Wait, Der says as the limo drags the slushed and scaled trashy wake of its wide, fishtailing turn into West 72nd, it’s more a question of you than of them…I’m sorry, he has to insist: I’m doing this for you, son. You’ve made, or you have through no fault of your own, plenty of enemies — Ishmael’s, Esau’s, Amalek’s more personal if you want it like that. Offhand — as the limo slips to a stop, with Der sitting scratching what itches, greasing his own palm while averting his eyes to the window, tinted, which he can prophesize out of without anyone peering in: a glimpse of an animally upholstered soul; the beasts who feed on redcarpets, that scopophiliac swarm — I can think of up to eighteen acronyms that want you…quieting as he’s let out from the limo to wait at sidewalk for Ben to be escorted out by the expediter on loan from Secret Service, then all the way around the limo’s trunk to meet him with His pose. Tightlidded, lipped — eighteen why who want me what? Ben’s thinking. Dead, an outsized flicker. Away…under a breath, circumspect one step down the walkway to the revived, relocated Undisclosed Avenue Deli, it’s called: Broadway, Amsterdamned, who knows, the unaddressed location of this recently opened ratnering dive, a katzified joint so premiere and exclusively new it like their refound God doesn’t yet have a name, or a phone, doesn’t take reservations, might never; this a Scripturally themed media insiders party organized by the office of Doctor Abuya, like bring your own Bible and He’ll autograph it for you no problem is the thinking. A Torah torah torah. Reassessed…in another step, hatting His face from the produce and eggs of the salaried protests, then disappearing — the flashes clouding Ben in heavens, the mortal stuff of stars. Redirected, pose, clickclack, who are you wearing, myself, my own wearing skin, Reinterpreted again yet again, with yet another slow step as journalists from the
