This son, he wanders further, near: the door, it’s peeled open only to Him…only He can peel it, is how it can be said from the other side, from within — unlock the pericarp, up its windowshade…Him the taster, He who savors, Him to sample prospect for the rest; other hopefuls are stacked in failure at the stoop, exhausted atop the organ of the welcomemat, a lung, wheezes Shalom. Door peeled tightly behind Him with a last spurt of zest, as if a final whetting, a sharp cleansing taste of what’s to come that only hungers, humiliates more…He’s determined, to be squeezed into the ineffable core: hands modest in their pockets, mouthpocket shut tightly around His tongue, not wanting to partake, not yet, He’s not yet worthy, must merit the merit He’s already been given, has been born to, before…walks through the fruit of the house, the homefruct, its wedges separating under His feet, His steps raising nectar to seep through the hallways of His wander, to seep as the very hallway of His own worming, imperfecting, impure; His writhe to tail behind Him the threat of no exit, the trail of irreversible pour; this dragged juice almost to drown Him in sweet, in the rottenly sweet and, too, in His own secretions, the wordless but salival…the hallways that separate the sections, ending in peel; He’s slipping, regaining footing, exhausted with stick, the nectary cling of His panting, of breath heated as sweetened, steaming, then a slide into the fruit itself, its very sacs full and fouling, facefirst He’s entering slowly, emerging even slower and dripping, slowed in mold, its fuzz attendant upon bowed brow, at His own pits, His heavy sex then around the tiny stems of His nipples…Him subsisting on the wet of the air through His nose as His mouth’s still set shut, refusing to know the fruit for the sake of sustenance, its and His own — sustenance that’s refused as it’s not yet enough: to deny, to limit, must save Himself, not to eat us all out of house, out of home…no, it’s that there’s only one nourishment He’s thirsting, this single savor He’s after redemptive, and it’s not to be found inventoried on any presently pulped shelves, out of stock. After a time, He finally arrives: a clip of the coupon, a swipe, then a quick counting of change, day the seventh,
Introit then the last days, the latest hours of failing light…thrallthroes we’re talking, dying moment of this Snowdom, final flakes, get yours in: days ending earlier until it’s just late again and still night; darkness upon the face of the ocean’s faces, the land’s, the lands’, makes no difference, round or flat, gray or gone. Die’s face is that face, too, there’s only one of them now: the face of exhaustion, depletion, the victim’s, that of glorified powerlessness, is what we have in mind; having wasted his money and people, resources desourced, insiders made out…beyond all faces, in truth, and all face, genug, gone deep-far into the cold barren world before a mouth said ever a word. Daydayeinu, enough. What’s been has been upended. Houses have come to ruin. Developments have been splitup, homes sundered. Governments displaced, dissent gagged, bagged then thrown curbside, trashed with the other treyf, for export whether to the Third World or best offer.
