Eliyahu Berkowitz

Watcha gonna doWhen the beast is running wildDon’t you feel stupid With the key in your handGive him a kick, tough guy See if he don’t bite yer leg offHe didn’t seem so big Lying there asleepWhen the door was shut, the cage was lkocked You were gonna just let him out Take him for

Okay, Mister Gonna-be-a-Rabbi man. I’m not gonna get into no contest about who ate more pork, did more drugs, went to more concerts, who used to be more cool, so today he really does know better, just to prove that what I’m doing now is holy, holy, holy. You got the words pouring through your

I am a writer. My profession was created by the fireside of a prehistoric camp. After a successful hunt, the meat was divided among the heroes who had provided sustenance to the tribe. The choicest meat went to the hunter whose spear first struck the prey. The next piece of meat went to the tracker

I came to the desert with a pocket full of seeds To live in the house of my father’s best dreams Promised to me before I was born Taken away because of my sins I came with a map painted on ancient hide To find the city of gold stripped of its wealth Its life-giving

When I first came to Israel, I was shocked to find that many Gentiles were going to great lengths to convert to Judaism. I had spent much of my adult life trying to hide that aspect of my identity. I could not understand their motives. Dialoguing with these people revealed to me the lie of

We’re neighbors, Naftali and I, but we have little in common. He’s already married off two of his children, and my eldest isn’t quite in first grade. He’s a high-profile heavy-hitter, an aggressive businessman, and I’m a misanthropic hermit, happy to be left alone. But we do share two passions—a good cup of coffee and

I woke up in the middle of the night and could not fall back asleep. While everyone knows I am a writer, I don’t think anyone knows why. I hear voices. They tell me stories, words that need to be recorded. And if the voices refuse to let me rest until I write those words

I run my fingers across my chest and feel the bumps. Four small scars where your claws sank into my flesh, a reminder I don’t need of the night I will never forget. Our bodies pressed together in a violent embrace until I pulled you away, my fear lending me strength I did not own,

Being the oldest student in the yeshiva didn’t make me bitter, but being old and single while young men came and went, married after just a few months, was like road rash after high-siding your bike and sliding half a mile on rough asphalt. Just when you got used to the pain, it got even

I need to preface this story with a disclaimer. It contains a few profanities and references to drug use. If this offends anyone, I apologize and request amnesty for this one story. It will never happen again. It was necessary to wallow in the mud once again to transmit a profound message. Like the Grateful

He had to stoop to fit through the doorway, his head pressed against the ceiling. He stood for a few moments, blinded by the sudden darkness, searching the dark interior. He panicked for a moment, not understanding how she could have disappeared. It was a tiny playhouse with only one door, and he had watched

Dear God, Please excuse me if I sound a little out of it, but I’m feeling kind of small today. I’m hungry and thirsty, and my feet hurt from standing. I have my good days, when I’m glowingly transcendent and strive towards the infinite, stretching myself to go further. Today isn’t one of those days,

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