Here and now, though, there’s no indication. And so what is it, exactly, precisely, stonily spring forth with what because we all have that thirst: what force, that tactless trust to what or in Whom that has Ben out on that deck, atop the pyramid atop the pyramid from which He rules every and none, then has Him ledge out a leg over the rail…the hair of His head, tangling with breezes and cirrus — to knock unscrewed the burnt bulb of the moon…on the rail, His crotch becomes stuck, what a drop — don’t look down? don’t look up! and then the other leg overs, as well, and Ben’s holding onto life with only the cruciate nails of His fingers, trembling, numbed. A handful of our scholars once schmucked low enough to suggest this as an attempt at suicide and for this they’ve been thrown from the topmost window of the House of Study, which if not merely metaphor is risen higher than any pyramid and with windows that don’t open ever whether in or out — then to become scholars of only their own demise, of their own failure, its interpreting loss; and yet neither is this a martyrdom, not even a selfmartyrdom, as other of our sages once heretically proposed — what mamzers semantic, forget them: may they be excommunicated by their own consciences, exiled out to the margins, the verso darkened by recto of the page being turned. No, it’s at its most secular an escape, as some of our more moderates have allowed, an exodus if you want, but, as they insist, an exodus redivivus reversed — an exile accomplished in rewind, a history never accomplished in doublearrowing rewind: into the desert, the Law, and only then may we wander it was, but now it’s just wandering from the very 1:1 first verse, perpetually — an eternal lightingout for a territory that can only be civilized in its Promise, it’s said. To think that who or what promised the Promised and why’s not to be known, and how that promise doesn’t indicate intention either, whether it be good or evil or neither and mystically both, only fulfillment, as faithed…hymn hymn hymn, is this the particular kind of promise best left unfulfilled, like the one of the One Messiah — who knows if not Him; better to think less, fail better, fall more. Unminded, mindless, to step along the outermost lip of the deck and then, lean. Ben’s foreskin freshly shed before the show thanks to His own ministrations, it’s calming; His Batya, the Marys, are off — and so He has nothing to slow Him, to float Him on down on the wind of its flap. He lowers His tush, holding the railing to air His weight as long as He can and the deck can support. And then breathe, Ben — He just lets Himself go, with a great loosening of everything inside Him gives way, and He slides…down the western face of the pyramid, Him slipping hundreds of widening stories down the slope widening fast and faster forever, what with His weight and its force, the extensive weather that is gravity behind Him, slingshotting this now yellowy butterballed, dirtysnowballing Ben down the incline headfirst, feetfirst, everythingfirst and tumbly nothing, His tush on His roundness that’s all tush getting hot, rubbing hotter and burning, bumping Him up in small moguls on ducts, chaffing until — just as Ben’s sure His robe will spark His roll into flame, a rearside, frontside, inferno, He hits, solidly, and splays open wide, landed in the sand, not quite that of the desert proper though made in its image: an unsparing, unstintingly dusky perimeter perhaps once marked for plantings, but presently barren because frozen, fringing toward the edge of the sidewalk then around at a squared turn to the face of the pyramidal Main Entrance.
