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February, 2025

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The Love Letter of a Delerious Man

I want you to know you exist as my animal mate and how truly savage that love is.  
I want you to watch a video of the mating ritual of eagles and then dive out of the tallest tree with me.
I want to roll in tree sap that never comes off and causes us to stick to one another 
inseparably, the incipient amber fusing our skins and our bodies into one big gem.  
I want to find you wet and make you wetter, to chew you and be chewed by you. 
I want us to struggle as if we were taffy, to be molded, stretched, broken, rejoined.  
I want to wring you out.  
I want to suck the water that is in the towel you dry yourself with to sustain me in the desert.  
I want you to know how much I adore you, and I want you to enjoy being so adored, from your brain to your toes.
I want to make children with you, even if we chose not to, I want to honor that I want to.  
I want to sit inside your mind and be visited by me there. 
To lift you on my shoulders and twirl you around like a little girl laughing and fall down together with you, the world spinning in a jumble.  
To protect you from everything, even me.  
To shed my ambivalence, then my skin, then my flesh; then be the bones you build your house with.  
To lay down with you, and rise up with you, and fly off with you, and sink to the bottom with you.
I want to change the world with you.
I want you to scream, “Enough, I cannot take any more, it is too intense.”  And I want you to mean it.  
I want to be somewhere where no one knows us, or knows we are there; then I want to ask you to leave me, then I want to fall down on my knees and beg you not to.  
I want to bury my head inside your flesh and cry.
To separate your labia and lick them, first inside on the right, then the left, and then slowly and deeply down the middle, your fingernails, pressed hard into the flat of my back, moaning in sensual agony.  
I want you to say whatever is inspired in you to say and know it is received by me as a symphony.  
I want you to put my face in between your hands and squeeze me until I am your face, and then I want to squeeze you hard enough to get myself back.  
I want you to tremble, verily tremble, before the mighty power of what we share, barely understanding.  
Then I want you to see the fierce possessive eternity you are reflected in the teardrop you evoke.  
Then just say, I love you, to me in your native tongue.  
Then say my name. 
Then put your head down on the pillow, complete, safe, eager to sleep, eager to be cuddled with, eager to rise again.
Know that I give to you the best and only that I have.
Know that I give to you until I can no longer rise up beside you, no longer rise up inside you.  
May it warm you, and heal you, and bring you great joy.
And may we wear it well together.  

Feel Mo

Feel Mofor Mo Shooer on his 70th birthday – by Michael Korson, M.D.

Feel Mo
More of Mo, so much Mo, 
Hale-Bopp blazing over Yosemite mountains 
And that ballet of shooting stars over strawberrys. 
Mo words, a galaxy of words, 
Q’s and A’s,
Mo politics, Mo sports, 
Mo man on second one out and a single up to the middle. 
Mo jubilation,
Mo Super Bowls,
Mo sorrows and Mo tears,
Mo arms to comfort and hold. 
Mo belly full laughs, 
Mo broken rules,
Mo hopped fences, 
Mo ignoring signs, 
Mo towed vans at Candlestick Park.
Mo music, saxophone, Middle Eastern,
Mo Omar Sosa in MOMA, 
Mo plays and discussions and opinions and questions. 
(To be a Jew is to question. Mo told me.)


Mo tennis balls, lawn bowls, 
Regular bowels,
No Mo broken bones.
Mo families, everywhere, 
cousins, ex in-laws, friends’ families, friends’ friends, 
All one big family of Mo, 
Mo, Larry and Curly, 
Mo parties, Mo ecstasy, 
Mo hanging from monkey bars. 
Mo mentum … No you’re retired. Relax. 
Mo ney please. 
Mo dogs (Donovan added that.)
Mo hikes.
Mo lying on the grass. 
Mo clutter, Mo mo clutter! 
Mo of everything
Mo beautiful. 
Many Mo years, Mo.
Lots more Mo, Mo.

