D. Avraham ~ Musings

My son is the greatest

Child in the world

Lest

He’s driving me crazy

Causing me pain

Anxiety and frenzy.

.

My son fills my heart

With unbound joy

Apart

From the times he’s causing it to split

Tearing it in two

Or boring a hole through it.

.

I cry sometimes

From the innocent

Wisdom that crosses his lips

I cry sometimes

Feeling impotent

To stop the inevitable eclipse

.

Oh, my son, my son

Do you know that everyday

I face the trial of Avraham

Oh, my child, my child

Will we too find that

Elusive ram hiding in the wild?

.

Oh, My Son, My Child

My Love, My Gift

My hope,

My Trial

Pressure points

To a serious malaise

Of explosive pro portions

Or anti poor

Sins

Breaking points

To hidden fissures

Hidden beneath the surface

Sir, face

Thins

But body swells

Rushing

Blindly

Stumbling

Forward

Or is it Backward

To some forgotten goal

Was there a goal?

What is the goal?

What is a goal?

Just keep moving

Don’t think

I can

Think I can

React only

Can’t think anyway

Isn’t time

Forward.

Maybe

Progress

Incompleteing now

In competing

For Now

And for none

Orders taken

Arrows fly

Target drawn

The order is what’s important

And the Bullseye

How could you miss?

How, could you miss.

Days fly by

A  time lapse videography

With bits of social media

Littering the cutting room floor

Virtually lost among the dust  mites and bunnys

of i’s and you’s,

Of phads and tubes

An IOU of more permenance

As long as it’s instant

Instead its insistently

Super

Facial

Brook no dissent

Descend into the

Fissure

Breaking points

To

Pressure points

To

Two

Less one

Is none.

Fixture

Fix your

Face

Share

Your

Surface

Place is

Safe

Search

Your Space

In the Cavity of

Pagination

Site failing

Cite the flaying

Hyper-attentive

Mailings

De press the switch

From tabulations

Off

Aren’t we a little

Deaf and dumb

Social media

So shall mediate

The mediocre

So shall we mediate

The dumb d’dumb dumb

And defy

Our numbed senses

Depressing them into a stuper

Of catatonic blahs

De-press the on switch

Re verse your decent

Hold on truth.

Is it live or is it Memorex

Who really cares?

Monk’s Scream is

Muffled by the ear buds

But I can still hear its echo

Resonating

Reason hating

Re-sending

And sharing

/’plēz/ like

Cries to Heaven

Facebook has me in a Faze

Booked Processed

A phrase book for we are

Sentenced to chat

In a text sure to

Miss the texture

And flavor

flay for the camera

And smile.

Move along, move along

There’s nothing to see here,

If you don’t take the time to look

But wait.

No there isn’t time.

We’re late, we’re late

For What?

Exactly.

Don’t worry,

The roses have all lost there smell

Anyway.

Pressure points

To

Breaking points

To

A

Dead

End.

The name is Jake Balins.  True, my birth certificate says differently:  Jacob Balinsky.  But no one ever called me Jacob, except maybe my rabbi, and I lost parking privileges at the synagogue, shortly after my Bar Mitzvah.  My teachers all called me “Jack,” and my mother calls me “her little Jackie.”  But that doesn’t fly so well in my business, nor does it fit so neatly on business cards.  Neither does Balinsky.  On top of that, they charge by the letter when they stencil your name on the office door.  So it’s Jake Balins, understand?  My business?  I’m a private detective.  Yeah, not the kind of business where you’d expect to find a nice Jewish boy, but only my mother thinks I’m nice, and she tells all her friends at the bridge club that I’m training to be lawyer.

It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, late August, but the muggy Cleveland summer was already competing with the blustering winds of autumn.  I was wearing my gray suit with a shirt that used to be white, its collar unbuttoned, and a blue striped tie dangling loosely around my neck.  I was crumpled, stale, and almost sober, and I was hoping that no one would notice.

Despite my impersonation of Columbo’s stunt double, I was feeling pretty good until I got within a few feet of my office.  Then all the alarms went off.  You know the buzzing in the back of your head, that sixth sense you get when you’ve been on the job long enough.  There was no denying it.  I knew what was coming.

As I approached the door, I was assaulted by the mixed fragrance of Ben-Gay and Vick’s Vapor Rub.  Either the Senior Citizen’s Center had relocated their Bingo Parlor, or my mother had a piece of gossip that couldn’t wait till my parole hearing.

Welcome to my website/Blog.  It’s still “under construction” but then a blog, I guess, by definition, is always under construction.  Please check out my latest novel, Foundation Stone.  I’m still looking for an agent, so if you know somebody, or someone that knows somebody …..

Come join me on Facebook!

D Avraham

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