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Haskalah Fantasy: Part 1

Haskalah Fantasy: Part 1

Fireman of the Soul!
I am in the barnyard hiding from imperial mustaches and pig skinned helmets.
The macher-ocracy, drunk off slivovitz,
Smells white pale air.
Clinking glasses at the mitzvah tanz
As snow descends.
Slobodka burns.
Our sacrifice is golden and frightfully corpulent.
Should we eat our master like in Totem and Taboo?
Even the alter rebbe has not heard the news.

Fireman of the soul!
We find time to say our prayers.
Like Elezar we turn grey haired.
Overnight old mothers wail.
I hide in stacks of wheat.
Murmuring meek.
Pitchforks digging deep.
In search of minced meat.

Fireman of the soul!
I leave Heine’s protestant passport behind.
Side curls shorn like the lamb.
I cry to the God of Abraham.
The house of study burns along with its books.
The horsemen whistle and the howitzers fire.
I climb with Moses (and Sisyphus).

Read Jason’s essay about rain city and Electric Ladyland.

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