I’m one of the Jewish Indians.
Between doors and computer chips,
there’s my semi-home, winter.
Between the page and my eyes,
it’s not Jerusalem air anymore,
a gaze penetrating space.
And I’m lovesick for Jerusalem,
o not the past, the past again! Not
that I have to pick up the pen again!
Not again? Yes, yes. What can I say?
This bewildered look on my face will
Tell you something about time and space.
26 September 1995, Toronto
Do what you’re told. I mean it,
literally. How come, you don’t get it?
And so many warnings. Traffic signs
and morning murder. Take it liberally.
It’s all music, the ego moving by
instinct within unresurrected thought.
Avoid confrontations. To have the peace
of mind that I’m nobody’s slave or
master, ain’t nothing new. Silly, good
old times, careless romantic speed.
A moralist in the background reading
pornographic novels to describe the true
nature of evil. The breast-man says he
knows only one cleavage. The stoic has
already withdrawn, the guitarist looking
for a bridge. Dawn means redemption.
We met in another section,
in the midst of a civilization
that has no center, no sun
and no planets either.
In other words we met in hell.
In the hell of words gone dry.
I’d rather play pool at Clinton’s
with Nik, and listen to the Stones,
while raising your image in my
field of vision, and see you
gesticulate with that intellectual
yearning for a center.
If only I could rise from my own
ashes and forget the bullshit in
my head and have good sex with
you and get started with that job!
Innocence is gone down the drain,
dear prudence, please come back, we
devided the country by many numbers.
O, the almighty dollar is getting fucked,
o, money is fucking our brains out.
Don’t we have a chance together, love?
Rabbits are strictly apolitical, and five
million people are ready to pull the trigger,
can you imagine? Daydream in Toronto!
Suspended for eternity, no love in that.
I’m begging you, deposit my welfare cheque,
sell me cheaper coffe, help me find a good
apartment, a good wife and good children.
Good God, I feel so good by myself, good.
The iron bars of Rome stuck in the ground.
Monkeys climb trees to get closer to the Sun.
What shall I call you, evil empire,
Babylon, Rome or Egypt? I could
easily go on: time, destruction
and death. I know the train, the
railtracks, or the beggar’s hand
reaching out for so long as 25
minutes, 14 miles or square 1.
The sign says: Please wait here.
My life.
for centuries
it’s been war and broken
pieces of peace for moments
seven centuries of
hungarian poetry
the book reads
i’m already asleep
in the negev it’s like
the face of the moon
the fortress stood for years
no one died no one lived
for Nik Beat and Jennifer Hosein
In the kingdom of democracy,
people serve their spiritual superiors.
When the well will have opened.
When my dog takes a good crap.
Dear Daddy, I’m writing from
Rome, we’ve got no weather.
Beauty untouched stands barefoot
on the wet pavement.
Somebody used a mantra and
somebody went into a dream.
Shall I sing you a song?
The Queen of Sheba in jail.
I was really trying to fix
that hole through which the rain
kept falling upwards.
It’s nine o’clock.
Some went to India, some
fell asleep in a movie theatre.
Air France takes you to Bombay,
Air India takes you to Paris.
Blood mixed with semen,
we were beautiful once, and
we’re abused now, scarred
by isolation, and deprived.
For a moment, between two
shifts, in the stone zone, the
tangible appears, the shell is
cracked. Any number past eight.
There’s silence in the house,
a substance taking over my soul,
soothing my heart, quieting my mind,
now, that love has touched me.
A palm tree and a weeping willow
brooded over past pain helpless,
until the first snow washed everything
white, washed them all white.
