gershon hepner Poems

Mysteriously, there rose a smell
in Bergen County, and it crossed
the Hudson River, where its spell
on Westside people was not lost,
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A man may be imprisoned in a room
that opens inwards: it will be his tomb
if he keeps pushing. When our heads are full
of nonsense, thoughts are teeth we have to pull.
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Like Florida, I’m in foreclosure.
There’s no one who will buy my dreams,
although once certified as kosher,
they all appear like Ponzi schemes
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Thamthon of Gaza, with muthles of thteel,
was theated one day on the lap of a danther,
Delilah, who athked him: “Thay, can they be real? ”
“Ath real as my hair ith tho long, ” wath his anther,
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Acceptance of the end of life when its
container has worn out,
and the awareness it no longer fits
the spirit that’s within it in the drought
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“Don’t speak of that man! ” he said, unenticed
on his deathbed, not willing to share
his last time with a priest if he talked about Christ,
and he rests now in peace. Vive Voltaire!
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Hedda, get your gun, appears to be
the message Ibsen hopes we’ll take away
from watching Mrs. Gabler breaking free,
though bound in marriage. It’s not just a play
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According to John Wilmot the enjoyment
that is the climax of lovemaking cuts off life
and fire after sexual deployment.
This tends to disappoint a mistress or a wife
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TELEOLOGICALLY CHALLENGED


For purpose we yearn,
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The door of absolution once again
is opened in the Catholic Church, and I
to its indulgences will say amen.
When the time will come for me to die
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