A HEAVEN OF OTHERS

Joshua Cohen

Starcherone Books

Buffalo, NY

A HEAVEN OF OTHERS

Being the True Account of a Jewish Boy Jonathan Schwarzstein of Tchernichovsky Street Jerusalem and his Post-Mortem Adventures in & Reflections on the Muslim Heaven

as Said to Me and Said through Me by an Angel of the One True God Revealed to Me at Night as if in a Dream

©Joshua Cohen, 2012.

eBook isbn: 978-0-9842133-9-9

Cover: Julian Montague

Book design: Rebecca Maslen

General Editor: Ted Pelton

Thanks to Liel Leibovitz for help with the Hebrew typesetting.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cohen, Joshua, 1980-

A heaven of others / Joshua Cohen.

p. cm.

eBook isbn 978-0-9842133-9-9 (alk. paper)

1. Boys--Israel--Fiction. 2. Jews--Israel--Fiction. 3. Victims of terrorism--Israel--Fiction. 4. Paradise--Islam--Fiction. 5. Future life--Fiction. I. Title.

PS3553.O42434H43 2011

813’.54--dc22

2011003032

Starcherone Books is supported by taxpayers of the state of New York, through the New York State Council for the Arts, a state agency.

To Alexander Fried,

of Czechoslovakia, Nazism, Sovietism, Austria, Belgium, Canada, Israel & the Czech Republic.…

The last of the last Europeans.

Sie stiessen zusammen auf der Strasse

Zwei Schicksale auf dieser Erde

Zwei Blutkreisläufe in ihrem Adernetz

Zwei Atmende auf ihrem Weg

in diesem Sonnensystem

Über ihre Gesichter zog eine Wolke fort

die Zeit hatte einen Sprung bekommen

Erinnern lugte herein

Ferne und Nähe waren Eines geworden

Von Vergangenheit und Zukunft

funkelten zwei Schicksale

und fielen auseinander—

Nelly Sachs, Glühende Rätsel: III

How did I get here, if I am still an I? If how and where is here? can still be asked and why?

He got here how he got here. How anyone gets here. How and where it is not my domain, this answering of questions. It is unbecoming. Truly, insulting. Beneath me. Below. Rather it is I, who create these questions and endeavor to create them answerless. Unanswerable to anyone save the asker to whom—and do not fall into the wrong pit if it is in me to ever create one—they are still unanswerable but who still must seek. To hide a find. To question my domain, my only power, rather the only power I allow myself in the how and in the here.

But rest assured that here was arrived at through no fault of his own. And that what is mine is my memory. A memory is all that is left and all that is mine—Which either begins or does it end only to begin all over again on what had been the most summery, swelteringly ripest pear day I can remember, I can the most. I was with my parents but already without them, verily I was outside with the cars, amongst the birds and the beeswax I was old enough for alone. It was my birthday, my tenth, a toy birthday and so we were on the way to the toystore for my present but after And only after as the Queen always said this pilgrimage Had to be made.

A nail had been sticking through his shoe, killing it, shoethrough, my Aba’s. In pain since yesterday’s yesterday, ever since a nail had stuck through cow and foot, my Aba’s.

Aba was in a shoestore with the Queen (that’s how Ababa we often called him called Ima, Wife, Eve of my Lilith, Mommy, Mom, Hello Muddah, the Woman of the House or Apartmenthold, Bride), me I was, I was as bored as a baked good, the street an asphalt birthday cake rising the candle of me flickeringly impatient to reflect dimly in the window of the display under the sign saying SHOES, over the sign saying PERSONAL DATA SOLUTIONS reflected hazily inattentive in the window from a store of computers on the opposite side of the Blah blah blah. I was observing myself, my skin stretched across the rounding toes not yet scuffed of shoes not yet my size that never would be. Puffing myself out as if Hanukah donuts were filling my cheeks, frying behind my eyes, I observed my I. Jelly limbs. What was reflected back to me was merely a reflection of my form—jam nose, mouth preserves—the shape of any not quite but almost ten-year-old, itchy in wait, twitchy with sun and light and heat and not the faces For examplish the Queen had once loved: the default Funny Face, the default Sad Face (opposites fulfill those as engaging as I once was), the Don’t Disturb Me When I’m Watching TV Face, which I meant as much as the Keep the Beets Far Far Away from Me on the Other Opposite End of the Table Face, and which of what is me or isn’t, I never wasn’t. A toy, I just wanted a toy, to break to get another toy. To break next year or upon the New Year, which were never.

He stood there, beyond All. Alone despite any reflection, picking pants from tush. In hot Ennui Aba would say steeped in stirless Anomie and vav kaf vav A stupid day he’d say, Aba sitting to try on pair after pair, after pair, with the Queen standing vetting, disapproving, mostly No-ing, anything but denying anyone but herself least of all. I remember I observed all this wonder through the window in which I observed, just as much, the reflection of the signs—weak as too outstretched….

And then I don’t know why I turn but I did.

It was a presence. A breath on the back of my neck, Aba would have said The tush of my head.

I turned to the boy turning to me he was running, his arms flapping flight shed wildly.

He turned and the boy met him.

His skin the milk of pigeons, with dark eyes and hair, maybe the earliest dew of a moustache.

Stubbly manna, it tickled, I laugh as much as we kissed or just seemed to.

He hugged me I don’t know why I hug him back in return.

Us, we hug tightly. We fall on each other. We feel for one and for others we fall. We feel. And we hug.

Their eyes shut, they squeeze—just like lemons.

And then they explode.

Mind the seeds.

One boy’s name was his, the other boy’s name was his too. The same age, then they were ten, near enough. And both are now mine. Equally neither.

But the question’s far from where is here, how near from there, without a stir of why.

Answer is I’m dying.

Pigs, here are only pigs, pigs there too, they’re everywhere. A huge pink hurtling, oinkmad shuttling to Get the treyf out of Jerusalem, Route One’s rushed hour to Tel Aviv then the sea to surf on over to Europe. Honk. Rumps backfire. Hynk. Pigs are coming out of the woodwork. Ambulant help. Emergent winged from the grain of void. Honk if you’re no longer living. Pigs are flying past me here but it’s not just pigs I see before I can’t see anymore or won’t live: these pigs are pigs with faces, human like the faces that kiss when you’ve folded your underwear (appropriate drawer) and scream when you haven’t and instead you’ve strewn the little stained white shrouds all over the branching boughs of the widest and only tree in your smallest and only garden: this a man who resembles my teacher Moreh Kulp at the school for the Gifted & Talented also on Tchernichovsky Street (why O why did we have to live right next door?), that a woman who must be or must have been the twin of the one that, a sister of the woman who, the Only a girl Aba once said was my Aunt was Aunt Zlforget Zelda until the Queen she came back north from the Negev and never answered anything about everything that I had wanted and waited so long to hear until I stopped asking and thought I knew but didn’t these many many many other—but now the TV’s always off (how even if you’d knot an antenna to the tailfeathers of a falcon, heaven would get horrendous reception)—pigged people I can’t recognize, don’t know and might never, I won’t, but must be nimble enough to hora around as if my death were my wedding, to jump over just like that great gymnast Katia Pisetsky tumblesaulting away from them to avoid being blindsided, swiped by them then helplessly whisked away up into the sky and its vault and its much vaunted warmth and light that neither warmed nor did it light, though others say the very snouts of these pigs flare as if suns themselves in a shine that forces you to feel their flight and to be burnt by it, remarking upon the hot puffs to be felt upon the wound of the neck, pork out your eyes because my eyes that have now become sockets can’t be opened again to this gleam this high up and higher, this glint, this bright coinlike chinging that rings in my very own ears resounding on my all the way up this gilded or maybe it’s a real solid 24 carat gold ladder I ascend as if I’m walking a necklace of jingjangling bracelets like those the Queen kept clasped around her ankles and wrists, this ladder I must, I am ascending now with the whole entire bottom of it, the foot of it All shod a thousover from whence I arose becoming dimmed to the din of First Responders, archangelic professionals uniformed all in white, with their protective masks and their sanitary gloves because to even see or to touch or to be touched by an entity so holy would mean a life worse than death, might mean a life lived out on one leg, for one, without the suck of a lung, for instance or two or the sponge of a liver, all thanks to the intercession of these Tzadikim Aba always said always with their booties and their beards, their flightless wings mere flutters of tape that serve to separate the living from the dead, to protect the exploded and now ascending from the unexploded and unascendant, the sudden arrival of onlookers, journalists on scene, adulterers and the electrician, all these dusky sirens that Turn turn turn just like rubies, those roseate pearls they seem pealing distantly more and more silent in their twilit settings of silver tarnished so delicately now and so small that they seem to be cities, Moshav and Kibbutz, the Multiplex and the Hypermarket with their lots empty for “ample parking,” as seen from this high up and higher heard until not seen anymore and further deafened forever by the stars that fall and the wails I’m constantly boosting from and climbing, clambering ever fainter from, past the snorting squealing discordant pigs, piglets, sows and tapirs maybe even like from WITH ATTRACTIVE TRICOLOR PLATES, the illustrations from the KETER encyclopedia set Volumes I through I forget that Aba had given me (ninth birthday) and let me keep in my room up on the seventh highest shelf of the widest and only bookshelf in my bedroom he built the seven shelves with his own two hands like these rungs that I’m reaching at, stretchstraining one to another up on tiptoeing for. Firsthand all the way. To the head.

He’s not even sure if it is a true ladder but not thinking this either, because all he knows of it is a single leg, just a single leg is all and with all of its many myriad rungs extending off to one side (east, if), and so far he’s unable to discern or even sense a second or any other leg otherwise numbered—but who has the time to count, an end at all to these numinous rungs that for all I know might flow out on forever, growing weaker and weaker, and weaker forever on, less like rungs more like rungs of water, as if streams through utter nothingness to step splash down into and fall through forever, and so I cleave, cling tight to the one and only leg, and climb, just climb the ladder I found climbing abandoned by everyone else inside the emptied footloose shoestore: indeed this ladder was the grownup, morphed around just like on the TV ladder of the small stepstair stepladder (actually three-step-ladder), the employees of the shoestore used to use to grab up their merchandise, grubbing all the different sizes and shades from the higher than infinite shelves. Whenever I opened my eyes and found myself alone and what’s more possibly, probably, dead I walked into the shoestore—small yet sepulchral bells hung like heads, as if the speaking of tongues had been emptied from the very innards of chimes sounding hallowedly hollow, Tituslike tintinnabulation of timbrel to sentinel my entrance (through the no glass that was left, past strewn dispersion everywhere amid empty shoes, estrays flung far from soulmates and)—walked into the shoestore as if to find there Aba and the Queen but they weren’t there and I was because actually nobody was, then finding this ladder grown up right in front of me like the stalk of a skyscraper I don’t know why I began to ascend but I did, just like Spideyman I don’t know why I ascended but I have and by the first rung pitched at the height of the roof I scaled how I’ll never know why I found the ladder flowing up ever higher, up and up into sky up and then into void void of void. Stratospheric and further beyond into nothingness and its absence, which is nothing if it’s not the very proof of nothingness just through the hole blown into the blown up roof of the shoestore.