Ja’ayus

These are the lands of my father
And his father before him
and his father.
That pile of rocks 
Has been in my family
And in my family’s sight 
Since they were pulled from the earth
By a blade 
drawn by oxen 
stronger than even my old tractor
to make a terrace
to plant this very tree
this one
Here,
touch it.
Meet my dead brother
Shot by the Israelis,
My wife who at sixty 
Stood 11 hours at a checkpoint
a good Muslim woman
forced to empty herself
on the open road
My sons who do not
Have permission to come onto my land.
Here, meet this land
The clay, the rocks,
Their fruits.
I saw father yesterday
Sweating in the olive grove 
Heard mother’s voice calling
Felt in my bones the insane yodel of my brother
Passed by grandfather’s grave
And grandmother’s
How is it possible
Others can claim this land, our land,
Take it at will
Harvest and sell our olives?
Is this not illegal?
A crime of aggression?
A theft?
To whom may I appeal
When all have forsaken me?
You there, here, touch this earth.

They Said – (messages from my parents that accompanied me) 

“Stop behaving that way!”  
“Why are you acting like that?”  
“What are you, sick?”  
“What are you, a little baby?”  
“What are you, nuts?”
“Grow up!”  
“Act your age.”  
“Don’t do that.”  
“Stop behaving that way or else.”
“There is no reason for you to feel that way.  None.”  
“Pull in your gut.”
“Your behavior is ridiculous.”
“How can you even say that?”
“How can you even think that?”
“I’m ashamed of you.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“You are strong, handsome, and intelligent, 
and can be anything you want to be.”

Wage Peace – Mary Oliver

Wage peace with your breath.
Breathe in firemen and rubble;
breathe out whole buildings and flocks of redwing blackbirds.
Breathe in terrorists and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields.
Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees.
Breathe in the fallen and breathe out lifelong friendships intact.
Wage peace with your listening: hearing sirens, pray loud.
Remember your tools: flower seeds, clothespins, clean rivers. Make soup.
Play music.  Learn the word for thank you in three languages.
Learn to knit, and make a hat.
Think of chaos as dancing raspberries
Imagine grief as the outbreath of beauty or the gesture of fish.  Swim for the other side.
Wage peace.
Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious.
Have a cup of tea and rejoice.
Act as if armistice has already arrived.  Don’t wait another minute.

Turn up for Turnips – a song 

V1
The Eastham Turnip turned its feathers toward the sun
And said to her friends
Here’s the day that I am done
Sitting like Buddha on my root in the Earth
I want nothing less, nothing less, than rebirth.

V2
It’s purple it’s yellow
Takes two years to grow,
The soil that feeds it is new as we know
Left here by a glacier that created this shore
It’s yellow, it’s mellow
Who could ask for anything more.
Whoa, oh, oh, oh, oh

Chorus
It’s stew for you, it’s steam that we wish
We want nothing more than to end in a dish
After the first frost we get richer and sweet
Let us grace your table
A thanksgiving treat.

V3
Stay for a while in this sacred ground
The winter is coming
And we all stay around
Spring and then Summer is the time that we play,
But “No” said the turnip,
“Today is my day.”
Whoa, oh, oh, oh, oh

Chorus

V4
This turnip was lifted from the earth to the air,
Her feathers were plucked off, her essence was bare
Washed by a hose as she road in a truck.
To be prized down in Eastham
Is a turnips best luck
Whoa, oh, oh, oh, oh

Chorus

Mother’s End

1. My mother is actively dying, with a purpose and acceleration not previous part of the picture. I hurt for her hurt, her fear, her aloneness, her paranoid hallucinations, the demon’s attack. She calls to start my week on Monday morning asking to see me, urgently, asking for my help to find a way to let go, to release her attachment to life. She does not say this, but I know it. She does not know where she is or if she is alive or dead, she says.  She wants “to see them again,” she tells me.  I say, “Your husband will be glad to see you.” He’s been gone over twenty years.  “You think so?” she asks with irony, “I’ve been thinking about that one and I’m not so sure.”   A vast trove of data and information is dying with my mother.  
She asks again, explicitly, if I can help her let go and I promise to do so, “But you have to wait until Saturday,” I say with a laugh to my petulant child, “I’m very busy, you know.”  “I don’t think I can wait,” she says.  “Well try, it’s important to me,” I tell her.  


2. My sister calls. She tells me my mother is asking for me daily. It is so odd.  And yet I know with certainty that I am assigned the task of helping her release her grip on the things she can no longer hold on to or carry, that I can facilitate her dying. I must go to her. I know it. I don’t want to, but it is duty talking. 
“I’ll be there Saturday, Ma, hold on.”  
She hears my voice on the phone. She hears the other voices that frighten and confuse her, both at the same time.  
“Who’s saying these words?” she asks.  
“I am,” I say.  
“No you’re not,” she insists. “Who is it that is saying these words?” 
“Your eldest son, Bruce,” I say.  
“No it isn’t,” says she.  
Perhaps she is right.  


