Juxtapositions

I pluck the olives  from the

salad and that makes it less than

Greek. You ask me if they’re green

or black and I state

it makes no difference.

I replace the blocks of feta

and consider German-Jew.

It’s been  an oxymoron

since nineteen-thirty-three.

I’ll blend some smoky Rauchkäse

with an aged Gvina Levana—

swap my baseball cap

for a yamaka

in case  you take offense.

Now bring me beer from Bavaria

and hot latkes from the slum.

I’ll gladly prove

what cannot  go together

is just a fallacy of thought:

A frown is a smile

that’s standing on its head.

Feet are a pair of hands

which are unwilling to clasp

in prayer.

Toes are very cognisant

that fingers are more graceful—

so they never  stretch for the sky.

Unable to grant any light of its own, 

the moon is but a mirror for the sun

in which to worship its own reflection

(and you thought that

Dorian Gray   

was the one who’s really

vain).

What is ugly,  anyway?

Is it the absence of beauty

or too much of it all at once?

Andreas Gripp

November 5, 2024

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