I was counting the days until then.
and afterwards it was only snow,
only trees searching the sky, only
arms rooted in the sleeping soil.
the heart of the moon
is iron
melted and poured out
on its surface
in the hollow beats
my heart of flesh
a replacement
i’m standing on the
porch of my house on
the moon dust in my
eyes i’m flying and
constantly arriving
between two heartbeats
between night and day
orbiting your heart
inside the satellite
inside the satellite
orbiting your heart
moondog sleeps from
nine to five
creeps to bed curles up
and flies
home
alone in aloneness
at night when open
eyes pierce the ceiling
moondog sees nothing
beyond the door set
ajar
moondog is satisfied
in the morning when
the curtain is lowered
and the clowns are
awake from slumber
past the wires and
receivers of information
and the barbed ones
being there past the lakes
and the highways
zigzagging overland
and where the heart
follows a new road
one step after dusk
dusk evening night morning
every day
dawn
the moon’s pregnancy is long
and painful because
it’s repetitious
nothing to do all to become
none to be how
to be
the heart is disobedient
to its own self
and torn
the mind of a wild woman
is a liar the soul
soothes
texture and dew
harmat és hó
madár és bor
tv screen and window
rezgő hangod homály
the wires folding
in my heart
hozzám bújt a nyár
our love won’t go out
a búza tövében
zúgott a harang
blue and white flame
a varjú begyében
desert sand born
egshell snow
ezernyi szó
lord of lies lord of darkness
you’re a criminal hiding in the
lowest pit of hell courting four
women loving one we hate your
face face it
lord of lords lord of good
we thought you were and you
are both liberate us from deceit
enough of egg-shell-broken face
eyes lies
normafa normafa where children
skiing sliding skating in the sky
egyedül és teveled kiben akiben
in the moon once again only in the
heart have pity on us for baudelaire’s
sake seek
the morning is the grammar
of the night’s conversation with
itself the characters of the
chinese alphabet take ten years
to learn ------- music
a szaggatott vonal a szálkás
szálak a zöldfehér megoldás
in black and white like a war
documentary i think about spain
the seed ------- planted
at night when bank managers
are abed i write my codexes into
one volume between a basic
sketchbook and a monthly planner
she hid the smell of her perfume
garage day beyond
the machine
below
footnotes from the pit
where the brothers dwell
a well
which joseph never got out of
(not having been there ever)
it belonged to those who made it
beginning to beg
begging to begin
(in prayer)
the heart is a hardboiled
egg
the lava inside the volcano
the crater
overflown
rocks rocks everywhere!
What is waiting?
One eye clouded by illusion.
so
the way is between against
and for
the dead keep walking on the
pavement
the sun comes out and disappears
later when
there’s
no rain but clouds no warmth
but wind
east north south west
even
if you keep asking me my
question is only a question
no answers
only guidelines
back and forth
no one wants to know the future
if i knew
your names i would keep them
hid because
no one is good
and i realized this morning
my dog is only a dog
who was in the garden
held hands on the beach
waiting for a sentence
to be said?
and who wants to remember
all time ever stopping now
wounds supposedly one heals
accused of wanting too much i go
standing between the two
females
what does the other woman
do?
renewed strength and love
won’t
be enough for one’s self to
rise
above when one’s not allowed
to enter
the orchard and the sacred
grove
unless one becomes one with
one
john lee hooker sings
the telephone the telephone
a camera zooming in on
a telephone booth with a half
naked figure inside
just me and my telephone
says the man sitting next to me
in the donut shop staring out
the window laughing in
foreign joy strikingly similar
to my calm pain of missing you
keeper of the sacred fire
in montreal where i can
see the snow of past winters
adorning the forever green grass
of my heart going out for you
o lord
how can i count all the sorrows
of my
heart my face
covered in tears
and the silence of each separate
night from my loved ones
what could be my offering for you?
my heart
or my face
covered in tears?