3. I talk to my mother on the phone about my good fortune, about her granddaughter’s wedding announcement, about my involvement in the peace campaign, about her grandson’s basketball fortunes, the upcoming state championship game, his college acceptances, his athletic scholarships. “Oh my god, oh my god,” she keeps repeating. It is as if she is on the edge of tears that she cannot bear, that she is being overwhelmed by good fortune and grace in death. “Oh my god,” she keeps saying, as if she were crying, as if what has been conveyed to her is too much good news at once.  
“Oh my god oh my god,” she offers in worship, in gratitude.            


4. On Friday night after work I drive four hours to arrive at the home of friends who live in the appropriately named town next to her hospital in Valhalla. I will see my mother on Saturday morning. I have her release on my mind. There is urgency, of course, but there is no urgency. I have thought about it. I have had dark and enlightened thinking as well as the magical thinking in my speculations. I know what I will say. Whether it is projection, intuition, or knowledge-based I do not know, but it is clear to me what my words will be and that my words will have the power mother wishes them to, that they will be a potent force and lead her to release from life unto death.  Besides, I have to be back in town for my son’s state championship basketball game on Sunday.
And I do want my mother dead. It is what she has said she wants and I understand well why she would choose it. I also want her death for my own convenience and expedience. It is cold and disconnected and I do not know to what extent it is first my wish, made easier by my mother’s wishes, or if it is her wish first which finds fertile soil in her first born son. I just know I will talk to her and she will die. I think that truth is ridiculous. I also think it is real. Her physician has told me she will rally and recover, that the numbers are good, yet I feel her slipping away as the surreal and the real merge in me, surround me. Before I go to see her on Saturday morningI take a long walk in an unfamiliar cemetery and pause by a grave marker that reads Hug.

5. I drive to the hospital feeling casual, relaxed, and in no hurry at all.  I arrive around 11A.M.  I ask at the nursing station what room my mother is in, and am directed to her. I enter the room and walk past the woman in the first bed, whom I do not recognize. Nor do I recognize the woman in the second bed. I walk back to the nurses’ station to explain there has been a mistake but am again directed to the woman in the first bed in the room I’ve just been in. It is, indeed, my mother, bandaged, stitched, her skin so old and thin it is everywhere black and blue.  
I sit by the side of her bed and talk with her. I am not positive she knows exactly who is present but I think she does. She responds to me with understanding grunts and nods to my inquiries. “Do you want some water?”  “Do you want to change your position?” I ask. She grasps one finger of my hand and squeezes it hard. She holds my hand and I help pull her up to a more comfortable position. The muscular strength and vitality in her arm is remarkable! No one that physically strong can be close to death barring some other cause. Her eyes are closed. I lay down in bed with her positioned to my left, pulling up the guard rail behind me so that I can relax and not fall out of the single hospital bed. I have not lain in bed with my mother in over sixty years. It is quite possible I never did, that I was never provided that comfort or warmth. I fall asleep next to her.  


6. During my nap I dream of a house without windows on the north side that its owners have decided to put windows in, both to let in the light and to be able to see outside. There are big rectangular spaces carved out of the house where the windows will go. There are no frames yet built into the north wall, nor are the windows quite ready to be put in place. In the absence of windows the outside world of air and weather is also the air and weather inside the house.
When I wake up from my nap my mother is laying on her left side and I rise up slightly to whisper into her right ear. I kiss her check and her ear as I speak. I brush her hair out of her face with my fingers. I caress her face. 
“You must let go of your beauty,” I tell her and she moans softly. I know that were she fully awake she would advise me of my foolishness, tell me she has long ago let go of her beauty, tell me my ideas are foolish, silly, that I don’t know what I am speaking about, but I think she is wrong. I speak softly to her, but definitely out loud. It is more identity than vanity she must let go of.  
“You must let go of your beauty and of your strength,” I tell her.  “You must let go of your body altogether, your wonderful body that has been such a good friend to you.”
“You must let go of your sight, of your courage and determination, of your will to survive and your wish to be at your granddaughter’s wedding in this earthly form.”
“You must let go of your father and mother,” I tell her, though this too she would see as the most foolish of thoughts, her father dead over 86 years.  “You must let go of your children, of worrying about your children, of worrying about them worrying about you.” I can feel her relax in my arms.  Quite literally the tension in her body that I had not even realized was there passes out of her. She relaxes and grows lighter in my arms. Her breathing changes to an even slower pace. I am aware my sister- in-law Ona has joined us. I can’t remember when she came into the room.  