Now that he has made his ascent, he is wrong. In the wrong. Being dead, he’s correct. But being dead where he is, he’s in error. Incorrectly mistaken. Not him but here is what’s wrong, all wrong, because everything about this heaven is wrong, and the timing of it too, for him, for now and for here.

Pigs tried to take me unto their squigglies, their hypnotically spiraling tails and hairy and rotting though citric oiled flanks (due to a vicinity citrus stand), exposed hunks of bunched phosphorescent bone to hug with thighs tightened against the grease of the wind, oinked me to grab on, snouted me out to hold on and hold still, offering me to ride them out to wherever their flights might end, terminus, maybe hoping I’d guide them to safer, smoother landings. But I ignored them because of climbing, climbing is enough.

Yes I’m not as Dummmmmmmmkopf as Aba he once said and then apologized more for the Queen than to me: I know I am deader than dead. And that the boy whoever he is, whoever he was went and exploded me because he was one of them and I one of mine. And maybe still am or no. My parents are dead too. Perhaps. They were also of mine. As the boy’s parents were most definitely one of his, most probably are. And that they were one of his made him one of his, still makes and blah blah. In return. Maybe it’s because he hugged me, and so tightly, that I’m here. He squeezed me in with him, possible. Like just managed to. Embrace it. But here, which is in the wrong heaven. His. Theirs and not mine. A heaven of others, Not for me.

He expects me to do something I can’t.

Though some appeal, most won’t.

Politics were always on the radio when I was alive. Whenever we listened to politics were on the radio Kol Israel 98.4 on your FM dial all I ever heard was the sound of goat. Sound of tragedy the sound of goat. Radio said Goat and I listened. Bleat bleated to bleat in bleat at bleat, bleats bleat of bleat and baa baaa bleating. Hungry goat senseless as goat as hungry but when I listened it was always with a full stomach (an empty head). Why I say politics is that I want to say goat, and why I say goat is that the radiowaves traveled through the air and past me (INFO, from Informashun, is the word in American, an acquirement thanks to my dictionary, ALCALAY shelved alongside my encyclopedia set), radiowaves announcing the death of a boy named the same as I’d been back then—and the deaths of his parents too, I think I heard and that of others and their parents and static, István Jontovics, 72, Raya Malesa, 23—but the radiowaves that sounded to me as if the sounding of goats they bounced off the pigs that were flying, bounced, rebounded, redounded, were deflected, repelled, ricocheted, shuttleshunted, became babble bebabbled and so all the while ascending the ladder, its rungs, I heard my name, I am sure of it—and many other names as well, such as those of Nir Pershits, 32, Einat Yavin, “only 18”—but I heard them all strange, all goatish or goatified and the sounds further said upside down, outside in. But how I knew, how finally uti possidetis as Aba used to say—wrongly—in the Latin of our terra nullius he said Aelia Capitolina if you know it I knew and know I was and am really truly totally dead Absolutely so is that at the very summit of the ladder (or just on an amazingly huge, filled with heaven rung and me, I’m none the wiser) I found myself once again in Jerusalem, my home in Jerusalem and what’s more in Jerusalem on its Tchernichovsky Street, the street of my house (our apartment), the street of my school with the shoestore adjacent (the toystore was always “just around the corner”), and what’s worse once again in front of the shoestore itself and in good repair as if the ladder had ascended up into air up into space only to emerge through a merely mundane sewer just now steaming open, the mist listing my stagger onto the street I had only just left in the proverbial down below. It was strange. And the same. Except that here the shoes were back in their boxes. The boxes were back on their shelves. Intact, the window was too. Though alone.

I came closer to the window as the window came closer to me, on the heels of the shoes on display within the sheen of its glass, my reflection. As I have said, my parents weren’t there. As it has been said, seemingly no one was though only at first. It was then that I walked up to my very own me, its reflection dim in the dark but of form there was more than enough. To be shocked like the once I stuck my sucked thumb into the socket at the wall under the table in the kitchen, stuck my tongue in the What Happened to your Pants? which was what the Queen always asked me who turned around to look down at his hands in all privacy. They were hands even private: one palm up, one palm down, one half always unknowable. Unknown, I touched my nose with a knuckle. It was a nose, the one I got from Aba’s mother, my grandAba’s Queen and a knuckle. I turned again wildly as if to shatter the window of the shoestore and there it was three times thrice undeniable. My face was full open to seep. A squishy squashed olive from the tallest and only tree in our largest and only garden. Out back with the benches and bush. A pond small and dry. To have nails instead of features, dimples their heads, the lineaments of my face each a pure length of rust, nails and their heads bowed reverently as if hammered by hate, lowered out my temples just then shook with a laughter. My tongue burned. I couldn’t contain myself. Let it all hang out. Spill it, Yon. It was a hole in my stomach I bowed forward to—taking three steps back from the reflection to accommodate my goggle—a jaggedly pulsing hole, edged in a heat that was furious, through which my eyeless sockets first beheld the first fully naked naked woman (no, not even the Queen) I had ever remembered.

Shoes

Shoes. Shoes. Shoes. And Shoes to pair good measure. There were always shoes. Never shoe. No one in my house (meaning in our apartment on Tchernichovsky Street, which Aba always called The Road That Should Have Been Named After Bialik) had ever said Shoe. Had never said I can’t find a shoe. Had never said I lost my shoe. As in just the word. Like singularly all alone. Or even Where the EXBLEEPLETIVE is my shoe? Asked Have you ever seen, smelled or touched its pleather, tasted your own foot in your mouth and its shoe along with it, heard it sneaker from behind an approach? And never when you’ve decompressed, becalmed yourself enough to ask What have you done with my shoe? Or Where has my shoe walked off to? Ever. Shoes were to be kept together, preferably, to the Queen, to be kept tied together, two shoelaces—or are they four? or one?—left knotted, strangling one another until the morning of our fingers would worry them separate, apart. Loose and achy. Laces to lie exhausted upon the lemonmopped linoleum gasping for air. Limp and then finally—maybe once a season for me when I was living and growing (speaking terrenely), maybe only every five, six or even every ten or so years for Aba and the Queen—when they died they would be tied together again, then bagged to go to the Poor. In bags of plastic brought home from the Mega Hypermarket built atop the grave of Pierre Koenig, I never knew who he was until now though I knew Pierre Koenig Street. A General vs. the Nazis in Africa then the Poor, wherever they were and whoever too, as I never knew the Poor but the Poor knew my shoes. Made for Kazakh feet. For Ethiopian feet on a boy probably three years younger than I, once was. For whom they’d still be small, pinching. A shoe for their foot, the Poor’s: one huge hungry, shoesucking, laceslurping monster with an xillion stomptromping feet.

My son should study Aba always said My son should study the podiatry of wandering, All of the pedestrian interpretations of Exodus and then laughed until the Queen slapped him on the scapulate, his back as broad as that of an ox. But I at not ten nonyears had had the opportunity to study nothing at all until the first fully naked girl who was also the first totally nude woman I had ever remembered, beheld for the first outside the celestial shoestore stared curiously at my shoes, then knelt down and examined them, sniffed at them and even lightly licked with the quick tip of her tongue engreening in the ether. Then What are they? she asked in a hundredthousand voices all trying to say as One, Whose force measured me, knocked me over with Why? and so I rose and said to her what they were They are shoes I said to her that shoes like these are for feet like these are for walking like this and then to Show not just Tell as Moreh Kulp always said I walked away from her for ten steps and then to her again another six or seven eager step earnest steps as she nodded but obviously could not understand.

Understand that when Aba had to buy new shoes, was In the market for replacement footwear he’d said that morning, that that was an event of maybe twice a childhood, once in my life. That’s why we were at the site of my death, an event too, once in my life, a tenth birthday as well, not to forget, but before the toy as I’ve said—or would they, could they have been toys?—it was shoes as has been said, because yesterday’s yesterday a nail had come hungry, toothed flesh. Another pair fit for the Poor, which won’t fit. A hundred-hundred shoeboxes upended for my grave, a footstone. Pace through the mourning. But my shoes are still alive Aba had said that morning over coffee for him and tea for the Queen he’d said that his shoes were Still living. A potentiality for resurrection at the very least. Not your shoes the Queen was Always right, had to be, said that his shoes were Sick, terminally. Flatlining, from blip blip bleep to one long sheep. Arches fallen in, not sandstone but Aba’s. And then the sheep, the lamb, the spotless calf that was me, the healthiest one and the whitest. A sheep with an Aba for an Aba who wore dead cows on his feet he walked dead always more.

