Commuting with Spinoza

So Spinoza is on my tail.
Mornings in my car as
I drive to the station.

Jesus Christ, man, it’s the year
two-thousand and fifteen.
Go away, you old coot.

What I want to say as he sits
and strokes that beard of his.
Mumbling incoherencies.

He won’t ask me if I’m Jewish like
the pink-faced boys in Brooklyn.
He’s not looking to recruit me.

How could he anyway?
Like me he was tossed out.
(He more dramatically.)

Pleasure is the transition
of a man, I hear. Trans-
ition to what, dammit?

I know he’s a teacher, a
rabbi of rabbis, but I
can’t deal with nonsense

From a man centuries old,
ghetto in the Netherlands.
So I looked it up online.

Pleasure is the transition
of a man from a lesser
to a greater perfection.

And I wrote it down and
stuck it to my wall and
Spinoza has gone away.

 

Poet’s Notes ####

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