A New Poem for Yom Kippur—Cultural Appropriation

 

 

Cultural Appropriation

See, the Jews have this thing.

Yahweh, or whatever they call their Sky God,

            keeps a list like Santa Claus.

You know, who’s been naughty and nice.

But before He puts it in your Permanent Record

            and doles out the lumps of coal

            He gives you one more chance

            to set things straight.

So to get ready for this one day each—

            they call it Yom Kippur

            but it’s hard to pin down because

            it wanders around the fall calendar

            like an orphan pup looking for its ma—

the Jews run around saying they are sorry 

            to every one they fucked over last year

            and even to those whose toes

they stepped on by accident.

            The trick is, they gotta really mean it,

            None of this “I’m sorry if my words offended” crap,

                        that won’t cut no ice the Great Jehovah.

            And they gotta, you know, make amends,

                        do something, anything, to make things right

                        even if it's kind of a pain in the ass.

            Then the Jews all go to Temple—

                        even the ones who never set foot in it

                        the whole rest of the year

                        and those who think that,

                        when you get right down to it,

                        that this Yahweh business is pretty iffy—

            and they tell Him all about it.

            First they blow some kind old goat horn

                        to get His attention.

            And they pray, man do they ever pray,

                        for hours in a language that sounds

                        like gargling nails

                        that most of ‘em don’t even savvy.

            When it’s all over, they get up and go home

                        feeling kind of fresh and new. 

If they did it right that old list

was run through the celestial shredder.

            Then next week, they can go out

                        and start fucking up again.

It sounds like a sweet deal to me.

Look, I’m not much of one for hours in the Temple,

                        an hour on Sunday morning

                        when the choir sings sweet

                        is more than enough for me, thank you.

And I have my serious doubts about this

                        Old Man in the Sky crap.

But this idea of being sorry and meaning it,

                        of fixing things up that I broke

                        and starting fresh

                        has legs.

I think I’ll swipe it.

I’ll start right now.

To my wife Kathy—

            I’m sorry for being such

            a crabby dickhead most of the time…

Anybody got a horn?

—Patrick  Murfin