Yotam Gingold
Practice your empathy.

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translated poetry:
Who attacks you, proud gourd?
Who leaves tiny bites and scratches in your armor?
Who desires your hard flesh, stiff with forbearance?


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God I hope we don't fall on hard times now. I remember when I was a boy, daddy would come home, he'd take off his belt and say, "Boys, what do you want for dinner?" Sometimes I imagine—I know it's sinful to think this—sometimes I imagine dad in hell, and the devil takes off his belt and says, "Mr. Finderbinder, what do you want for dinner?" And dad says, "spank soup," in that way that only a five year old can, with a mixture of fear and desparation and hope that maybe this time I've said the right thing. And I hope the devil just lets him have it with that belt. God I hate Christmas.