The Disappearance of Gabriel,
mixed-media collage by Daniel Y. Harris
mixed-media collage by Daniel Y. Harris
pre-call
notice to a 108th street developer
During
the night without notice or even much noise
the
Congregation Gabriel Synagogue was gone from
across
the street. The old-script gold letters on its frontispiece
gone,
only their shadow still visible on the arch under my window.
Next
day the brick arch was gone too and all the bricks next day.
A
fence surrounded the steel-beam skeleton. A poster on the fence
announced
the coming of something that looked suburban,
a
cluster of apartments with a tiny park, followed by the company’s
name
and number. I want the gold letters G, I, and A.
They
stand for Gabriel who helped me move in, Ina who helped me
move
back into my body in the new city, and A for my own name.
It
was the old Gabriel Synagogue that persuaded me to live here,
it
was a point of reference, I get easily lost, and a site for the hopeless
thought
that one day I might go to an old schul
and read the Torah.
I
have a right to those letters, Mr. Developer. This poem is a warning.
Tomorrow
I will call and it will be the prophet himself speaking.
august
4 2016 shark activity
I
went to my Starbucks on Austin. Woe! A whole wall was gone
opening
into a a brand-new Target store.
It
happened overnight at the same time as Synagogue Gabriel
vanished.
Some kind of tit-for-tat goes on in Queens.
This
isn’t growth, it’s the sea of my haunt live suddenly with fins.
Mesmerism
for M, rare flower
at
its core intelligence
is
what touch taught the body
through
all the bodies touched
before
it arrived here to learn
other
bodies through its own
dense
pod of touch-knowing
so
dense that its force can use
words
to make your own hands
be
the other’s hands free
to
touch your body to its core
but
rare are flowers that consent
to
such density of sound to bind
what
knowingly surrenders
her
own hands to another's mind
on
frames & fragility & squares & ovals for Ina
I
thought of frames because whatever their ubiquity
ineluctability
and seeming inescapability
they
don’t frame you or me that is not
their job
some
things still escape them
the
thought of being framed would have sent me fleeing
in
horror over hills and into unmapped cities had I known
in
advance of its goodwill toward all beloved creatures
and
yet there you are
your
eyes attentive and not quite in the frame
and
something kind not sure there is a frame for
and
also surprising laughter
maybe
you snuck out of the frame at an unscheduled time
maybe
an old fox like myself and a stubborn dreaming child
escaped
their frames somehow and rolled away like eggs
shedding
old shells while growing fragile new skins
is
there an unframed elsewhere?
and
then our rolling dance is interrupted
by
a hospital and a deep cut
I
forget all about frames and think
of
the moment when you forget the pain
and
open again your arms and legs in the oval
that
has somehow replaced know-it-all frames
with
a sieve pierced by rays of not-knowing
in
circular motion around my there & your here
SOME POLEMICS
Letters for
Enrique
yes
on the other hand
“letters
can be blueprints for birds”
yes
on the other hand
the
handprint of plato is still on my face
he
was not gentle his writing gave language
the
trophy in every fight
the
unspeakable can’t even come in the back door
he
instructed his servants to take its medicines
with
their eyes closed and place them under a bush
he
could inspect later with his snake-stick
oh
medicines under a bush like 50s spy microfilm!
and
if butterflies are a blueprint for Sanskrit
that
language too must imitate the sound of a bell
in
a mind empty before its waking to forms
all
letters then busy making birds and beings
in
a hurry like bakers before the deadline for a wedding
hurry
up bakers
only
I know that there is a lot of flour in the heavens
so
hurry is not necessary and neither is the wedding
there
are more birds and butterflies than letters
and
not all of them were named by fans of literature
an
alphabet longer than Audubon is a certainty
without
a script on the other hand
even
as the unborn and unnamed are slapping
the
little Jesuits at their desks without a pause
rimbaud
was on to something that was us after he
gave
up language for a stewpot of snakes
—Andrei
Codrescu