A knotting of thought. That the heaven my grandAba would say me about was not truly believed in. Probably not. That it was possibly null, in the realm of the not yet existent. And another—as if a scatter of shots. That my parents needed another child like they would have wanted me to survive, Desperately and themselves too. To pair as if flippers or slippers. They would have saved me if they could but they couldn’t have even themselves. Merely parents. Marriage then mating. Overprotective isn’t how to be God. You have to live I say walk outside your own house (apartment I say), your own street (Tchernichovsky), your own Jerusalem city and the world itself on that wide and open and brightly clear afternoon of summermost waste when Aba said Shoes first, toy later. Have to feel free I say but no there’s always a ritual to be observed, an indebt to honor. A blessing in the waiting, twophrased at the crossroads it lies. Again Shoes Aba said we were In the market for shoes. For him the Queen insisted we had to get shoes for him because Aba Had walked his old shoes out to nail to salted nail because he’d walked his old souls dead and if he wasn’t on his toes then his feet along with them. Soon the son of enough. Sky the toenail under which he walked them to thin at least they’d agree (Aba had to), the sole of the earth—salted so as nothing would ever again grow from its grave. A coffin-less coffin’s nail was what was hurting him in the walk from his bedroom, which was theirs too, through the hallway lined with the photographs—first from the bedroom three black and white, then after the bathroom four more in color who remembers of what besides me or who shot them—and inspect each one, individually, for level hang on his run to the bathroom where he’d spend they’d feel like hours Resting his eyes on the newspaper the Queen’d slipped under the door a moment after its arrival much much much earlier when the large print was understood by her to be explained away to me later after I woke up from school (to which I walked, terribly, next door and encroaching, only ten shoelengths down Tchernichovsky Street), then walked from the bathroom through the hallway back to his bedroom again, which was theirs to dress leaving the bathroom Under the guard of his stench, which the Queen always hated, or else just said she did but which I always found invitingly pleasant, nosewarming, congenially flushing of the congenital sinus, then rushed back from his bedroom to the bathroom for a less timely sitting in his Reek again the Queen always said after which he walked through the hallway again and further now down to the kitchen where he sat for the breakfast the Queen always made at which he ate and drank coffee while he read the black of the paper (the SPORTS, the ARTS, the ARTS again), as the Queen only after serving Aba and me serving herself instant café or tea she read the front of the paper again, which are the HEADLINES, which tell the importance of the day or of yesterday and what will not happen now or cannot ever hope upon hopes happen again to walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the frontdoor where he walked right into his shoes waiting painfully on the mat that said the word SHALOM we’d always wipe our shoes on and just step all over, opened the frontdoor and walked out with a kiss for each of us but the Queen’s on one cheek of two sumptuously risen Sabbath loaves despite the day of the week though mine was always on my forehead, on the head even then growing out of my head and right out the frontdoor but out of which what walking and where I did not know exactly, precisely, not to the step this walking the Queen said All over the whole world Creationdom and Why do you do that to yourself? was what she’d always ask Why don’t you take a staff position at the Symphony Philharmonic Orchestra? or at the Opera? Aba would always answer her by saying that he had enough opera at home Particularly Straussified, Richard and so a Freelancer he was a true Freelancer and to remain a true Freelancer as opposed to a Staff Jobber because he was a tuner, he was a piano tuner Aba always said I don’t want to tune the same pianos month after month, moon in and moon out, I want to tune different pianos, and as many as possible, to redeem, to save as many as possible, pianos, that’s the job of a piano tuner Aba always said meaning he often joked A failed pianist then the Queen would stare him evil then hug him tight (but we didn’t have a piano in our apartment on Tchernichovsky Street because Aba wouldn’t allow a Big black cancer noise to interfere with his life Aba once said and I just now remember that my Aba he once also told me that When two strings are mathematically perfectly in tune they actually sound discordant. And that The job of a piano tuner is to tune a piano, Aba once said, the strings of a piano, Aba once said, intentionally discordant, knowledgeably dissonant, slightly Aba once said ever so slightly and that only then will all the strings sound as they should—when the hammers come crashpedaling down—In perfect, total harmony Aba once said Which Aba then added is of course only our perception of—), but after the Queen had enabled his enabling then let him go, hugged him only to let him loose for a kiss once again on the other loaved cheek as if to demonstrate her sympathy with his empathy and the both of their last, I did not know where he went (and whether or not the Queen’s cheeks were lonely without him, as I’d always leave for school alongside my Aba who’d leave me at the school halfway down Tchernichovsky Street on his way off to wherever), rather I knew that he went to the Symphony Philharmonic Orchestra and to piano showrooms and musicstores throughout Jerusalem and even greater Tel Aviv and to grandQueens’ attics and basements and cellars and to hospitals and schools and theaters and fancy Frenchtalian restaurants and also though not as much as I think he wanted to to the Opera and the Ballet and to the Conservatory or Conservatories, but I had never been to any of those places, not to the Philharmonic neither to piano showrooms nor to musicstores and all my grandQueens all my grandQueens were As dead as music as my Aba used to say and our apartment on Tchernichovsky Street though it had a garden and tree did not have an attic or a basement or even a cellar and thank God I’ve never been in the hospital (though school is school and next door at that, five shoe-lengths away if I didn’t do my homework), but then neither have I ever been to the theater not Yiddish nor Shakespearean nor to fancy Frenchtalian restaurants as starry as the skies of al-Khwarizmi let’s say or the Strauss Opera or the Stravinsky-Tchaikovsky Ballet, or the Conservatory of Conservatories there to clapclap Concertvatories because Aba he wanted me to be a lawyer or a professor of History, Semantics or and to speak his parent’s language, which was German at the University Aba also walked to to tune—walking himself like a tuned string Aba once said he Walked around loosening, slackening throughout the day then tightening up to pure gut again nearer to home, to his truest pitch at the corner of Tchernichovsky &—then walked from the University to the shvitz and then after, walked to his friend Tannenbaum’s house, which was a real house and not just an apartment three floors, three bedrooms and two bathrooms with An open kitchen the Queen would always say when she was jealous for A moment of peace, a cup of coffeetea or maybe a nip of vodka with slivovitz after which he’d walk back home to Tchernichovsky Street and our apartment building outside of which I’d wait in the doorway and always impatiently for him to pick me up for our every Sunday afternoon walk into the Old City of Jerusalem, which was entered always through the Jaffa Gate past David the King about whom Aba once told me that in 1889 he said I think it was once in 1898 I think that’s when this rampart was demolished, it was destroyed and the moat that used to poison around it filled up to prepare for the arrival For the triumphant arrival Aba once said of Kaiser Wilhelm II as a guest of the Sultan of Turkey And so that’s the huge hole in the wall Aba had said as we walked into the Old City, the huge gaping void in the high sun of wall all about Herod and the three towers of Phasael, Mariamne and Hippicus Aba said as we walked in deeper into the Old City went farther, into the spiced hustle, the huddled dealdoing, zoom in on the seesighting, but then instead of further history, which is further explanation further enlightenment or illumination abruptly Aba said this once to Ignore all that trash (though he used a much stronger word), Ignore all this rubble, these names and their dates that are only the many other names we use to individuate indivisible Time, Yoni, save them for later, which is never, If not now, when, my little Rav Hillel today (which was the first day before the shoestore and so the last day before the last Monday of life for me, for him and for his shoes as the nail was even then gnawing up) I want you Aba said wincing To observe all these tourists and only the tourists as we walked as Aba talked Observe all these tourists but don’t sit in judgment of them just you remove yourself, he said Stand still at a distance that comes from being native to a world this FOUL LANGUAGE wonderful, Yon, and take all of it in: The French and the German, Yon, always the youngest Germans Germany can afford to export, two rows of ten each with matching yellowtrimmed totebags, The umbrellawielding Italianevs with their compact designer umbrellas for their umbrellas and then you have the Polishers, Just look at that group of tiny Polisher nuns being shepherded past, this herd of miniature nundonkeys, Parvenu parvum don’t you think, Yo? all these donkeys being ridden by all these midgetized, glandular problem nuns as if in A defensive maneuver against this oncoming phalanx of teenage Greekskis, Mind your step, each face of theirs as if the floor of an obsolete oil press being rolled Their eyes the stomping of grapes, Yon, and Don’t forget to bow to the Britishate with their cement teeth and concrete molars being guided past us by an American as we walked Aba and I holding hands with the Australians and the Japanese, the Koreans (God, what ideas do they have? Aba asked) and the Americans, yes, God, look at the Americans as we walked Aba and I with my face tunneling into his armpit, soaking up the Tannenbaum’s vodka with a W on its label Aba was sweating the smell of rotting prehistoric Aba said Pleistocene fish the street always paved our tongues with to lick at our lips, yes, the American, Yoni, Observe the Americans was what Aba then said: for example, Their fat, it simply obliterates any waist, it quite simply absolves the figure of the human of form And then their intentions, for instance, which are as immaculate as their collective and yet anonymous conscience, which is unconscionable, Aba said, Like just see how many Tshirts they buy, Yoni! Enumerate them! Tshirt after Tshirt, after shirt after cruciform tee all in the shape of that Jew we once crucified up on that hill at which Aba pointed a finger as if accusing the very set of the sun All for them and for all their relations all their unshapely fat actually unshaped at all Aba said Flabelliform bodies, the Father, the Son and the Globoid God! how many bodies do Americans have? how many bodies does it take to make one American? Aba asked, while the one body here is out touring Jerusalem, the Cardo, the Armenian Quarter, the Holy Sepulcher and its Church, another body’s left back home building missiles and some other body’s lined up at the local kindergarten to vote and yet another body’s stuck in neutral in the drive-in-and-see-thru, or out basking on the southernmost beach in central Florida or else pressed up against Minnie Mouse’s plasticine nipplessness Aba said That must be why they need so many Tshirts, this must be what they need them for all of these bodies, for all of their bodies All of them going every which way all at once, That’s why they hoard them then compliment each other on them the shirts in an America in which it’s not polite to compliment a fellow American on his or especially her body or bodies on threat of let’s say prosecution incarceration Corporal slash Capital Punishment Aba said Mister Jonathan Pollard but in which it’s more than permissible to compliment them on their Tshirt or shirts Aba said And just hear them, Yoni, will you? just listen to them and you, Yon, can save yourself all the money in the universe on all of those Hollywood movies, you can pick up on All that dialogue the ropes knotted off to the tropes just by listening in and then smell them, Yo: smellessness, deodorized, they have no whiff whatsoever, they’re without any scent at all as if they’re not merely animals just like everyone else, like me Aba said or like you Or else as if the season—second—of spring If you can imagine it Aba asked lasting a whole year and around again into yet another spring Aba said They smell like a thousand months of a million moons of the month of Adar six months ago and its Purim until the world just pops fat out of its box on the calendar on the wall in the kitchen Aba said to me As if all the days of Nisan and their Aba said Pesadich nights had been sent spinning down into his mouth for him to laugh them down into himself Aba laughed his laugh again and again until we had reached the Kotel at which my Aba’s laugh became a light hack (despite the walk he always smoked, NOBLESSE AMERICAN BLUES and the occasional occasionally stinky cheroot when not in the presence of the Queen), then became his deep wheeze I thought it was until I realized his laugh had turned in his gut to spring up through his throat into a seriousness I’d never previously known Aba hazarded with the heaviest of lips, until his Laugh Laugh and Laugh had turned and almost imperceptibly into the word MA-A-RAV was what Aba said in the language we used to speak together whenever we spoke Aba said MA-A-RAV ever so faintly again and again he said MA-A-RAV, which means in every language WEST Aba said WEST WEST WEST WEST WEST.

Nakedness

Nakedness is the formlessness of the void. In the Genesis of the Torah, in the first chapter of the first book of the first and only Torah (if only in the second “sentence,” perhaps), existence is described as being without form and void. And yet as beingness still. This means that existence before Creation was naked. And that Creation was a covering of this nakedness. Modesty, only. I say this because here where I find myself is naked. Here there is totally nude. Though I would like to think I share not much with those I encounter here I must admit we are all formless voids too. O naked us. Pity the nude, though I’m shod and selfpitied. Why we are all formless voids is because we have all long since surrendered—whether willingly or not—any pretense toward individuality. Freeing our souls has meant losing them. Forever, I mean.

I find here I am assigned eighteen mothers. As round and as pure as ostrich eggs, they are as round and as pure as the eggs of ostriches are my eighteen mothers and more, maybe more (I only say eighteen because only that means them all). Ostrich eggs burst fat filled with fat white grapes filled fat with enormous opalescent pearls or are they ostrich eggs I don’t know, I’m not sure. Eighteen eyes white around but black in the middle, Cancer Aba would have said if he wasn’t dead, living in another heaven, I hope. It is convenient that in this heaven we all speak or rather we all understand the same language or at least I understand what they let said to me and It all sounds—almost—like the tongue of America. Anyway all here are merely spoken through (and Queen Houri supports this, no, she embodies), and so our mouths open only to allow a saying that has nothing to do with the apparently individual or previously individuated entity doing the saying, mouthing and blah blah who says. Not the man named Mohammed, who has been shut up now in perpetuity (that is, the man named Mohammed has been shut up, not his mouth). Rather the One always saying the saying through them, through the man named Mohammed then through them by which I mean through us and through me (and does Mohammed picky and choosey through like the Queen did with me and the front of the newspaper?), that first sayer of sayings is said to be an entity that has been named by Who or an entity that has named Itself Allah. It is not to Allah however that we meaning I should address my appeal. I find myself saying this: it is not befitting Allah that Its words should be flung back at It. In your face. As if beets I’ll never eat. I remember. Like shoes to the Poor.

