The Dream of the Rabbi

Intersection of religion and war.

 

Yes, I hear novels on almond trays, severe.

Cars of puss line up in victory to accuse me:

They have minty grins without dents, they sniffle fumes,

they sup on pestilence, but in moderation,

tossing their souvenirs of Maimonides' face,

darning regret diligently.

 

My jealousy of poor mendicants, thieves, morticians,

touted airheads - damns my siege of vengeance.

The ill fated trays are absolutely modern.

The point of these antiques:  Hold on to past gains.

Druids knew it!  They sang such slurs to my face,

and ate rain from my derriere, that clueless set of horrible abrasions.

The spiritual combat is as brutal as the actual battle of the field; 

my lost vision of justice in this,

God's soul.

 

Serpentine valley, receives tossed influx of vigor

and tender reality.  At the hour, armies of one,

ardently patient, entreat with a splendidly vile noose.

Those who speak know of the main army.

It has an unbelievable advantage,

with its line of pious rites, vilified love,

and man's mangered son.

It prepares the hunt with coupled mentors

- do not infer feminine here - 

it brings seraphim and Poseidon 

closer in their search for each other,

and the one dance

is verily done by corpses.

 

Author's Note

It seems all over the place...and it is, just like a dream. I wanted to portray the randomness of a dream, urgently but incompletely told, as if the Rabbi had just woken up.