or the silent joy of your love in
my heart
on my face
a smile
April 1996, Montreal
the flying
the constant flying
the repetition
the storm
the plane
voices and words
faces and worlds
jazz playing all the time
the third ear
exploding
a seed
round-shaped
kernel
miniature
flask
of
life-wine
heart
this month so and so
was born
bringing about tidings
and ebbings of flow
of flood of blood
why be lonesome
and snow covers it all
coveting more snow
or playing chess in the sun
the desert sun
melts the heart of stone
and your youth turns to
you asking who and why
who’s to be hidden
and who’s to be found
for so many times
taken apart or torn down
we moved to a new house
dear friend,
writing a letter to you is like skipping
the amidah it’s twelve noon and there
are too many things to do every day
still dreaming of the jewish renaissance
while the universities and the battlefields
are filled with young people and deadly
science and the distance between
planets and stars so what’s left for us now
is only the words on a paper that might
never see the eyes of the other man
so i turn around and say
aleph and cure the hole
in the mouth clean spirit
and mem or maim which
is water and even deeper
in it torah mother letter
and shin comes in the flames
throwing off and restoring
balance that is the balance
dear anne,
how i can write to you i don’t know
your dad has risen from the dead
and
you starry eyed wandered through
the night
and who am i to say a word
where no voice heard you spoke
here only the smoke is seen
in the empty eye of the screen
drenched in colors
that lie
it wasn’t there anymore
There’s only one book.
There’s only one chapter.
There’s only one sentence.
There’s only one word.
There’s only one letter.
There’s onely.
the mad train
runs through my veins
the snowy plain of
my spleen-dream
your nightmare me
heading north
for a patch of land
in a first class
carriage with
sleepwalkers and
daydreamers who
don’t care about the
rest running behind
the voluntarily dead
where can i rest my
head? my weary heart?
the woman plays her
guitar and the man
on the seat waits
sitting forever
and i give up a silent
scream like they did
their souls
i keep telling you
i’m a hungarian jew
and you won’t hear me
out…?
gefilte fish and prayer
cold bed in the morning
the bus has just passed the house
souls on fire transported to and fro
tzitzis flying to jerusalem and back
steps on the stairs ever heavier
kissing the mezuza
redemption may arrive today
on shabbat the latest
my friend yeremiyahu walking by
shelves of food
bought nothing maybe he doesn’t eat
the temple was set on fire
my body was burning in my
dream and i didn’t
get burnt and i rose from the
oven i came out the lion’s den
my skin was like parchment
my father
my mother
they didn’t recognize me
so i gave them a sign with a wink
my eyes alive
my zippo i cried to the thug
lighting a coat’s tail drenched in
petroleum — where did the old man
go? i woke up to the little girl’s kiss
on my forehead
o my angel said i
1917
lost wars won
the chinese marched in
the russians were swept away
choking up politics or
the lungs of the soldier
1912
the siddur published in
jerusalem budapest vienna
how small is
the world
it fits right in my pocket
above the heart
Pesach 5457, Toronto
crystal clear the sound
as the Bach invention merges
with the Family Frost signal
a pure soul touched me
letting my head slip away
on thin ice
klipot
aeons floating in the air
in confusion
human building
divine being
the temple
1997-1998, Budapest
thru a set of violent dreams
occasionally
i see visions
i’m scared to the bone
then feel absolved
from a crime never committed
someone was reading a poem
by yehuda amichai
when i heard there was
no sound
when i saw there was
no sight
when i touched there was
no body
The way dreams work
follows the route of waterbus fifty-two,
into the lagoon, on to nearby islands.
Shabbos afternoon my head was lifted.
I saw a different quality of light, watery
and diffused.
Wanted to go for a walk. Stood under the tree
by the shul Moshe Montefiore visited.
In the square I saw the plaque:
June 1998, Venice
sing the fish a lullaby
sing the bird a little song
the wind will touch you
from the east
the snow is falling
the song is falling
the song is falling
from the sky
a flower growing
a dream approaching
a heart hard beating
in the stars
the snow is falling
the song is falling
the song is falling
from the sky
They’re so sweet
and so loud,
you couldn’t touch them.
At some point they
arrived, but lost all their
luggage, somewhere
down the lane.
Where to go now?
Not even a cigarette burning,
but hearts
sobbing in the dark.
Sitting by the molehill,
it looked like a mountain,
we remember strange faces
we saw on the island.
‘Twas two days ago.
Simple rhythm plunged
in our eyes, hearing colours
we stood by the mountain.
On the grass a naked woman
makes the sun burn her breasts,
in the background dark skinned wardens
sword in hand, protect the grove.
September 2000, Budapest