As these mothers, my mothers, have no individual names or ever had, or at least refused them and still do, they asked me all as One—and so as nothing and so as no one—to say to them Houri. A name.

We are a virgin was what they said and I suppose they knew that I was one too. We would be your lover and remain virgin forever they said but soon knew—through Allah? through the man named Mohammed?—that I needed a Queen more, a Queen and more: a Queen who is also her own attendants, her court and her courtiers, her subjects and guard.

Listen. When I ask them Are you my mother? or Will you be my mother? one says Yes, another says Do you want me to be, a third says Only if you will be my son, and a fourth Only if you will not be my son, and a fifth If that is who I am, and a sixth If that is who I am not, and a seventh If that is how I can best serve you, and an eighth If that is how I can best be served, and yet another If that is who I was, and another If that is who I was not and another If your father is God, and another (Only) if your father is not God, and that all of these promises, these blessings and curses course out, all saying the same if in words that appear to oppose—as if their very answers were only random words of a sustained prophecy fled into sound, propheticules just flowing through them like the fulminant foamings of watery wine: out from between their wide parted rubies that mouth long reaches of let’s say tentacle, of binding fringe, of curly lock these endless shafts of air that serve to vibrate a pitch in the air sympathetically all these pitches all wavering as if the rib of a leaf in a storm or the quivering cord by which sustenance would come up from the womb, though I still hear them now in my memory and will forevermore as strings not of puppets or universes but of an enormous piano emanating from the very massing of their mouths—the huge concertgrands Aba used to work on when he wasn’t called over to fix and tune a grandQueen’s fungiform upright—a huge skywide, skylong piano is what I heard and still hear that was strung with strings that were invisible, gusted not only from their very mouths but also as if from their always moist, tuned, tightening and loosening vaginas, from their also always moist, tuned and tuning, tightening and loosening anuses and nostrils and even from the very mutilated wombs of their navels, an A 440 Hz streaming out from their stomachs at the deforming scars of their umbilici, out from between the cleaved halves of their ebonite rubies studded with beryl and carbuncle this A down lower an octave below the middle of All, A the highest string of the Cello entry from behind pain: which was Aba’s favorite poem this A the Queen once played fluming von hinter dem Schmerz: coursing a vast candle wicked apart into plaits of hair to braid with the braids then braiding into a bow of one enormously strong length of flame sounding deep and too low maybe even for any perception except that of rabid dogs on fire, a ray of molten brass it seemed to part the iron clouds that would rain down nails to sound dumb pluck strung out to my own imperfection, out to the exploded hole in me in a too deep thrumming low rumble that seemed to harden into the pipe of an organ, into a diapason of thread knotted to a needle of only an eye, the vibration of the jagged wound in my stomach sounding a hollow note pitched so terribly beyond everything so as to blow the world entire back to void again, the universe crumbling, walls tumbling around the perimeter of Jericho where I’ve never been but an Uncle of mine Alex and the glass he brought back, the Bohemian crystal from the vacation years he took to Prague, the MOSER glassed in our pantries back home (back apartment) on Tchernichovsky Street, Jerusalem, all spidering into a web that was also the constrictive coil of an enormous serpent and its even more enormous hiss giving way only to silence, totally pure silence and still, the truest void though still unnamed and formless. Naked too. And nude.

This was how their saying was said to me or at least how I then heard it.

But to demur: It might be that in the wrong heaven I can only be wrong, and that this Queen of mine is actually clothed, or more accurately that all of her clothing, from the veils that admit only her eyes down to the sandy hems of her garments, actually comprises her nakedness, and further that her nude is just the accumulation, is merely the layering of these garments that are more like winds composed of such proverbial sayings that blow cool the heads hanging heavy from the boughs and branches of the Tree under which they all sit. Under the Tree that (do I trust myself?) grew them, a Tree that fruits virgins: first stemming their heads, then the secretion of their fluted columnarly delicate necks, the breasts blossom, the stomach rounds to pucker the navel, the vagina blooms expectantly until, so heavy, they fall to the ground to sit around the Tree with their sisters.

This Queen, this total massing of women, though they are virgins, is no substitute for the Queen who is immensely beautiful, who was. Because there is one flaw here that cannot escape—because it cannot bear—notice even in heaven, even in a heaven that is wrong, indeed a flaw that might be the very thing that renders them sisters, their relative scar: because when a virgin falls from the tree, having hung upside down for a longer time than any alive could ever hope to measure, with her own, to span, with her own, the virgin falls suddenly, almost unaware, or as if consciousness—hers—didn’t exist until this fall to the ground, which is sand. And so unknowing, unaware, the virgin falls with no ability or else, if you prefer, acknowledged forewarning to protect herself, and so with no help, inexplicably or not, from her sisters, hits invariably hard, a fruit bruised, on the fanatically exposed root structure of the tree, on the razoredged manicured nails of her sisters, upon the gems that star the tree’s trunk, and so each virgin, each of these sisters that are all of them a mother, has a flaw and will always: a dune on her nose, a gash royally smashed upon her forehead, a scar piercing the ear to the lip (it’s a long fall, taller than ten times to what I would’ve grown), a poked in eye or inverted nipple, a caesareantype incision inflicted by a single, windsharpened blade of grass, all imperfections, regrettable though never disqualifying blemishes on these most unbestial of creatures (women in shape, not in manners), which the Queen, my true Queen dead and in the heaven of her own belief, would have frowned a dark rainbow upon, betokening a covenant of disapproval and whether rightly or wrongly thought such physical imperfections a sign, a manifestation of an immemorial inner problem, the gradual emanation of a spiritual decay that would eat the woman alive, the women, eventually, and then any man she or they might ever have touched.

I am in the wrong heaven I said to Queen Houri.

I walked in strange to them shoes around and around the trunk of the Tree around and around their infinite ring (or at least never remembering one of them the women twice in thrice and more around) and around the trunk of the Tree and said to them I was embraced by explosion into this paradise that is yours and not mine, that I do not belong here because you say I don’t belong here (I listened), and that I am I only because you are you.

Why? Queen Houri asked as one.

Why not become one of us?

And as the sound stretched across their infinite mouths, the softly grown heads of the Tree shook the question to the ground as if No.

Yes asked the virgins, their sisters grown from the Tree Why disappointed?

Just as death is a renunciation of life they said I have now only to renounce that that’s survived it. Me. But you can’t.

Why bitch? Aba would ask.

He meant the Queen would say Why complain?

But Queen Houri, the fullgrown virgins to ripeness, picked up the gems penning in their ring (excess flesh that turned to jewel in their hands), and with them pelted the heads and partiformed faces of their becoming sisters because these still growing, nascent virgins are not only not permitted to say anything but, further, are prohibited from even eavesdropping upon any of the sayings of their fully formed, allrealized sisters below much as Aba he once said that Other people believe if you eavesdrop on (which?) heaven God throws down flaming stars aimed at your head, which in my case has since been blown up. But these rocks and stones like the fluorescent pebbles I used to scoop from the fishbowl where I kept Dag and the other Dag after the first Dag died and we flushed him away, plunging him into Aba’s oozy smell, into the woozy wake of his turds these hot, hard and dirty implements are aimed not only at the soft of their heads, the ears of those who could and so would listen in—as if they could help it, this happy patronization of their newfound protrusions—but are aimed also at their bodies, at their own lesser wet voids, everywhere and so maybe it is from this very hurling and lobbing that their flaws exist but are perhaps only evident when the virgins hit ground. And as hard as virgins. And are thusly explained, said so away.

But none of this had been explained to me as one woman, a portion of Queen Houri—a toe of the Queen, I like to think, a majestic thumb, also I might remember the one who arose from the midst of her sisters to Meet and Greet me upon my arrival at the laddertop shoestore—arose to escort me right out of the Jerusalem Above and its valleys, the sand beyond the sands beyond the city limits to a Fountain because my questions had seemed to her, as they must have to them, quite physically thirst and the water to be obtained there and there only—have I mentioned that most of this heaven is quite obviously a desert?—would answer all for me, questioned. Please I said as the Queen would have had me say Thanks. Would quench or so it’s said and it was. But as this feminine thumbtoe escorted me up and down dunes, around and around dunes then in and out of the valleys sanding between them, as she with we walked farther and farther away from the remainder of the Queen that is Houri—she unshod, me in shoes so as not to lay skin upon foreign sand—she grew more and more naked, more and more whisperweight and transparent and, after a time I could not ever hope to translate to you even if I had half of my decade back in which to do it, I turned around at the very top of a dune, saw the previous dune through her, then saw her no more.

With her disappearance I could not hope to find the Fountain but shade.

Up ahead, after walking longingly, was shade but a curious shade of it: a shade with nothing in evidence to produce the shade, with no shading entity discernible between the shade, which was the darkness delineated upon the sand of one indisseverable grain, and the immaculate golden plate above that served up nothing at all. Save light and warmth unfulfilling.

I stood in this shade shaded by nothing then I lay and then I slept, I must have slept and when I awoke there was no shade but I was under the wide longribbed leaves of another tree. However its leaves, which were generous fronds of palm, provided none of the shade I had so enjoyed previously: the setting of the golden plate proceeded on its natural strength unabated, and it was as if the shards of the plate now smashed on the knife of the horizon had stuck through the palms, had pierced them through and so pierced me too, stigmatic under this element of shade that provided none, having no purpose for any incarnation but its own. An unimpeding impediment. A stumble without snare.

After the golden plate smashed then ashed away to the white darkness of smoke I slept again and did not dream of the Queen, neither of Houri, but instead of an unmanned caravan of approximately let n equal x thousand pregnant camels that was approaching me from afar (the direction from which it was arriving I’d titled Fast, the other I would name Fleet), the humps as dunes dispossessing themselves of earth and moving on always, a sandscape perpetually in motion so as to appear only the same again and again—repetition as ritual, wandering the only, which is favored, method of stasis, the Latinate nunc as Aba always said Whether permanens or stans. What it was was just camel after camel after camel bobbing up and down as if lifejackets made exclusively for the rescue of hunchbacked Ukrainian cleaningwomen down and up on the driest landed sea imaginable—such was my dream of the camels always approaching as if when they’d ultimately approach, finally arrive, then and only then would I finally awake, knowing this to be the Truth of the True as it’s said though it seemed as if they’d never approach, until they actually had approached, arrived and lay down in darkness in no shade just in front of me, in a semicircle around this tree providing nothing for no one, folded into squats atop their spindles, nosing at each other and nuzzling flanks as I struggled, fought against this dream, into waking at the image—not the mirage—at this the image to be found reflected down deep in the deepest well of the mind the recognizance of which should have signified the end of my dreaming, must have and must still, but my struggling, all my fight, was in vain: because I would never wake up, because I wasn’t dreaming, it was never a dream and still isn’t.

