You know that conversation

in the elevator in the Catskills: 

how one woman says, Oy,

the food here is so terrible

and the other  and the portions

are so small?  It’s a variant

on Jacob’s  line to Pharaoh

when he gets to Egypt —few

and evil have been the days

of my life.  Naturally, he’s our

chosen namesake:  this Israel

the Torah keeps forgetting and

calling Jacob, as if it doesn’t

trust his cleaned-up name. . . ..

Obviously he’s the perfect

guy for us — we’re always

willing to take something

over nothing — hence  

our lunatic attachment

to that miserable pinpoint

in the desert, where now,

whether it’s Ishmael

or Isaac on the altar,

there’s an earsplitting

crowd working to drown

out every angel until

Abraham fulfills his sacrifice. 

It’s none of my diaspora-

befuddled business, but

I’m not in the mood

to celebrate.  Call me

thin-skinned, but I can’t

get used to the idea that

all these  hordes of people 

wish me dead.   You have

to remember: I’m Jacob’s

offspring;   I want as many

evil days as I can lay my

hands on . . . Thank God

I live in Salt Lake City.  Who’s  

going to come looking for me

here?  In this calm Zion,

where a bunch of blonde

 mishuginers think they’re

the chosen people of God. 

Good luck to them is all

I have to say;  let them

get the joy from it that I do.