ELUL 25 · DAY 25 of 29 · SEPTEMBER 5, 2026

I got high at Sixth and Flower
where the towers made of blue
looked down like glassy pharaohs.
The morning had a metal mouth.
Every man in every suit
was hurrying toward his gates.
Not heaven’s gates.
Not temple doors.
Just elevators, lobby guards,
and offices of doom.
My fingers shone like tiny shrines,
pink wax and painted flame.
I looked at them and heard God say,
Child, I know your name.
Not from a cloud.
Not from a throne.
Not from a book of laws,
but from the sidewalk
splitting wide
beneath the city jaws.
O Beloved, where are You
in all this glass?
And the Beloved answered:
I am not the trophy cup.
I am down here
where the subway sings.
I am in the trembling hand.
I am in the frightened bird
too small to understand.
The road to your salvation
will be littered with
the corpses of illusion.
The little gods of money
all collapsing.
The dead need for permission
The dead hunger for applause.
And the towers were not towers then.
They were candles in the rain.
The bankers were not monsters then.
But children trained in pain.
The street was not a street.
It was just Sinai wearing grime.
I saw the one God laughing
in the awful morning sun.
No trophy. No gold. No steak.
No rabbi selling light.
No big ass gatekeeper
keeping watch upon my night.
No father with a ledger.
No pharaoh with a phone.
No enemy could own me.
No tower stood alone.
Just God in the pavement.
God in the subway iron
where the swallowed people pass.
God in the warning whisper.
God in the enemy’s love.
The Beloved said,
You are lovely,
though the city
called you wild.
And the Beloved
walked beside me, not above me,
not ahead,
but in every dirty flower
that was blooming from the dead.