The camel caravan had arrived and I was awake all the while for all.

Alef

I am the ass

they whoever they ever are

would pack with explosives

would burden with explosionary material

fertilizer bombs, nail-

packed explosives until

the guards

the security

the patrolling police and the

ordinary everyday citizen

they began beginning and so

they whoever they ever are

instead of packing the explosives atop

me or at my sides in beastlike

breastlike bags

they whoever they ever are

began instead

stuffing

the explosives up inside of me

into my ass and so

stuffing

me full

there is no why

I am relating this

I just am

A Pilgrimage

It would seem simple, it would. You go toward the Two Mountains and the Two Mountains come toward you. As they come, you become. You come toward the man and the man goes toward you. As he becomes he, I become me. Ingathering, he’d honk at the doorway. Aba would make the sound of the horn with his tongue thrust dumbly out of its mouth like a camel’s or bird. Shoes I’d say, I can’t find my shoes. I can’t find, then I’d find them. He’s coming was what Aba would say to the Queen who had Heard it all before. Me too, I’m going, Me three. I was always late for school, I was always the first one home. Then dinner. You eat your beets and the Queen lets you watch cartoons is how it went. Or the Queen lets you watch cartoons and you’ve eaten your beets is how it should go. Should have gone, bath, lastly bed. But I never kept that half of the haggle.

Are you coming? one virgin had said to another Is he going with us? all had said to each other even as I left them and so all of Queen Houri had said to me and even I’d said it too, which is to submit as I set out to seek with the help of a thumb.

Walking I left.

And submissively long.

The way they said it, it seemed so simple, it would. Any direction to one destination. Every cardinality to a capstone. Shoot an arrow then follow it long. Walk on your hands clad in the gloves of assassins. Go down and submit. But exodus is never that simple.

They were the camels. They had ridden me out to the Fountain at which I drank without quench. They had ridden me out to another Fountain, then a third. And still no. Water gushed out my jagged hole, a sprung with no spring. Again and again I explained to them and so to myself what I called just like the Queen called any thousand of hers My Predicament What’s his Problem? What Happened to my Pants? then one camel drew with its foot in the sand a map effaced quickly by wind. Cloven over. And so it drew it again, or attempted to, and then again, each time the map only one-ninth, or one-seventh, finished, then the erasure from wind. Complete. I’m talking utter. Then two camels worked on the map, each at an opposite end, and the map was then one-third-finished, or two two-sixths-whole, then the wind again and then nothing. And so three camels and then four, each from its own gusting quarter until again with the wind and so it took seven of the camels all hoofing it simultaneously to all together complete the map I had by then memorized in whole as I had had it in part. As for why the camels couldn’t ride me out there themselves, it wasn’t ever proposed. Into never, I left.

Having been directed to the Valley between the Two Mountains, I followed. I was to seek the man named Mohammed. There he would help me, It was said he would have to, said by Allah. Transfer me to the afterlife most appropriate to my previous Yes. No questions asked. Having answered none, I went. Having substantiated nothing, I submitted. This man named Mohammed would rectify this mistake—mine, his, or that of no one, none other’s. This mistake as unmistaken as all divine, but a rectification had been made necessary still. Not an apology. A mere reparation. Miser it a healing. A whole. Not on faith, to go on desperation.

How does he know a voice said.

It was a gust.

And know this too. He was scrutinized by the sun. Light and warmth despite day or night were denied him, then granted in showers, in snows the color of ash burnt in ovens. As it is said. And that the sand preserved his tracks as it preserved the trail of no other.

To be here as him is to be hated by even the wind. It is said. Listen to it. Hear it listening. It has been said that in this strangest land he is as much a stranger as It tells him he is.

Still as the Queen always said It helps to prepare. And so if ever he would find this man named Mohammed he was to say Salaam. And then he was to say his name. Not that the man named Mohammed didn’t know his name but that this ritual was to serve as both a Sign and a Wonder, respectfully speaking, a submission implying in no way the ultimate submission, which is forbidden to him though only by himself and his kind, and that only after this Salaam My Name Is the man named Mohammed would be obliged to rectify any unmistaken mistake all in a matter of immediacy and without further questions neither answers whether they be Of the Above or telluric (such as reincarnation, resurrection and terrestrially yadda)—how he rehearsed the voice saying through him Salaam my name is Jonathan son of Saul A. Schwarzstein he said into pools reflecting his mouth (thinking praise Allah how awesome it is that in heaven you don’t have to brush teeth), the words rippling out, bulls’eyes circling the swell of his Salaam he said my name is Jonathan son of Saul A. is for Aba Schwarzstein, Yoni to my Aba he said who’s As dead as the rocks that shine his mouth with macle as if the stones themselves were the very perspirant tears of an elemental hardness, the swirling water the very sweat of the words Salaam my name is Jonathan son of Saul Aba Schwarzstein and I live at 37 Tchernichovsky Street, apartment number (#) 3, Jerusalem, was how the Queen had taught him to get home when he didn’t know how he was getting there or from where and my Aba’s telephone number it’s # 717736 7-1-seventyseven-3-6 was how he dressrehearsed the undressedness of the audience like he did with his role as Pan Janusz Korczak the lead in last spring’s school play to the terraced tiers of scrubby crevices and crags, the stadiumed shrubbery that horizoned the All: the wrinkly knotted limbs of the putrescent trees topping the murderous cliffs with their sharply cleaved cavelike mouths echoing in return if not his voice then the voice of another he followed as if such horrible pain were his own—a man with a face hanged spreadeagled, nailed thrice to a severe flank of mountain not his.

Who are you? I asked the man and the man said Salaam.

And so I said to the man Alaikum to you and then the man asked me Who are you?

Jonathan son of Saul Schwarzstein and I live at 37 Tchernichovsky Street, Jerusalem, but you can call me Yoni I said to the man Do you know where the Two Mountains are? Where are the Two Mountains? Do you know the man named Mohammed? Where would I find the man named Mohammed? as I answered him with my story and the millennia behind it.

And so you understand I am a stranger here in your heaven I said to the man. And so you understand a mistake has been made I said to the man. And so you understand I am walking to the Valley between the Two Mountains to make an appeal. That I am seeking rectification is what. Restitution to the Eden of my however inherited however believed belief. Why not. But mostly I just want my parents I said to the man whom I almost do not now remember as anyone other than me.

It is good I am still able to see you said the man.

And it is good you are able still to be seen.

I asked the man what he meant by that and the man said he had been hanging there thrice nailed to the flank forever and so I asked the man Why? and the man said as if in answer that one empty serving of the golden plate a raven he liked to think was Noah’s—though he said he knew no other—had descended from the knife’s edge of the horizon, had plucked out his right eyeball and then flew away. Beaked it up and out with it, so I asked the man Why? and the man said You have a pleasant face, then I asked the man what had he done to incur such a punishment (Alive I had tried to gaze into the future, he said), this Ravenous wrath and the man said Now I am waiting for the distant relative of the raven by whom I mean to accuse the dove to fly down and pluck out my other ball for an eye on the day on which I will see no longer. And then the man said to me nothing, merely opened toothlessness, revealed to me the moons of his tonsils as I left him in the direction of the golden plate, which was yet again serving up nothing at all.

In heaven, even—dusk, the arrival of night.

I walked. Thanking all the while I had thought to take a pair of new shoes with me upon my ascent, and thinking that if I had ascended up here wearing my old shoes—which, nonetheless, weren’t really that old—I would have been walking around unshod now or at least in destroyed shoes for a parent’s lifetime (have I neglected to mention I, nu, “redeemed” a new pair and just my size just prior to my ascension, my meeting and greeting of Houri? if so, I repent—if it makes any difference, I tried to grab the least expensive, grub those that would be the least missed). (Not that I needed shoes for this earth or rather it’s that the earth of this heaven is incredibly soft, tender, in feeling much like laying hands upon the stomach of a living human as fat as Uncle Alex in respiration and perhaps perspiring lightly after a full dinner of the Queen’s because the Queen always said he was Too fat to have a Queen of his own. Which was mean. She was his sister.)

However my new shoes did prove useful—and, at the same time, met their end—as I approached what appeared to be a stream of last light. A dying ray I walked toward, as there did not seem any way or route around it or over. Indeed it was a stream and a stream that had to be crossed, waded through. Dipping my hands in to drink I understood it was honey, which was refreshing to both hunger and thirst, but extremely difficult to pass over or through. And so I stepped in because there was no other way. No bridge whether of wood, iron or human laid out across the flow foot to head. And so I stepped down because there was no other way to step but down and my stepping foot, my left in its new left shoe, became stuck in the honey. Unable to lift my foot there was nothing I could do but step my other right new foot down into the honey as well. Which I did and now both feet in their shoes were stuck fast. Mire and I. But the honey wasn’t flowing but hardening. Amberizing. And quickly. I nearly lost myself and fell but as I spread my hands wide as if to protest my innocence with wings two eagles descended and each took a forefinger into its beak, pulling all of me out but my shoes. A sacrifice but in the air the eagles began to dogfight with one another or maybe not fight but I would say Will: rather one wanted to fly me one way and the other wanted to fly me another and they made this quite evident as they pulled me apart (as if asking me to decide for them and so for me but if I would how would I communicate that decision? I son of Saul, no son of Solomon)—one away to one edge of the golden plate and the other away to the other edge of the golden plate that is edgeless, but not wanting in the least to displease, to disappoint either and so get myself ripped into two living halves who would probably, that far apart, never meet again and join together in famished Farmisht fraternity for the meal once known as Time For Dinner I kept myself as still as inhumanly possible and allowed them to tug me zigzaggingly Zephyrusly though never quite gently east to westward all over the sky and its vault until I had had enough of what I say was indescribable pain and so wrenched them hard both down to the ground, pointing my forefingers as if the accusations of the two witnesses that are required by the Talmud Aba always invoked to two far and high dunes and there willing strength to my arms to hurl them both down even unto the two dunes, one eagle to each with me nested in the valley between where I landed unharmed though they were killed by the impact.

Brushing sand from himself he gathered the eagles to walk on a wick of smoke to its source, which he sensed originating “within walking distance.” It was a fire in a pit bound by tires and at it there was a boy reclining relaxed.

He offered the boy his eagles to eat as a meal and the boy wrapped the eagles in his headdress that would not burn and buried it under the sand under the fire that required no logs or sticks or twigs nor the tinder of HEADLINES.

Our meal will be ready soon the boy said.

I asked the boy Who are you?

I’m hungry.

Let me introduce you to starving.

And then the boy said he was a boy who had died.

I asked the boy how he had died and the boy asked me the same Who are you?

