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342 pages, Hardcover
First published April 5, 2016
O Moishe is out at sea again, farmisht like the
farkrimter sky,
He's a skinny ship on a farkakteh sea, with no friends
to sail nearby,
the rum bites and crew shakes, their shikkereh spume
a-flying
and the seagulls kak on the dreck-slick deck, and
always their meshugeneh crying.
They trudged barefoot, arrayed in red, yellow or black sacks covered in a bestiary of demons emerging from amid the lewd tongues of painted flame, pointed and insane. Each clown surmounted with a peaked hat emblazoned with still more fire. Some robes were drawn-and-quartered by a gash-red cross, as if Father-Son-and-Holy-Ghosted by sword. Man, woman and child, each carried a green or yellow candle, and walked with a noose around the neck, macabre neckties dressing them with a grim and dark formality. At the end of the procession, several men, beaten until barely more than stew, carried in cages pulled by mules.
I flew up to the mainmast spar and watched. Sometimes he who watches and remembers is the best soldier. Hope without memory is like memory without hope. I planned to be an alter kaker talking a kak-storm of memories, an old bird who was also a book.