Ariel Resnikoff, Philadelphia
after the Yiddish of Yankev Glatshteyn
These days, there’s no trace left
of Yankl of Reb Yitskhok,
just a micro-speck, a discoid,
that spins itself stoned thru streets
with awkward tacked-on limbs.
The suzerains with skyblue
the whole earth surrounded
and no escape.
Everywhere’s falling “EXTRAS” from above
& flatten my melted head.
Someone with a panting tongue
& a shtikl red smears my specs indefinitely
& red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red
one of these days my brain’ll explode
& with a dull crack burn into a heap of shmutzy ash.
that rolling micro-nothing,
I’ll spin into vertigo ether
bundled in layers of red