And so I said to the boy I am a stranger here, a stranger to you in a heaven not mine and the boy asked me How did you come to be here? and so I said to the boy I had been exploded and the boy asked me Who exploded you and why? and so I said to the boy that a boy exploded me, a boy about my same age and yours too, who had hugged me then exploded me outside of a shoestore located on Tchernichovsky Street in Jerusalem the Third City of at least one Empire and the boy said to me he had once—embraced and—exploded someone or other himself, indeed that that’s how he had merited here, by martyring himself he’d earned for his death this life after life and a death that was glorious and so I asked the boy Who? and the boy said to me I don’t know and so I asked him again Who was it? and the boy said all he knew was that it was a boy about his own age and mine too, outside of a shoestore on a street named for a Russian of sorts, he remembered, maybe a Finn the boy said in Jerusalem I’m not sure, though he called it Al Quds (Abul Ala al-Maari Way, he said, maybe it was, a writer, I’m feeling a poet), which is home to Quabbat As-Sakhrah and Al Aqsa meaning the Furthest have I ever been there That far, I asked the boy why as in Why did you do it? and the boy said to me He was not you, do not worry—And he was not you either was what I said to the boy who said to me that our meal was ready and that We should wash before we eat but there was no water to be found, only smoke and a tire.

They ate (in heaven, no food is forbidden), though neither would fill.

As I turned to take leave of the boy the boy said to me Wait a sec.

I asked the boy Why? and the boy said to me You must wait here until I’ll return momentarily and so again I asked the boy Why?

And the boy said to me You have provided the meal of the two quailing eagles and so I must provide in return. Understand. Please and thank you. That you have given me a gift and so in return a gift from me is required. You get it. My man. Understand was what the boy said to me and so I said to the boy it’s not necessary and what’s more it’s not even wanted I said Don’t get angry with me because a wait and a return and its gift however required or merited will only delay me and I must not delay instead I must seek the Two Mountains and I must find the Two Mountains and the Valley between in which I must seek the man named Mohammed and in which I must find the man named Mohammed so as to set everything but everything right, please understand and yes thank you no you. Slap me one. All I have. But by the time I’d finished saying my meaning to him the boy had risen like smoke and was gone and many multitudinously beastly creatures, jackals, had surrounded the fire and prevented my leaving—they were jackals, but were odd, emaciated, crescentshaped and up on the hindmost legs of their twelve: they opened their great alabaster jaws to slash me to my stand, circling they were closing in on me constantly nearer and tighter, furling always as if a scroll of living, sinewy parchment on which was written I would say inscrutable laws (an alphabet of rips, slashmarks, selfinflicted bites, cuts and ingrammatical tears), coming closer ever closer just to smother me into sustenance, theirs, until I could stand just in the fire itself and atop its very flame, which I did knowing I could survive the fire longer if not by that much than I could survive, have survived the fifty it seemed jackals they seemed that they were constantly circling me and closing in on me and so I stood in the fire that instead of burning me or further charring the exploded and so already burnt, died underneath me to a pillar then an ashy wisp in the air and all was again dark and only the sound, the smacking screech of the jackals, which were manifestations of their hunger as insatiable as Time, said to me the jackals still were, where they were still and that I was not theirs, I mean yet.

I stood in the pit ringed with a tire and there awaited the return of the boy.

But just as boys lack so does heaven.

Heaven has no continuity. After before. Heaven has no consequence. No cause of causality. Without let’s say Æffect. A covenant broken. An upheaval, overturned twice. For one: After living a life of morality an eternity is necessary in which to become accustomed to amorality. This is why many of the righteous become many of the wicked in heaven and why they are punished there. Here is why hell, which is as amoral as heaven, hosts more of the righteous than he will encounter anywhere ever.

Morning if you will, the golden plate returned but empty as always.

He walked long and unshod to the Two Mountains to their Valley and so to the man named Mohammed. As he had nothing left of the supplies packed for him by Queen Houri (scavenged willowpills, gnawable hides, scraps of bark, dried beetles and a small sackling of orificial lint), he was again hungry, thirsty and exhausted now too, despite passing wonderments on his way that he had never once before wondered, and that (and the hunger and thirst) (and the exhaustion as well) might have been why they did him nothing at all: For one, the calves that dwelt in the abandoned enormously abaloneous shells of extinct snails enriched him to nihil. For another, neither the rams trumptrumpeting his arrival (rams that to communicate blow and intake through their own horns as their sole means of respiring, horns that in this heaven are attached to these rams, which are so breathing and so communicating understandably endangered, in the reverse of their terrestrial disposition). Nor the fallen brigade of just pubescent boys with wicks set into their nipples, waxen wicks dribbling a sexual sebum from the dead middles of their intumesced areolæ, the wicks fuselike, first pubes first braided then lit—or else the ancient people desiccated to the ostensibly leprous, stuffed with earth (heaven’s provision being the opposite of terra’s: instead of burying a person in the ground heaven burying the ground inside of a person), their arms out legs spread, leaking earth and spitting worms through green mucous reddening membranes while shouting to him screaming at once in a vomitus of that fishbowl gravel and routedirt, Salaam Salaaam Salaaaam—all this rendering him no whys, maybe also because his eyes were fixed as ahead as ahead can ever hope to become fixed in a desert: he had sought and he had found the Valley of Nails.

This was the Valley between the Two Mountains that had been going to him as he had been coming to it.

Dwellingplace of Mohammed, who would right wrong, who would left right. Place of Mohammed who would map the nonexistent. Ruled by Allah the inextant, who would teach the dead.

But was heaven, was the true heaven if it even existed, worth this descent, such a fall through the Valley of Nails, of rusty, bent battered nails, of all these old oxidized, dead senseless, headhammered to wilting nails bloodcaked, dripping remnants, the remains of all flesh, their iron lengths tapering violently to the dullest point possible that still would pierce skin if with the most martyring of pain, points dappled with manifold shards of rust, strands of sinew, hunks of tendon smeared with yellowish and oily fat, spiraled serpentine in intricate nearly King Solomonaic ornaments of hair in many hues: a lightly spread carpet hovering just above the slumberous bed, a netting of heads’ hair and toupees’ and wigs’ meshing in a rumor of transparency, in the sheerest shades of black, lightest gold, gingy red and gray to smoke’s white floating just atop these nails pointing every which way as if in the shock of total accusation, the sting of absolute blame?

He stood at the lip of the Valley of Nails and said his Salaam then was quiet. We are all the saying of Allah in the voice of the man named Mohammed and so when I say my Salaam to the man named Mohammed I am saying it in his voice and It is Allah that is saying It, through me, for me and as me as well. However I must say it too. My mouth must submit. And so then he said his name on his own. And his address. His Aba’s telephone number, his Queen’s maiden name, which had been Federman, and that of his Queen’s mother, his Queen’s Queen’s (Smilowitz), the half he remembered of the many digited identification number of the MERKAVA Mk. 4 V-12 diesel 48 round he remembered, for such was the tank that his Uncle Alex known as Sasha to everyone but him had half driven through the streets of Gaza at night (before he’d been fully desked) and around its fences around and around them all over again, his tank itself a fence, a fence of one plank in the morning merging into a fence of all tanks and again, Salaam Salaam Salaam Salaam and Salaam to which there was no answer but wind.

A stirring in the Valley, a living presence that then incredibly without disturbing the nails, their disposition and without, either, the warning of a rattle, the dull clinkclank of slimy chains—enormously a serpent slithers out of the Valley its naildark tail’s forever length scraped and sliced both by the nails it lived among and by the nail it was, rendering its skin always in a state of shed, always in many states of many sheds no longer. The snake hisses me in, intimates I would say that it would guide me in and through, would lead me to the Valley’s other lip and so to my salvation. I say Yes I say and as the serpent hurls itself at me (as if it’s a great effort to strangle me in), as it lunges directly at me on its one good hind leg—upon its vertiginous volutinous treetrunk that also resembled the corkscrewily coiled pod of a carob wilted—I jump away, I turn and run as if it’s not heaven but the weekend and I’m still in sneakers not schoolshoes or those shoplifted and naked now, turning again to face the snake from atop a promontory of salt excommunicated from heaven’s face where I’m standing, panting, only to behold it fallen limply to the ground, its tongue hanging out in a vicious fork fading from pigpink to darkness distended from the lip of the Valley, as dead as I stand.

Beit

I am of rabbis

a scholar to Torah and other

words, noted in my day

(which was long ago now)

and still in this day

by some who pray at

my grave because they

can’t pray to me as I

am dead in this heaven where,

when soon after my

death a student of mine my

greatest student died and visited

me, found me on a beach-

chair on an approximation of the

beach with its ocean (Netanya)

alongside a film star or starlet I

never know which her name is, was Elizabeth

Taylor and though

she’s dead to look at she looks pretty

good in a light whitish thong and blindingly

bleached sunglasses as my student,

my greatest student he approached, sat

down on a just-then-materializing beach-

chair and said:

Rav, Rabbi, it’s so good to meet you again and

here, but I don’t understand he said

throwing his tricolor beard and their chins in

the cardinal direction of Miss Taylor, Elizabeth

emerging from the wavelets, foam on her nipples

and

all soaked to the bush but I don’t understand he

said, how heaven could be like…this,

how this could be…heaven,

and so I said as I would always say as I stood

up in the shul in Witz but here I was at the

beach (Netanya) I said his name was Nathan,

Natan I said you must trust, but also think because it

might not be my heaven, I threw off my black

unshrouding the bronze of my chest,

it’s her hell

Limitation

Limitation is what I now understand to be the sole attribute of God, at least the sole attribute of God or of a god we are able to apprehend, at least I am.

Allah says through the man named Mohammed through us and so through me. For Allah to say To us is to render us dead from the dead.

If we were to experience anything above and beyond the limitation of God we would be destroyed above and beyond any afterlife’s salvation or Savior. Above and beyond the succor of any appeal unheard. Above and beyond the Above beyond. And unspoken. No paradise can assuage the experience of the illimitability of God. Just as no Eden exists for those who know it as Eden.

As I am translating these thoughts from the air and from the wind of the air that speaks in no language, please excuse my attempts. Atone, repent. Repent for atonement. (And atone for you know.) All like the instructions given upon a box of frozen foods my Aba often bought for dinner when the Queen was away visiting her sister in Arad. Like gel for the last Wash your hands. Rinse and repeat. As we say when we’re live, don’t adjust your TV.

Understand I am making these translations to atone. Understand I am making these translations repent for my failure. Understand and do not pity, sympathize or empathize, identify with nor enable, me.

Who will translate:

To shove your gray tablets down into a moldy old sack wrought of skull, skin and hair, and especially after having held them aloft high above the dunes and the drops in pure, lifegiving sky, is not a pleasant duty but nonetheless duty. What Happened to your Face? the Queen would always ask and what would I answer. Tonguetied to the mullion of a window like the red rope of Rahab. What’s that on your Chin? the Queen would always ask, meaning my mouth, which once was unglassed and silent. But before I say anything, I want to say this: to my Aba, I’ve never smashed rock to make water flow flinty. No one’s ever wrought a calf out of nothing.

