Serving House: A Journal of Literary Arts
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SHJ Issue 2
Fall 2010

[One Poem]

Alan Elyshevitz

Transcending the Self

You are mainly the pleasures of skin and the pressures
of thorax. When warm, the air feels like a blonde; when cold,
a grasping crone. This has been your assessment since the day
Delilah Mink lured you to the school science lab to show you
the heart of a dog in a cloudy jar and conjured your first erection.

From then on, an appetite for the sauce of life, delectable
and tissue thin, has propelled you from table to table.
Money — the selfless purveyor of self — procures a range
of stimuli, for instance, the visible spectrum from the Caribbean
sun overhead without which a prism would be a dark thing
and no one could view your seaside attire, your machined physique,
and the perfect joy you take in spanking the beach with your feet.

Something bobs on the water, a fleshy blip on your blue
vacation. To the drowning man there remains a mere
sliver of unsoaked lung. You, who swims like a puppy,
what can you offer him? What shout of salvation?

Elevate. Rise beyond water and air. Leave your body to the waves.


“...we have been born here to witness and celebrate. We wonder at our purpose for living. Our purpose
is to perceive the fantastic. Why have a universe if there is no audience?” — Ray Bradbury