Sitting in My Brooklyn Garden

3 : 3*10 . . . 3 before the 3 of the 3+1 in the 3^3 -(3+1) year.

Go figure. This one is for you.


Sitting in my Brooklyn garden,
Waiting as the Sun goes down.
Flashing lights, often bright.
Cat eyes, fireflies . . . things that light up the night.
Sitting on a hill you can see it all, the Sun going down, the world spinning round.
From the top you see it all, but take a step and you'll fall.
Come down from there some time . . . Take a walk down the Parkway.

So I sit in my Brooklyn garden, in a forest of red brick buildings.
Fireflies, yellow cat eyes . . . look in them and you'll see your own -my face reflecting in yours.

Blue Tooth, blackberry, green energy, white nights (if I get a Visa) . . .
Waiting, but no one rings. Calling, but no one picks up.
Check my e-mail again, but it's only spam. Wait, I still have to do Rambam.

I want to go on, but I'm still here.
I take a step froward, but turn to see that I've never moved.
It was there all along.
Put my hand in my pocket, but find it empty. Put hand to my heart, but find it full.
So I write . . . in my Brooklyn garden. I write with my hands, I write with my heart . . .
You want me? I'm in my words.
You, Mottel, want Me? I'm in the Word.

A pause . . . Letters of Thought . . . Dots. Fractal points of energy -refracted from a prism in the minds eye.
Letters, unformed thoughts. Falling on my head with a rata-tat-ta - the heavy dance of corpulent rain drops, when caught outside. With only a hat for cover.

Break it down. Look at things another way.

Fourteen years that you've seen me with your eyes from beyond. Yet so here. I see you not, but I see you. I know you not, but I know you. Do you know me? Even in the dark?

Send me out, and I want to come back.
I come back, and I can't wait to leave.
I see you from, afar, but not up close.


Break it down. Look at things another way.



Random words . . . heavy with meaning, spread thick like butter on a cheap baguette at Baguette Toast (or was it Toast Baguette . . .) Slap, slap, spread it on. Slap, slap spread it thin. Press it in an oven. Let it sizzle.
I don't write poetry, cause I aint no poet. I write prose. It's easier that way.

I press a button and the words fly out to infinity, wishing that You'd listen to me.
They move out, deep into space.

SO I press a button and out I go . . . Where I land only One knows.