I never entered into the Valley of Nails between the Two Mountains (That Might Have Been Clouds), and because I never entered into the Valley of Nails I never had my Salaam answered, neither did I then truly seek the man named Mohammed and so neither did I then find any man by that name. Or by or with any name other. Truly. When it came to the ultimate sacrifice, I demurred. When pain entered into the world, my dream exited flying. When a single choice was offered me I chose another. But a distinction must be made between limitation and weakness much like, in Hellenist heresy, the division obtaining between the light of the Gnostic Pleroma Aba liked that word in Greek And its warring dark and so might I mention that I had, I believe still have and will always have a brother whose name was David and is. A halfbrother actually if he ever was mentioned, he wasn’t. He was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen or eighteen years older than I suppose he still is. And if so then seething. Why I didn’t mention him before is that neither Aba nor the Queen mentioned him much to my memory and that this gloss unlike forgetting was not unintentional. Inexcusably unreasoned as this David was the son of Aba’s previous Queen, a woman who before I was born (of course, of course) had died of a disease that has afflicted many on earth and will go on afflicting them as long as the earth is not flat and is instead shaped like a secular tumor: “well-rounded,” periodshaped, musical-noteshaped, a blob of blue paint upon the neck of Ibrahim’s God—a disease afflicting though only the living (though need I remind anyone that there are less dead people on earth, or in the earth, than there are people now living), which begins gradually with the gradual growth of a third breast, an epiphytic or rather parasitic subspecies of maybe even sentient mammæ and a harder type one too, rather Lumpy and lumpish and Bumpy and bumpisch as Aba he once described it to me one Sunday as we were out walking and talking in the Old City having passed through the Jaffa Gate and walking when talkatively straight as my Aba’s appetite for history and its revelation would allow us to the Kotel, to the Westernmost, Wailingmost, Wallingmost limitation of our need he said it was A big black bumpishness that just grew larger or rather filled you largely despite what the doctors would empty, which despite the nail of any needle would never be enough to empty it all—Aba himself never went to doctors, he went to the Queen, by which I mean my first one and only his second—and so this Queen, that former Queen whom I never knew her neither her name even she was blackened as if burned like a bush once consumed, turned Big Aba once said and full of blackness (Aba saying this with a measure of ash and a shekel, one in each lung of his scales), first the big black bobbing lump then three big black bosomy breasts budded up on her who She was very beautiful and once a very very famous concert pianist too (according to the official photograph of her young in Romania Aba kept in the pantry locked with Göbbels, his gun), had three big black breasts that swelled to take over her entirety or rather the rest of her shriveled into, shrunk, was sucked into these three huge black boobing breasts that themselves merged into this one single unified huge hard black breast, A protuber Aba who he was THE professional tuner once said he became such as he was because she’d been THE professional pianist: One enormous blob ball of cancer Aba said once it was he Had to sit with and pet—as if to bounce?—all night and with the dipped then wrung out washcloth he applied to its roundingly dull shininess though In the morning it had lost its roundness, by then it had further dulled off to become this hulking huge big black square As hard as rockstone Aba he was pacing Around and around and glancing at nervously as if it had just fallen through the ozone on down from space, Aba circling Aba circumambulating seven times as she’d done for their marriage vows, then the shattering of the glasses of the seven subsequent nights of dinner and dancing in celebration of their blessedness praying prayers my Aba didn’t know he knew as he was circling all this time this monstrous circling this monstrously hulking huge big black square stone rock of death that had crushed and collapsed the bed, their marriage bed, which had been a gift from her parents my Queen, Aba’s second Queen she later threw out to the Poor her piano It was just sitting there in the room, Aba said foursquare her taking up the whole room entire until Aba he that afternoon said he just shut the door and locked it (as he had another piano to tune, to Take out of warp, had scheduled an appointment, always did or just always said so) and returned that night the eve of Passover to relieve the former Hadassah Medical Center nurse who she was now named Hadassah too, and Russian as well as short and Almost as bald as a hardboiled egg at the Seder Aba had hired out of the hospice, nightshift rotation and asked her to stay On Call until the very end with its ice on the lips and the huddling snuggle but found her the nurse gone when he opened the door to THE ROOM, in their room all there was in there was this K’aba black stone taking up the whole entire room and encroaching too, its death up against the wall of the open doorway As if threatening to spill its immaculate hardness over the threshold and into the hall as Aba once said—upon leaving the Kotel and returning home the way we’d arrived, through the Old City through the Jaffa Gate, toward Jaffa Road again and its walk to Tchernichovsky Street then down it—he Just slammed the door hard shut then locked it again and went to pace around and around nothing at all, to guard over nil at the funeral home, ANTSCHEL’S FUNERAL HOME the sign said that we would pass on the walk from the Old City to home if ever we took the shortcut we never did.

David was not spoken of (and is obviously not spoken of anymore, in this way, by this family), because at the age of eighteen, which is the age of induction into military service that for him would have most probably meant Uncle Alex’s Givati Brigade whose symbolic mascot is the farting fox plumed in a purple beret, he forsook Jerusalem and the Eden surrounding for a position in Hollywood across the finger of sea and the hand of the ocean—exchanging our trees for their open palms—where he met and then lived with and maybe still lives with a fellow Hollywood transplant, an aspiring Movieperson whose sex meaning gender was less important to Aba and even to the Queen (Aba’s then-new-Queen, my own) and still would be, if only, than the religion—sexual orientation—this Movieperson subscribed to, subscribes. An affiliation this Movieperson’s name and his way of pronouncing it Her apparently made quite clarion clear. A lifestyle that David’s severing of phone cords and unreturned postcards made even clarion clearer though not the clarionest, which was Aba’s refusal to ever think or even know of him again as his son and the Queen’s full support of such a decision, which might have made her love me even more, which was Nice.

But Moviepeople and my halfbrother are not important as such. What is important is that I, a son of my Aba’s old age and the Queen’s hopeful youth, did not enter into the Valley of Nails to save myself from the inexact succor of this heaven, my hell. What David did and maybe still does is David’s, and it’s my parent’s life to have thought that a weakness, a flaw. In that standing at the lip of the Valley of Nails I had a revelation. A revelation not swallowing of the earth but my own. Whatever David did or did not do—and I never knew him before the now in which I know all—was done, or undone, to others too, no matter intention. Not the sex but the dodging, the flee. Which if not unforgivable has passed unforgiven. I must never forget. That I have only myself to answer for. Now.

That I am alone here with no parents.

With nothing to dodge, nowhere to flee.

And a stranger only insofar as I am thought strange.

His turning back from the lip of the Valley was not weakness or failure. Neither was it limitation however. As that might is not of me or ours. Rather what he did was give choice to choice, put question to question. What I did I did, and is done. Remember that the dead cannot sacrifice. Never again. And that it is not for the living to judge any of the sacrifices that others are bound to make to keep living, we all are—which is what Aba always said about Cain and Abel in answer to my question as to why I didn’t have natural brothers? as I’d always wanted one or more of them, any thousands of millions worldwide the Queen always said she’d been asking ever since I knew it was moot.

Listen, when one choice is a Jacob and when one—the other—choice is an Esau, I sought the brotherhood merited in, and gracing, surrender.

Listen we can say limitation too, when we say about the borders of Heaven, the lines of demarcation, even of, yes, inevitable, attrition. To say Heaven is borderless, without borders as if they were unnecessary, superfluminously superfluous, is to say the thing that is not. Or at least A thing that is not. Rather Heaven only appears, is only sensed first dully and then, once accustomed, dimly perceived and then said to be—known and—understood, as borderless. In life. Indeed Heaven must be understood as borderless if it is to have any borders at all, with its reflection holding as well: that because Heaven does undoubtedly, indubitably, have borders, it must be first sensed only dully, then, once accustomed to speculation of such kind, dimly perceived then said to be understood—by those alive, on earth still, with no opportunity to truly know All—it must be understood or at least said To be understood by the living as limitless, illimitable, encompassing All, absolute, totally without end. (After all it’s only because the possible not to say probable human span is not eternity that humans such as I once was ever valued our lives.)

But let us drop our other weapons and ask: then where, exactly, are these borders? the endlands of Heaven? what do these boundaries consist of? when were they mapped out, demarcated, drawn in the sand? and who guards them who guards the guards and all of what’s required to pass? questions the—an—answer to which might be this: that Heaven is wherever both bodily and of-the-mind the people of any given Heaven might dwell. And how is the population decided? How is a particular demographic arrived at? Outside this encampment, In the beyond, there Heaven does not exist. Through time, through dimensions and their lands, a Heaven’s size, its volume, a Heaven’s space, its mass and its density, its purchase and purview is that of its inhabitants, its incarnates or more faithfully to all its incarnators if you will say It along with me. Wheresoever they might roam and wander, so roams and wanders Heaven. How and what they think and know (what they think they know), so is the sum thought and knowledge of Heaven. Why they, so why Heaven. Who they, Heaven. As, Heaven.

Indeed the walls of Heaven, which are walls, quite physically, actually, appreciably, walls, move with the people, up and rearrange themselves, reposition, set incursions, Interfada hazarded against and within the Infidelis as We the people as the Americans say set themselves toward realization, toward truest experience of Heaven, and so wall in and wall out that that is made false, rendered untrue, anew each edging of the golden plate—or dish—serving up no sustenance at all. Insubstantial. In fact under this quite contested, controversial, interpretation, the vast golden plate is not necessarily a dish of gold or a plate (which would explain say some newly arrived proponents of this interpretation why it serves up strictly nothing, or nothingness), rather it is an always moving, always wandering, always movable, always wanderable, hole in the wall that is the sky, a necessary hole allowing no escape into the light and warmth that both says and means death from this Heaven this hole in the wall of vaulted sky guards more securely than any quote truer unquote wall in its stead, any repair, any vaulting sky in its place, could ever hope to.

Because Allah says through me Who can sense walls in such darkness? That such a hole is necessary, a prerequisite, to our knowledge of the wall and as importantly of what it walls in and out. Up and down. I think of David sleeping, a wall suspended horizontally just a breath, newborn, above his sleeping form. And nearer, so near that when he awakes, when he opens his eyes, their lids become stuck in a crack, become wedged, in a crack badly mortared, mortally, between two immense, possibly loosening, stones. The wall halves his Hollywood room. No one lives above. It would be disrespectful to place feet upon his wall—a floor without anything atop, not even a rug, a shelf without a book, merely a rung left ladderless—one night, I know, the earth will quake and he’ll breathe this wall in. Deepening sleep. Try to say a throat of breathed stone.

Alef

On Rosh Hashanah, which

means the head

of the year in that language the

new year in Heaven, which

does not know from new

years we still try to observe it’s

funny, our habits don’t

die like we do

On Rosh Hashanah,

which means the head of

the year in that language in

Heaven you can ask for

God for one thing

On Rosh Hashanah,

which means the Head

of the Year in that language

in Heaven you can ask

God for one favor,

one lack,

won’t insult Him by asking for that assuredly One thing only that might be missing,

that you might be missing,

even in a heaven that’s yours—

People ask for

Everything on that Day of Days,

Ask for bad knees again, bad teeth, ask for

Car problems, erectile dysfunction, ask for

Everything except what they

need.