7. “I don’t know what dying breaths look like,” I tell Ona, “but these sure look like them to me.” I have never lain next to anyone when they died. My mother looks so peaceful between her slow deep breaths. And then there are none. It cannot be 15 minutes since I talked to her about letting go, and she is gone.  
“She’s dead,” Ona says, and I nod acknowledging it is so. We do not call nurses. We sit with her. I hold her. I whisper in her ear, “This is the last gift we will give each other, thank you, mom.” I say “thank you” a lot. I laugh and cry a little. At some point a nurse comes in.  
“She’s gone,” I say and the nurse feels for any pulse and nods that it is so.  
A doctor with a stethoscope arrives and says it is so.  
My sister arrives and it is so. It will be so forever. My mother is dead.
I call my brother to tell him it is so. He arrives in an hour. He waves an eagle feather over his mother’s remains and her lifting spirit. He brushes her with sage. He reads from the Tibetan Book of the Dead. We all leave the hospital before her body is enshrouded and wrapped.


8. I drive back to Brookline. I call and talk from the heart with whoever is awake on the west coast. I tell my daughter who cries more than anyone else, saying how she wishes she could have seen her grandma before she died.  My giant son welcomes me home at 3 A.M. with a big hug. Everything is the same and everything is different. I tell him that just because his grandmother has died does not mean he is not allowed to enjoy things or laugh and play basketball, that there will be time to be sad. He says, “I know, Popi.” I suspect he really does.


9. I walk with best friend Steven on Sunday morning.  I pick up my daughter up at the airport in the afternoon. My son starts at power forward for Brookline High in the state championship basketball game at the Fleet Center, home of the Celtics, that night. The town police escort the team bus to the game. I tell Sam to remember that the height of the basket and the dimensions of the court are the same as any other basketball court and he tells me that that was exactly what the coach told his players in “Hoosiers.”  He has painted, “I play for you, Grandma,” on his basketball shoes.
Brookline plays very poorly and is being shut out when Sam makes the first BHS basket, bringing the score to 7 to 2. He makes both his first free throws. At the half Brookline is down 10. With seven minutes left in the game they are down 14.  With 10 seconds left they are down by one point and have the ball out of bounds on the sideline under the opposing team’s basket, but the inbound pass is stolen and the game is ended. Sam is deeply dejected. He is also fine. We are all fine. He has played for the state championship. He has started every game. His grandmother loved him, not as I would have had her love him, but genuinely and for all the right reasons.  The game is over. The season is ended.

10. We have a lovely memorial service in NY, something my mother would be pleased with. Is it only Monday? The service is simple and eloquent. My brother talks about how he liked seeing his mother age like an olden tree. My sister reads from a Gibran poem that speaks of sadness being the source of joy and joy the source of sadness. I speak of half empty and half full cups, of cups that runneth over.
In the morning before the service I walk unconsciously into the lobby of an old castle on the top of a hill overlooking one hundred and eighty degrees of the Hudson River. As I stroll over the palisades someone comes out to tell me that the grounds are only for private use. “My mother’s stay at this castle is over,” I mumble. 
After the memorial service we all drive back to the private day school where my sister works, to a lovely, quaint, Adirondack like apartment where we watch old 8mm family movies and just hang out. That day, mom’s body is driven to a crematorium in New Jersey and we drive back to Brookline. It snows hard and takes us twice as long as usually and then it is over.
What does love have to do with death I still wonder. Maybe the terror. Maybe the ecstasy. 

A Moment of Silence – by Emmanuel Ortiz

Before I start this poem, I’d like to ask you to join me in a moment
of silence in honor of those who died in the World Trade Center and
the Pentagon last September 11th.

I would also like to ask you to offer up a moment of silence for all
of those who have been harassed, imprisoned, disappeared, tortured, raped, or killed in retaliation for those strikes, for the victims in both Afghanistan and the U.S.

