Morning after Shiva’s sat out Ben’s woken — rolled from the table of His room off the tables of the upper floors, forced back downstairs, to its waking life, the business of His state. He’s ushered atop a scale that eighth afternoon, unearthed from a cabinet in Feigenbaum’s bathroom for His weighing, a procedure to be done daily on orders, to regulate His gain, moderate appearance; this to focus Him on the public, His image, a girth even greater — to be worth His weight in gold; polished with publicity, the shine imparted with appropriate alchemy and management. No mourning, says Doctor Tweiss, that’s for Shiva’s sequel…starting tonight — people enjoyed it so much it’s been heldover, popular demand. Stand still, says the other doctor: don’t lean on the tables, you’re no leaner on the walls; stand straight. Stop that sobbing, each tear weighs a ton. And then we’ll do it naked. He weeps enough salt to deaden a sea. All who art thirsty, let them sip from His eyes. Their brows being plucked, their lashes slickly licked to flirt. Arrow the finger pointed, sucked to wipe from His face a smeared tear, a point of schmutz — it wobbles, steadies, wavers, shakes, the dial spins His sighs. Jesus, you’d think we were fattening you for the slaughter. That’s a joke. That, too. Please and thank you nice to meet you, good Sabbath a guten Shabbos. Shake. A fitting for the new more casual clothes to supplement the suit. And, thrown in as if a towel, a fresher, drier, veil. His number gotten, sized, He’s sent to His room again — to fling through the scripts received, proposals, projects, telegrams and letters. No one survives, they only inherit a different life. To be a star means this, to disinherit the darkness of the sky.
And then there is One. Me. Who else, who better. Ben, the son of sons. Uniqueness, a quality universally prized…rather, our universal constant itself: one hard breath amid the ether, through laughter or tears, I know, I know. One sun that wakes Him. An alarm, which functions in the time of the Messiah. Ringing. Tell the resurrected it’s time to tick to work. Stillborns off to school. Then, one moon that sleeps Him without dream. Between, one brunchplate, hosting a single bagel of a widening hole. In the afternoon, the larger of the last two knishes He knoshes, knowing his interlocutor’s respectful enough to have selected the smaller one anyway, in anticipation. Are you feeling well, are you feeling. One mountain in the distance, a singular pyramid of stone sheetrocked, it’s said. An oneway track ripped up under the progress of the train relentless, farflung out from behind the rear broughtup, the caboose He’ll hobo on, when soon. Give Him space and time and parents. After all, His people gave such ideas existence. That and the Temple, citybound — hosting one marble pedestal and its frayed vein itself hosting the infinite universe, its vaster gods. They couldn’t be here but they send their regards. And vengeance. One like the nation, under His invisible God indivisible, with liberty and justice for whom. As it’s said and never known. One as in chosen over the other, singled out but by whom and for what. Is the question begged. Because He’s unattached, a singlemon, an eligible match, maybe — meet my son, the Messiah, He’s free most Friday nights. Or, one like the Substance of Spinoza, the nugatorily negating immutable, the ineffably annulling…
