.
⁣
You said,
“I’m behind you.”
⁣
But now that gaze—
it won’t let go of me.
⁣
And I want to feel what you see,
and resonate
to your speech.

Media.

You watch too much adult content.
Watch a good show.
You watch too much TV.
Play a video game.
You play too many video games.
Listen to a podcast.
You listen to too many podcasts.
Listen to music.
You listen to too much music.
Read.
You read too much.

Go outside.
Walk barefoot in the sun.
Chase it—
until it stops
running away.

Or you catch up with it. 

𝗜 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘇𝗲𝗱 
When the moon shifted  
And the tide claimed  
The words I carved  
into territory  
that didn't belong to me  
⁣
That there wasn't a moment  
When the grooves I made   
did not fill with water.  
⁣
But I kept trying  
to dig into each symbol deeper  
⁣
To stake my claim further  
Displace the water futilely  
⁣
That the waves are a constant:  
Almost outside of time  
⁣
I realized that I am made and remade  
out of chaos  
⁣
All the sad, triumphant songs I  
Held them close  
Stashed them in me  
Like a baggie of sunshine  
⁣
A warmth I used to darken the emptiness  
into something solid  
⁣
Felt them  
But I didn't understand them  
⁣
Not until now.  
I didn't understand  
what it meant,  
to form in the wet sand.  
⁣
I didn't understand at all. 
⁣

I need a secretary.
Someone to steer me to my appointments.
Gently remind me to eat... nudge me toward health.

Proof-read my work. Mostly for validation. But critical where I have failed to be.

To patiently tell people: “He’ll circle back to you.”

A lover? That’s beside the point.

The lover can be anyone else. Sleeping with the secretary would be uncouth. Or so I’m told.

But mostly, I have so many tedious things to do. Things I am not yet able to pay someone else to do for me.

And it’s retarding my development.

So, in protest, I write something they’ll find offensive.

I wrote this recovering from my drunken, compulsive, angry reaction to what felt like betrayal and thoughtless action by a few. Influenced by Torah studies and a practice of self-reckoning.

The birds chatter constantly in cedar trees.
Ravens and a dove...

Sometimes we wash our sins off in hubris 
before we hit the riverbed.

Dry ourselves in crimson wool.
Or wrap in a snake’s tongue.

⸻

Sometimes you wish that you didn’t wish,
for the anger to flee so quickly.

A great motivator —
but the murderer when it flies.

The conspiracy theories — not entirely valid.
And there’s no love lost.
Ever, really.

People think of themselves,
and through themselves:
If you’re lucky.

And memories are short —
that’s circumstantial.

A bittersweet mechanism:
it helps the anger sprint away faster.

And shields us from the dirt it kicks up—
Harms and heals.

And so we bless the memory,
however short.

And watch it grow before our eyes.