And if I could just add one more thing…
A full day of silence for the tens of thousands of Palestinians who
have died at the hands of U.S.-backed Israeli forces over decades of
occupation.

Six months of silence for the million and-a-half Iraqi people, mostly
children, who have died of malnourishment or starvation as a result of an 11-year U.S. embargo against the country.

Before I begin this poem, two months of silence for the Blacks under
Apartheid in South Africa, where homeland security made them aliens in their own country

Nine months of silence for the dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, where death rained down and peeled back every layer of concrete, steel, earth and skin and the survivors went on as if alive.

A year of silence for the millions of dead in Viet Nam—a people, not a
war—for those who know a thing or two about the scent of burning fuel, their relatives’ bones buried in it, their babies born of it.

A year of silence for the dead in Cambodia and Laos, victims of a
secret war … ssssshhhhh …. Say nothing … we don’t want them to
learn that they are dead.

Two months of silence for the decades of dead in Colombia, whose
names, like the corpses they once represented, have piled up and
slipped off our tongues.

Before I begin this poem,
An hour of silence for El Salvador…
An afternoon of silence for Nicaragua…
Two days of silence for the Guetmaltecos…
None of whom ever knew a moment of peace in their living years.
45 seconds of silence for the 45 dead at Acteal, Chiapas
25 years of silence for the hundred million Africans who found their graves far deeper in the ocean than any building could poke into the sky.
There will be no DNA testing or dental records to identify their remains.
And for those who were strung and swung from the heights of sycamore trees in the south, the north, the east, the west … 100 years of silence …

For the hundreds of millions of indigenous peoples from this half of right here,
Whose land and lives were stolen,
In postcard-perfect plots like Pine Ridge, Wounded Knee, Sand Creek, Fallen Timbers, or the Trail of Tears.
Names now reduced to innocuous magnetic poetry on the refrigerator of our consciousness …

So you want a moment of silence?
And we are all left speechless
Our tongues snatched from our mouths
Our eyes stapled shut

A moment of silence
And the poets have all been laid to rest
The drums disintegrating into dust

Before I begin this poem,
You want a moment of silence
You mourn now as if the world will never be the same

And the rest of us hope to hell it won’t be.
Not like it always has been

Because this is not a 9-1-1 poem
This is a 9/10 poem,
It is a 9/9 poem,
A 9/8 poem,
A 9/7 poem

This is a 1492 poem.
This is a poem about what causes poems like this to be written

And if this is a 9/11 poem, then
This is a September 11th poem for Chile, 1971
This is a September 12th poem for Steven Biko in South Africa, 1977
This is a September 13th poem for the brothers at Attica Prison, New York, 1971.

This is a September 14th poem for Somalia, 1992.
This is a poem for every date that falls to the ground in ashes
This is a poem for the 110 stories that were never told
The 110 stories that history chose not to write in textbooks
The 110 stories that that CNN, BBC, The New York Times, and Newsweek ignored
This is a poem for interrupting this program.

And still you want a moment of silence for your dead?
We could give you lifetimes of empty:
The unmarked graves
The lost languages
The uprooted trees and histories
The dead stares on the faces of nameless children

Before I start this poem we could be silent forever
Or just long enough to hunger,
For the dust to bury us
And you would still ask us
For more of our silence.

If you want a moment of silence
Then stop the oil pumps
Turn off the engines and the televisions
Sink the cruise ships
Crash the stock markets
Unplug the marquee lights,
Delete the instant messages,
Derail the trains, the light rail transit
If you want a moment of silence, put a brick through the window of Taco Bell,
And pay the workers for wages lost
Tear down the liquor stores,
The townhouses, the White Houses, the jailhouses, the Penthouses and the Playboys.

If you want a moment of silence,
Then take it
On Super Bowl Sunday,
The Fourth of July
During Dayton’s 13 hour sale
Or the next time your white guilt fills the room where my beautiful people have gathered

You want a moment of silence
Then take it
Now,
Before this poem begins.
Here, in the echo of my voice,
In the pause between goosesteps of the second hand
In the space between bodies in embrace,
Here is your silence
Take it.
But take it all
Don’ t cut in line.
Let your silence begin at the beginning of crime.

But we,
Tonight we will keep right on singing
For our dead.

— Emmanuel Ortiz 9.11.02