by R. Scott Fallon
i don’t get drunk on yom kippur anymore
when we were all strung up together in white plains, i vomited all over the sequined table spread.
i have not since gone on birthright, nor am I capable of getting a buzz off stolen
manischewitz
from the cabinet
it is
what the archdiocese
would have pumped out by the gallon
out of worcester
everytime I visit my dad on christmas
there is no true faith, just competing, shitty, cut-up, fortified wines
sometimes
it’s all haraam
altogether