Joshua Cohen - Witz

And the house — its stem pokes high above the Development, a flagpole without flag.

Their hunger is this, only to sleep tight within its peel.

This son, he wanders further, near: the door, it’s peeled open only to Him…only He can peel it, is how it can be said from the other side, from within — unlock the pericarp, up its windowshade…Him the taster, He who savors, Him to sample prospect for the rest; other hopefuls are stacked in failure at the stoop, exhausted atop the organ of the welcomemat, a lung, wheezes Shalom. Door peeled tightly behind Him with a last spurt of zest, as if a final whetting, a sharp cleansing taste of what’s to come that only hungers, humiliates more…He’s determined, to be squeezed into the ineffable core: hands modest in their pockets, mouthpocket shut tightly around His tongue, not wanting to partake, not yet, He’s not yet worthy, must merit the merit He’s already been given, has been born to, before…walks through the fruit of the house, the homefruct, its wedges separating under His feet, His steps raising nectar to seep through the hallways of His wander, to seep as the very hallway of His own worming, imperfecting, impure; His writhe to tail behind Him the threat of no exit, the trail of irreversible pour; this dragged juice almost to drown Him in sweet, in the rottenly sweet and, too, in His own secretions, the wordless but salival…the hallways that separate the sections, ending in peel; He’s slipping, regaining footing, exhausted with stick, the nectary cling of His panting, of breath heated as sweetened, steaming, then a slide into the fruit itself, its very sacs full and fouling, facefirst He’s entering slowly, emerging even slower and dripping, slowed in mold, its fuzz attendant upon bowed brow, at His own pits, His heavy sex then around the tiny stems of His nipples…Him subsisting on the wet of the air through His nose as His mouth’s still set shut, refusing to know the fruit for the sake of sustenance, its and His own — sustenance that’s refused as it’s not yet enough: to deny, to limit, must save Himself, not to eat us all out of house, out of home…no, it’s that there’s only one nourishment He’s thirsting, this single savor He’s after redemptive, and it’s not to be found inventoried on any presently pulped shelves, out of stock. After a time, He finally arrives: a clip of the coupon, a swipe, then a quick counting of change, day the seventh, Shabbat . In this — the inmost sanctum of fruited dwelling: the altar of the putamen, the stoneheart, rockempty, then grown from it, to hold it void for His presence and only His sought, Him alone…eventually, now: into this space hollowed out amid the kissing of pure fruit all around — to enter into its womby air; then, to dwell inside it, forever, as its only life…as its seed.

Introit then the last days, the latest hours of failing light…thrallthroes we’re talking, dying moment of this Snowdom, final flakes, get yours in: days ending earlier until it’s just late again and still night; darkness upon the face of the ocean’s faces, the land’s, the lands’, makes no difference, round or flat, gray or gone. Die’s face is that face, too, there’s only one of them now: the face of exhaustion, depletion, the victim’s, that of glorified powerlessness, is what we have in mind; having wasted his money and people, resources desourced, insiders made out…beyond all faces, in truth, and all face, genug, gone deep-far into the cold barren world before a mouth said ever a word. Daydayeinu, enough. What’s been has been upended. Houses have come to ruin. Developments have been splitup, homes sundered. Governments displaced, dissent gagged, bagged then thrown curbside, trashed with the other treyf, for export whether to the Third World or best offer.

