Witz полностью

The heifer, it’s a relation don’t ask me what or which to the heifer that’d led me back home to the cedars of Joysey — we’re two of kind, we are, me and her or it, beast and mensch, each of us becoming imbued’s what I’m saying with the soul of the other: with mine, it talks to itself, prays to be relieved of its burden, which is me, prays to be burdened with relief; and with its, what’s new, I’m humiliated, feeling such a bovine bloating inside, a new tonguing out from within, the snub of an animal silence; how in the beginning, we become exchanged, then merged, and eventually one, then ride on. On heiferback, and then with the heifer on my back and me hoofing us on with it horning me hard — I’m bucking, I’m buckling, getting tired, and so, changing again — we’re refugeeing deep into Polandland, toward the brute, campless edge and its Continentally, civilizationally middling fade into what once’d been Asia or so: to ride out the neglected quarters, unto fifths, the eighths, the eighteenths, and further into emptiness divided only by steps, a hoof-length, a cloveclop; to make our time to lose past huts woodthatched, past loose coops and cribs and pens and hutches, haybale bolus caravanical things left wheelrobbed by the roadside…mudward abandonments of corroded concrete lacking cement, and so falling all over themselves as if in clumsy apology for their very existence, alongside reactor collapses that irradiate green like, how to explain, leaky beehives of metal; through every forest and past every tree ever enchanting this Fleedom (like rooted corpses themselves — they’ll never leave, just lean and lave bare), we’re haunting the haunts, ghosting the geist, only keeping my self, and I mean my animalself, alive on the wet I might suck foul from the tail of my ride. As for it, why worry I think. Arrive at a village, a town, whatever its charter, its barren, sharding itself back together with any localized unguent recently prized: witchbrew of arsenic with honey, sap, and a pinch of spit, mortarsalves of bearfat, cowblood, gevalt, the blood of a blackcock and that of a strungcat, too, lime perfume/the linden bloom the spell, accompanied by a sprinkling of raw eggyolks and pulverized cloves…inspired, I claim I’m a rabbi, often a miracleworker, an itinerant preacher, sometimes, while at others I’m the heifer’s father, or sister, a heifer’s heifer myself — but all of these towns, these dorfs and khuters and shtetls of shtum they’re so over, so burnedup, clearedout, burnt and cleared in every direction depending on wind, that my claims the heifer hooves down into the snow in no language, in scarsymbols, piss sinks, and dungdrops, aren’t their lie for the effort, any favor obtained. Trampledover, then salted with rue to you, vulnerary vervain, and a drachm of oil of wormwood. A night in the poor-house, the almshome, a synagoguepew. I tie my ride up, or it ties up me — stay a while, won’t you; to exhaust its patience loopedround the end of my tether, then to take what I take, untie the ride or be untied by, to hitch its rein to my lower horn, which is my putz I mean and its manifold shed, I mount and we’re off again where, the heifer only allowing me to ride backward now, facing tush, wasteful past. If I try to face front I get thrown, my skin goes fored off, stripped away. And so when riding in hindsight, I pass — by enumerating the heifer’s droppings, for lengths untold, length, I’m telling you, long: three turds a day, hard little heads, eighteen turds, explosive shells they seem, six days’ the timers’ worth until, suddenly…we just stop.

The Market of Spinoza Street

At a river, a moat, which used to be, everything was, had been or did, I don’t know — and then, there’s a settlement further, a mere slip over the water, halffrozen.