Witz полностью

To make itself into a fist, themselves into fists, with which to smash the tabling world.

On the other hand, they’re no longer in power, the Garden: Die — no thanks, I hardly knew him…this I’ve heard on one firsthand shaky, from a source as reliable and, too, as loud as the na zdorovyes I’d stood him, little flowery and watery vodkas flowing seaward from environs northeast: from a refugee he was who’d been saved by this mensch who he’d worked with a mensch, he’d said, tushdeep in the Solution, I’m talking two Tours’ worth of Unaffiliated Disposal (UND) behind him not that he’d liked to remember it much — but then again, on the other side of the other hand, its always unknowable face, that same mensch had also told me my parents were still alive, are, and happyhealthy, he’d said, Shanghai where, hic or sic, a slurred Shangri-La…that near the Mound as well, not sure, don’t know, up near which Zodiacal finger, got me, Pollex, Medicus, just past the Index girls keeping low in the line designated for love — you’re next, what’s your name, don’t be shy…Amularis orphans gathering ash and toxic particulate they’ll heat for a meal over the pulse of a wrist, since morning flush and flooded with life; keeping theirs from the Auricularis displaced, hiding their wretchedness amid pruning and hairs, the hump and hunch of the wrinkles — just point me in the right direction, I’m thinking, I’ll wrong myself from there, find me lost. None of these fellow wayfarers to give me the help of a hand, those or theirs: they ignore, though only after they’ve ascertained I’ve nothing left to steal, not even a pocket, a hole, the pocket of a hole — the depths of the valleys clawed out below us. None understand me’s what it is — all my palming myself off from thought to, indecision to, no one with whom to share my dissatisfaction, my unhappiness, this inability of mine to just nose my way out and pick, goddamnit, to fingerselect, to just settle down on one hand, or the other, and then just stay there, that’s that: stay deluded, and justifying your heart out; what everyone has to do, eventually, with the choices we’re handeddown from our birth. Pick a hand any hand then stick with it, shaken, choose your choice then die in the grip of its consequence, no.

I make night from one to the other — to live or die, to wander or stay with the sun, dawn to dusk, whichever at hand, its rising at one, its set at the other. Then, at fullest moon, a night seized with light, halfway between hand to hand to…mouthless, without speech: as both fists — they just clench, suddenly; their arms that had been other ridges and rims of other valleys, they outstretch the borders between…they lift themselves, become lifted, slowly, then up through the clouds, musclebound: how they weigh in the air, how they weigh the air, a moment amid the luminant sky, then eclipsing its moon…as if balances to weigh, too, the once sheltered now falling life they’d held tight with meaning, dim squalls and sobs tumbling through the mossy cracks between fingers opening, fingers spreading this widely, their crevices splayed — scaled high up as if in a benediction of fall, a blessing of crash, judiciously unto the Highest all then smacks, grubs grandly, and whipsup, is whippedup through the wisps into sky or Heaven, if that you prefer; these two hands disappearing, as if they’d never once been of our earth: without charity, without benevolence, grace or warning, their entire ascension in its cracked chap jointed point resembling nothing so much as a shrug…as if to say, sorry — I tried.

To find myself stranded with no thoughts, no needs nor wants, neither why, without hither, thither, or slither: snakey, how there’s no choice anymore, only chaos, a blood relation to night. I make my way up its mountain, a hill of mud, a hillock of bodied trash mounding bloodflecked — this mountain the middle ridge of the two valleys created whether by or as the cup of the hands, following their rise as unearthed height seeking between to clasp prayer for a peak. Tapering, wicked. A braiding of dirts by the weather. A limb’s wounded leg. An armway this straproad, this strop’s path, tabakfingered pointing the way between the marked lay of the hands and their arms outstretched, disappeared — and now, toward me comes this mensch, stooped as small as his bird is wings, is shabby and large.

I think, I can’t help it, is that who I think it is…come again.