"For the Jew, the world is a cage filled with wild beasts." - Henry Miller

I Liked Tropic of Cancer, But...

Henry, that dirty old man dreaming of Jewess cunt,
describes us as defenseless lion tamers
gifted with neuroses,
tell that to those at Warsaw or Masada
or Judah Maccabee

or the IDF,
when you aren't too busy verbally spitting on them
like hippies on American GIs
at airports long since less picketed.

Without revolver or whip, gesticulations as effective as karate katas, bedazzling and inefficacious.
Fear makes them fearless.
Perhaps he was playing us up some,

but picture
Woody Allen done up like John J. Rambo.
Jerry Seinfeld as Indiana Jones.

Hear
Ben Stein as the voice of Darth Vader.
Benny Goodman playing Death Metal.

You laughed, I heard you.

Question though.

Does it demean the gentile as much as the Jew
to be depicted as creatures in need of breaking,
being made to parade
through hoops, potentially flaming?

Maybe. Yet when they look around a room, they probably assume that everyone is in the same ark.
Lambs huddled
two by two
by their savior shepherd, weeping
and gnashing their teeth.
Benny Hinn believers, telephone and credit card
in hand, ready to buy those indulgences
from stained glass Home Shopping Networks.

As a child, I went through a period of hating Jesus
for being our Judas, our Brutus. But like Morrissey,
I Have Forgiven Jesus.

Minus that cross to bear,
everyday’s a struggle
to step beyond the preconceived
and into notions less derisive,
devising ways to be

more,

more than just a penny pincher and a punch-line.

I've made gopher holes into Grand Canyons
searching for a quarter.

Truly, the only difference between pizza
and my relatives
was that they screamed going into the oven.

Guffaw for me, bitches.

Time would be better spent

devising ways to be

more,

more than weak pride backwards masked as deprecation.

Scaring and scarring
those who misconstrue our reversed vinyl record
of life in the Diaspora as Satanic verses
just like they did Stairway.

Oh, here is to my sweet Satan…

there’s a bustle in your hedgerow,
don’t be alarmed now.

Let me tell you though.

I've drank the Christian baby's blood at midnight

and yes, I do want my pound of flesh.

So bend the fuck over and don't squeal like trafe, would you?