Unknown, no one wants to know him, not in this House (Hanna, putting her foot down into the baldspot of the carpet, the loose tile, the mound of the pets’ grave, the hole for the hill of the ants) — I forget, what we say: not ever again. Die keeps himself tightfisted, lasthanded, holding onto what yesmenschen left (only his lifers, righthands), no more even odd admirers, weird hangerson: while still meeting payroll, he’s arrived under the escort of Mada, Hamm, and Gelt, four tickets flying quiet, bribed underclass with the last assets of empire; they’ve managed to evade the roundups, so far, the selections, knock wood, wrinklegrained head…greased their way through the iron lines, barbed borders, handing out what little keepsakes have kept — mandate souvenirs, not much, mementos of what might’ve been. How, they’ve managed to keep small, lowprofile, motives suspected unsuspected to even themselves, operating on opportunistic provision, provoked by deathsilence, tolerated amid a pity that Authority allows whether by divine luck, long chance, or short memory; they’re kept only by the merit of sloth, of past friendship, sentiment, nostalgia, allegiance, alliance, owed out of favors — you name it, you’re dead…though such lazy silence, contrary to any flattery they might still lavish upon their mere gettingby, meagerly whether bribed or on credit, it’s not theirs — not to allow them the identification of mission despite how their delusions might entertain…rather it’s for Reb Shade, for him to accomplish his own: don’t humiliate anyone, keep shtum, headlines backpaged, the news demoted to the old left atop a den’s couch whose pillows exhale only the whispers of shadow, indirection, misdirection, the hallways rearranged, the corridors of power redecorated in sophistic earth tones. The order’s made known: not given like Law, it’s revealed as if prophecy, if only in a nod, with a cold wink, or chironomy’s snap: a goahead, give them the rope — and with it let them dig a grave for their graves, six holes deep; let them be taken care of, is what it means, by all means, but privately, negligibly, ignoble this method, this assent understood: nothing to do with us, never happened; I don’t know from what you’re talking, I’ve never even been overseas. A ritual washing of hands, then a wringing to dry, but with what appropriate blessing, which benediction to cleanse. Blessed Art Thou, King of the Unversed, Who Commands Us to Cleanup After Ourselves. Who Minds Us Our Messes. Recalls Us to Tie Up Loose Ends. Blessed Art Thou, though You have commanded us but couldn’t care less, what we’re hoping as we sharpen the knots in our shovels…after all, how is that possible: to kill a goy already dead to them, as He’s been decreed, too. Amen to the end of such questions, though we’ve already forgotten to Whom we all answer. Rest assured, this has happened before.

Die lies pale and swollen, older then ever, years, a week or so unshaven, wrinkly Roman elephant gray.

He lies under the atmospherically canopied coffin that is his bed, under the giving mattress breathing slowly and even, trying to keep hidden, alive.

His toes are numb; his medals are stuffed down his pants.

Mada’s in the wardrobe, face slammed up against its doors, glassed in dust, its wood stabbed to death with figure heavy on the malign…Hamm’s behind the curtains, thick reddened drapery resembling the vomit of widows: he stands a shadow in its fall…lamp — greenglass; hatrack, the wardrobe, a desk — unlit; Gelt’s shut himself inside his luggage, a trunk.

The Hotel Under the Sign of the Hotel’s time has come: just about to descend to table, as it’s been told…they’d heard voices up the stairwell, drafty appetites, and growls, bellhop’s bell going ding dong ding, the church of the frontdesk, its keyspanned communion; then, feet in lockstep, locked boot and heel stepping up the wide spiral, one flight, take a breather. Others say the tip had come from an obliging bird, some say a dove, flown in the window; a note left on the pillow in lieu of sweet nothing, again that nod or wink, the handshake of a bellboychick, the blush of a maid, as arranged. No loudspeaker, no softspeaker, no rustle official, an important announcement misspoken, misheard, even unmissed. Management’s bought off the regime long enough (sheltering foreign journalists, quote unquote independent observers, diplomats, ambassadors, obstreperous officials of every state making last appeals for nationals lost), but now it’s all about omega, about settling accounts: one moon of stay, roomservice every morning each night, a laundrytab, a shoeshine, and don’t forget to tip generous the turndown. Will that be cashiered, or corpsed. Downstairs a mensch in a uniform as tightly bespoke as a spiderweb, preyedover with phosphorescent stars and stripes of a madness seemingly specific only to the highestranking, sighs as if in warning to himself, takes care of their bill with a thick wad of currencies: bills ripped apart then stuck together again piecemeal with the sperm of the stallion, without any thought as to provenance or denomination, old sidelocks ironsided portraits, frazzled beards — then gets a receipt for his superiors, we all have them, even the best of us. Upstairs is still, almost timeless, with most scholars emphasizing the almost, not quite: none to make a run, to head to any embassy’s pearlygated guardhouse drive, ring the bell and stay to amnesty, bring the flowers or wine; there are none left, autonomies, and with the Garden fallen to ashes…there’s nowhere outside the ghetto, nowhere that’s not the ghetto, nowhere open, all’s walled, nowhere new, not even Palestein’s elite: and so Shalom to our brother Arab hordes converted, what nachas we’re shepping the schlep of our baggage to come over and visit, O how you’ve grown! Jerusalem the genital, generational jewel, kvell in peace…the Roses of Sharon risen again, we flock to you now as to honey or eligible sisters, what discounts might you offer, what deals might you make for your kind!