Elazar Larry Freifeld (Israel) | Real Stories Gallery

"i created the icono/graph image "Brown Sugar" in 1999 as homage to my brother"

Elazar Larry Freifeld

Born in a garbage can on Manhattah's Lower East Side, ran away from school when 11 yrs old and didn't graduate high school until he was 35. Since first publishing in 1965, Elazar has had 14 books published with poems and stories translated into 8 languages... wrote for the Jerusalem Post during the Scud War, now living in Tel Aviv with his family since 1982.

For full resume/catalog/raison d'etre of artworks, photography, publications and exhibitions, please visit:

http://unpublishedworks.org/

RED HORSE - film/poem/script from the Doc/reprinted by popular disdain

(written in 2009)

whata ya gonna get me for my birthday?

i already told ya kid, a horse, a little red rocking horse

mommy mommy,

whuta ya think he's gonna get me for my birthday

what?

a red horse.

60 score years ago our brother set forth a new epidemic

conceived in bondage and dedicated

to the Afghanistan proposition you can't refuse,

one score, under devil, dispensible, so help me Lucky

for the junkie, by the junk,

so help me

Lucky.

NY C

fade out:

pan: fade in:

'when i was a kid, everyday when i came home from school my brother wouldn't let me in the house. "Please let me in, i need the key to the bathroom" in the hall. when he had gone there were a whole lotta burnt matches and chared spoons left on the kitchen table, and ashtrays full of cigarette butts. 40 years later he got hit by a garbage truck with one of those spoons in his pocket, spent hypodermic and 50 cents in small change. Lucky guy. yeah, right on kids. go for it...'

you got a taste?

when the shit hits the brain pan: again, when i am crucified,

they will compare me with the greatest poets of my time,

down rails of trains and spiders an inch wide

(and i don't mean subway tracks)

call me a fascist

for wanting to make the trains run on time

and why you will agree i wanted to kill them all,

but still love me cause i said so,

and even worse

bit the fucking devil in verse

born rotten - bathroom in the hall (10/19/10)

how do we get to born rotten in time

before or after the womb?

bathroom in the hall, hall in the alley

the fucking nickel piece of candy

the hand that gives death to children on streets

paved with dime-bags

alone in rags

death to the giver of death, the man with the handy

waits in a bathroom

stay angry, get there and don't depart

your love depends upon your rotten heart

though it may beat or stop

never there when you need a cop, the giver

makes anything possible to deliver

the keeper at the gates keys locking in time holocaust

and every conceivable crime

the bathroom in the hall frozen in winter,

overflows like a maw

knee deep in shit on the floor

NAKED THOUGHTS - for James Pickell

© e.l.freifeld - 02.11.2010/all rights

woke up this morning hello i'm still alive

i'm an old man got dressed walks to the sea

sits on benches to catch my breath between 2 cigarettes

but i forgot to dress my thoughts

one man spit at me and 2 girls called me a dirty pervert

the guy who cleans the street with a noisy blower

ran like the devil when he saw me because he knows

i hate that wretched noise

and just look at that naughty boy

when i got on the bus downtown

the bus driver gave me a dirty look and checked my day pass

to see it wasn't yesterday's

which i sometimes use when it's crowded

because he's got no time to notice.

why is everyone looking at me?

and why was i attacked by three crows

because yesterday i wrote i love crows but

they are not very nice people they don't love me back

next time i go out i'll wear a hat

i must remember and learn to love hats

I WALK, THAT IS

© E.L.Freifeld - 11.2010/all rights

i walk, that is

i go out for a walk, yes

my body is a house of death

rattles my bones and lungs out of breath

sways in the wind

i find a bench to sit down, yes

i sit, that is

i am seated now in the shade along the avenue

the full poison of this poem i left at home

i am actually taking my poem out for a walk, yes

my mind is the house of the dead and each step

swallows another word

reduces from redundans to absurd, yes

i walk, that is

after resting awhile to catch my that is

SQUASH

i have painted myself the color blue

i have painted a garden, there among the delicate carrots

and the pretty flowers

tentacles of squash reach out to kill the corn

why should i then weep for the death of gods

they have been killing me for ages

call it harvesting of war against nature that preaches war

the birds scream when the hunter arrives with his son

in the spare light of dawn

the blast of his gun

the man that planted now comes to reap

and to teach

i have painted myself red now color of blood

the beets are blossoming

crows caw cowardly but not afraid, they have known death

sure as winter and lean as a cunning fox

why are we then morally bound to forgive evil and not destroy

watch children die

and boys march off to war

we are tentacles no less intolerant in a cornfield

earth the color of all the young corn

we squash

A DOOR WILL OPEN (2/10/2011)

oh but the door will open

a door will open soon

and a flood of angels fly from my breast

free at last

my heart spent my story told,

though life is passed all life will never die

lives on

a child a boy a man, it was all a dream

soon a window will close like shutting an eyelid

against the sun

had i oh in this dream to tell

had dreams themselves my soul to lay at rest

to hold

to wake within your dreams a prodigal son

that you may know what i was then

and how i loved you,

and had i thought for a moment that time would one day stop

like the beating of my heart

i would never have lived that day, i can't remember when

you said goodbye and left me here alone

soon a table will be set for three

do you believe in G-d? will you be there?

yes i do, and why?

because it comforts me. and you?

i can only pray the table not set

for only two