Witz полностью

And their kinder, O their kinder the males of them, at least, how they trop their lessons home with them from cheder, from yeshiva, nusach for the nest, these boychicks smart and quick on their flocking ways, feathered in dark blurs of breeches and gartel: such promising issue of their womenfolk, hear yourselves be praised…O their women, these not much more than girls they are, here netted, wigged, and kerchiefed, wrangled into unbecoming floral prints, their enormous encampment tented of many formless, filthy skirts; perpetually knocked up, they’re trudging homeward, too, with new recipes in their heads, for all the new mouths in their stomachs: kinder, babies, new boys and girls of the covenant already, gestating girls pregnant themselves with already pregnant girls who in turn will sustain their pregnant issue unto the infinite eternal, one can only hope: women with pregnant guts, but also with pregnant paps, daughters eligible already secreted within each nippled sac, and suckling from within, waiting only to be born into the Law, into birthing themselves…dark forms rising like steam from the muck of the street, oily, pubic, as if smoke but thicker, a viciously rank viscous glopping, dim how they ooze themselves up from out of the churning melt, the burbling flow of downtrodden ice: they’re people, God they’re people, wiping from their eyes, noses, and mouths, their mouth massed, that metropolitan amnio ick; without umbilicus any of them as they’ve been born anew to nothing…now with two hands around each leg tugging once, twice, to free themselves from the secular mire, then looselimbed and with muddy vacant faces how they stagger themselves on ahead, deadeyed, they grom onward to swarm Him, on the way abducting from the surrounding freeze any icicles at hand, grabbing stones from the gutter, grubbingup left wood from scaffolds abandoned and hunks of asphalt the failure of public works with which to attack Him — a pogrom in progress, gevalt!

Hang down our neck of the shtetl weeping your putz off goddamn that ain’t recht…slumming down here with yr schmutz face and yr schlock grace who the futz u think u is—two menschs hanging on a corner, decently inconspicuous, passable, I’d say: they’re disguised appropriately, in yarmulkes to rekels and fingering a fidget at the hang of their false hair, that’s no crime, but they’re flashing photographs, too, which is lately if not yet verboten then frowned upon in this neighborhood, the side Upper West; our pogromists spit on them on their ways after greater quarry…women throw at them rocks of hardened potatoes from windows smoked open, the balconies of last century’s grand palaces, the highrises, coops and condos of the high sixties we’re talking. It seems to be a searchparty. He’ll take any kind of party today. Headed up by, I know it’s dark out but still it’s Hamm, it has to be, and Gelt with him, wagging his tush, scraping his knees on the blacktop ice; on the pavement overturned, ransacked, hoof and heeltossed, searching now underneath the idling carriages, every species of conveyance, the hitched yellow rides, a hacking flash of moon onduty…every cart made cab waiting to head anywhere with the meter fared out upon the drivers’ fingers, no — then lifts these udders hanging heavy with milk, brushes drecky tails out of the way, what’s he thinking I’d be hiding there, puckered deep in filth?

B bundles into a shadow, a way without lamplight newly signed as Aynredenish Alley, which is the ample, lined with stall fall of 72nd west of Broadway toward the river and waits, gasps, hands under His armpits to keep warmth in the freeze up from the Hudson’s slice; a woman approaches Him huddled against a mound of piled trash, panting a bubble to pop from His stubwound mouth as glass shatters crystalline and cool in the distance, too near…a plump girl too antshuldikt mir fat and old for the slight skirt and horsey haltertop she’s working in, propositioning Him with too much eyeliner, too, and tears, a psht she asks for tzedakah; you’re on the make, I’ll hide you, she’s saying, all I’m asking is a zuz or two for my trouble.

B ignores her, she snarls, and then He shoos her, not trusting ever and so she spits on Him, asks are you who I think you are, answers herself, you can’t be…He thinks that’s what though He can’t understand her, and so she reverts, we’re translating along the lines of, where’s His rachmones, and your yarmulke, you Unaffiliated schlump, why aren’t you indoors, spits again, don’t make me report you — better make yourself scarce…