teaI attended a poetry slam in between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur at Savannah's point of poetic and fairly-traded caffienated pride, The Sentient Bean. I was so worried about not sucking in front of a new scene that I never expected to win, but so many Bay Area competitions must have sharpened my spit skills 'cause I did. More importantly, I made lots of new wordsmithy friends and have stopped feeling like a nerdy old lady amongst the artsy teenage hipsters when I go to the Bean. This piece was written before I quit smoking, but it felt like the right one for the day. A different version was published in the Mima'amakim journal last year because the one of the editors didn't like all the rhyming; this is the original since the published version is still in storage and I never commited it to memory. So maybe the white girl rap thing translates, maybe it doesn't, but the coolest coffeeshop in coastal Georgia thought it kicked ass in person. The Big You The moon rises as a clear sharp crescent The tea smells orange sweet How blessed I am to have the cafe garden haven just a few steps down my street Sometimes I think This is who I am! Smoking writing biting Off bigger ideas than I can chew But enough about me What about You? Is it true God needs love too? Is the right way to pray To give thanks first and ask for favors later? What if we never get earth's shit together And destiny murders itself along a zillion pointless ends? I prefer to think of you as my Friend This Presence that cares But Y'know, sometimes it seems like You're not really there And we're all traipsing around all alone Then I think of that corny poem The one about two sets of footprints on the beach And I have to admit it reaches me Even though I'd rather stand back, roll my eyes and laugh at the Jesus freaks Even my father holds you up for ridicule And I gather that it just ain't cool to pray out loud So I sit in this self-effacing cloud of smoke and I choke on the urge to share 'Cept sometimes when I'm in a cool, stained glass synagogue I just wanna kick back my chair and shout out Glory Hallelujah! to the rabbi Glory Hallelujah! to my fellow Jews who know all too well the dangers of drawing attention to themselves Glory Hallelujah! like my heart rich soul sisters in a Southern Baptist church Glory Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! But that would be inappropriate on, say, Yom Kippur So my prayers takes the form of these quiet questions to You Like, is it lonely, being the only One While we squabble down here with money and guns? And how do we make sense of an apparent evil so dense it creates a high shard topped fence That shreds even the most faithful confidence in You? And why do we suffer so hard for the perfect love, the perfect homre, the perfect poem, the perfect life When it's pretty much written in the plan that it can't last? As this present becomes past I hear no answers from You Just two bad news teenage girls spitting on the ground Nope, I don't hear a sound Oh wait, there's someone dumping broken glass next door Then the rustle smack As a pack of cigarettes hits the floor Then the wind dies down and I hear Your voice OK, not a voice, but a hum Coming from underneath where the trees grow Above the moon's glow and I know You are what's beyond life and death So I sit Sipping orange tea with You and Remember that sound is only And always My breath.