Maturing To Infinity

A boy grows. It’s inevitable as is any Aba’s pride, by which I mean heartache—the two of them panned, weighed in honest enough scales slung across the gray dead of his eyes. A boy grows because he must. To know the earth from further. Height marked short above the threshold, at seven, eight years a full two hinges tall. A screw stripped to posture. Turn the knob. A boy matures. Even in heaven. Even in the wrong heaven, which, in the endless end, is more a question of Who. Behold the Who becoming another Who who by the time he’s become yet another Who is by then wholly unknowable. Me. Open the door. An eternal boy matures eternally. What do you want to be when you grow up? the Queen always asked though she had all the answers, as if breasts to suck to satisfaction, hers as much as mine. A nipple doctor? A slip ‘n’ fall lawyer? Wait. Maybe a government minister? An Israeli perhaps? A Semite? I know—a Jew?

No not a doctor and no not a lawyer and no not a government minister—not even with nor without a portfolio. And Yes who wants to be a Jew when they’re grown?

Maturing to infinity is not the worst of all means. Neither is it the worst of all ends. It is a becoming unnoticed and unnoticing. Nonetheless a becoming. A becoming still. To mature is not to grow up but to grow In, is another dimension of growth I was never to have realized had I survived, had I lived. No one ever does in life, I mean realize, recognize, Actualize is what the Americans say except of course for the Cabbalists and the—good—Slavic poets and that ancient I think she was a woman in that tablecloth stained then knotted around her head into a kerchief the Queen she gave a shekel to outside the Kotel because her as Aba said Birdosaurus pecker of a face seemed to prick her and hard. But no not even them I say, that the realization of true growth occurs only in heaven, that only in heaven can this growth begin only to never end ever. That in heaven one grows eternally and infinitely In. Through yourself. Into your skin.

In heaven maturation is unending. Maturation is ripening not to rot but to riper. To grow unendingly is the ideal, with an aspiration to tempered by a recognizance of the impossibly ripest: a sheen of skin under which our lives are packed deep, densely, juice straining the thin peel of neck, exploding the seeds of our Adam’s apples to sow a wind for the gleaning of our inconsolable widows. Upon the Messiah, we will become arisen as if worms to our fruit, to live within and without the world simultaneously, surfacing for air, then again burrowing down to the core. Bite us in half and we will grow back ever bigger. Call us a snake and our tongues will no longer be bitten. Understand. This is what we once believed. I am sorry. This was once the belief that was us. We beat our breasts at which we have suckled our gods and our murderers. Forgive us. Forget nothing.

Yea though I walk around this heaven unshod a boy, in appearance to all those who would not know me to be me a snotfaced pitfisted bratchild of ten fat years of lean age, the mind within—or lo the soul, if that you prefer—has or was gifted all knowledge at death (along the way losing any sense of personal, or let’s even say tribal, achievement), and, further, was given the opportunity, perhaps burdened or curseladen with the opportunity to know itself, to know within, in depths denied to the living. To the floorless ocean floor of all mind from whence we arose to beach ourselves back when. Maturation to infinity means evolution, though not of the kind they taught at the school on Tchernichovsky Street the Queen, for one, didn’t want me to know about but that Aba he never seemed much to mind: Galápagolgatha & co., all that business with the ape monkeys mating abominably with their cousins the chimprillas, hooting themselves into pillowy moustaches, argyle, paisleyhatched, widowsheaved, fleurs-de-lis socks limp like intricately patterned foreskins retracted from their tushwiping, opposable paws, armpitsniffing themselves into most auspicious bank and clerical positions, nits and grubs being rendered vital to the matrix of State, a centrifugal integration of instinct as opposed to the six nightless days of Creation and only then, the prime eternal seventh of rest—Shabbos, when the true effort actually began.

To say again because repetition. Because repetition is the death of death.

To say maturation to infinity means an evolution beyond who you were born to be. Means a boiling to the point of air. Means an assimilation to the sky and its vault. Never forget the vault. To say an escape from all conditions and contingencies inescapable in life. A means of divestment, of all assets to prove anything but. A denial of inheritance. Dissent from who. A negation of lines, fences, walls in the shade of their very existence. Exigencies. Means that though I am in the wrong heaven it is only because I think this is the wrong heaven (and so to say that once I believed the wrong heaven was possible, that wrongheaveness was in fact fungible, a presence the universe does not contradict nor even challenge). Doubtless I will mature past all thought at some future of eternity. Now. Or other. Soon in the oases’ prism of soon, I await. An I, I wait doubtless.

Listen and I will say what I have said. In this heaven as in any heaven I am no longer a Jew. In this heaven as in any heaven I am no more a Jew than I’m not. Jewful and Jewless. Listen. Then hear. Understand. To be religious in heaven is to be truly fanatic. Every day is no day and is Sabbath. There is no more reward. There is nothing to live for and no whys to pray. Listen in no heaven am I named what I once thought my name was. What once I Jonathan knew my name to be. What my Jonathan had been according to those who had named me (Aba and the Queen, after my greatgrandAba dead) and not what my name is of myself. My name for myself is now merely Listen, to follow the laws, which are merely the hatreds, of the living while in heaven is to disrespect your own death. To adapt. No longer. To survive. Not anymore. In no heaven is my Aba my Aba, and the Queens here are no Queen of mine. To be forever estranged, even amid your own congregation, and to be forever wandering, even within your own encampment, and only because they make me a stranger, and only because they make me a wanderer, they who would be I only if, I who would be they only why—the selfelected elect, the selfchosen chosen, the selfrighteously rightful inhabitants of this heaven who are still religious, amazingly so, even here, who have here become even more religious, ever more religiously religious, amazingly so, especially here. Listen to my mouth disembodied. Hear through my ears, one pierced, the other is shredded. Understand through me exploded, dispersed, ensharded, in pieces. That parts of me: a finger, a toe, a nose or else a liver, an antique residue of our anatomy: a spleen—they are still occasionally what those alive would regard as sentimental. Nostalgic. But this too will pass. Sometimes the death of these habits or traditions or laws (whatever you want to call them, they’re called) saddens me in the extreme. Other times the passing of these frequencies, these inevitabilities, these inescapables, makes me happier than the vault can contain. Mostly however I am ambivalent about and to this death. Thriving off the fund of numb. And so to my death too. Sunned. Both were inevitable. Are. Or at least one happened and another will happen, and so you will notice that I still say and so think Will happen because a mind of mine still needs to think of or at least wants to believe in a future. Listen that that too will pass. Into waiting for waiting. Which will pass as well, on its own. There is no waiting in the future and there is no future in the (you understand). Listen and then passing will pass. Hearing too. Again await the all over again. Understand then listen anew.

A part of me: usually the head of my penis, or my left sagging testicle, the enraged animal yellowing a kidney of mine or else a fetus forever gestating there, maybe the taboo hindquarter of either thigh, perhaps my right fluttery eyelid—all destroyed once, all to be made whole once again and again in the sanctuary of every memory had—a part of me, whichever part, now still holds fast, cleaves one can say in my second language: Cleave, which in American means both To rend and To adhere, To cling close or Cleave that Aba said often Cleave that Aba always said was one of his favorite words in any language, in any of their opposing definitions sundering two meanings from one sound. Whichever shard of me cleaves to, still cleaves to and must cleave to history overwhelming. Whole half a millennium of waiting and waiting for redemption when our true redemption was in the waiting. And waiting. Again scales, slung across the whites of my Aba’s dead eyes again. If only he could have seen me now. And especially now that he can’t. An allowance, allow me. I left my permit in my pants on my body in blood on the earth. This me an indulgence as harmless as the Three popsicles? how the Queen always said You indulge him too much and how Aba wouldn’t disagree before dinner, bathtime, bed and then sleep (the way those red pops would melt from ice to water is my stain on the street, sticky with litter and pain). And so while this me lasts, however longingly long, I should like to consecrate this homesick history, mine—to vial and stop this mad gushing past. To save it. At least a portion thereof. To store it up for the famine attendant on hope. Bottle it corked for the Friday. Not for the sake of martyrs or teardrop lineages, of victories and all that insensate fell star stuff who could ever have hoped to have understood in life. But for and only for the sake of Them, theirs a sake of one dark’s duration it seems to me now if only for Their sake. I and this is almost too difficult, too said for me to say that I cleave to this identity for and only for the memory—mine—of my Aba and the Queen. For them how I loved them. And for the expectations they once had for my own memory. Expectations becoming love in their ripening. A memory to be had by others. Becoming. Others I never made in an image I felt becoming the world.

A “Metaphor”

Alef-Beit-Alef. Heaven is like the early evening or as Aba always said Dusk into evening into night late night into early morning or as Aba always said Dawn of my tenth birthday the night before the day I died the morning I was murdered exploded incendiaried bombed blown up blasted away any way I died (but I didn’t know that then I only knew that the Queen wanted me needed me to go to sleep but first to have my bath and made Aba make sure of that though only after our dinner beginning with mushroom soup during which Aba said that his Aba my grandAba had known all the different kinds and multitudinously multinuminous species and other taxonomical types of mushrooms that he had picked them for years From the forests around his house in It wasn’t then ha’Ukraine Aba said It’s called mycology the study of mushrooms this Mushroomologic that there must be something to it this Mushroomtry this Mushroomsophy he went on and on laughing to himself until the Queen said to Be quiet and eat your soup it’s getting cold The Soup Aba always ate with a tablespoon and I always ate with a teaspoon though it was soup and not tea with mint which was served later though sometimes To demonstrate solidarity with my son as Aba always said he too ate his soup and not just mushroom soup but also pea soup and at other times beet soup which is called borscht and tomato soup too occasionally with a teaspoon and not the tablespoon Aba usually used though he never even once ate a table with it and which the Queen always used to eat her mushroom soup too which was set alongside a fork to eat her salad with Three firm ripe tomatoes the Queen always said and three peeled cucumbers and one pepper green with envy of its seeds removed to the trash as the Queen always said A few small green onions say three of them For good measure then olive oil good olive oil and the juice of half a lemon and salt and spices Hyssopus Aba always said and sometimes even When I’m feeling adventurous as the Queen would say when she’d added ginger grated or else a few chilies or at other times maybe a very small pinch of pepper Cayenne then mixed them all up together and they’re called a salad these agglomerates of different vegetables liquids and spices this amalgamation of diverse produce sprinklings and oil is called by just the one word Salat meaning prayer in Arabic the most important word to the Queen this Salad prayer the Queen always said to Eat your salad to grow up strong and live forever with your health as if a wife and so we did my Aba and I ate our salad and then the fish which fish I didn’t know because while it’s easy relatively easy to say that this is a chicken and that this is a cow that this is a lamb and that this is a turkey it’s difficult Relatively difficult as Aba always said that even meat it was Einsteinian or arguable at least for me to differentiate between fish like the two unrelated indistinguishable Dagim I had one I flushed the other I hope’s still swimming around Lake Kinneret is what I called his bowl the Sea of Galilee whose fish we had with a dill and lemon juice and paprika and mayonnaise homemade mayonnaise sauce to dip then for dessert a platter of fruits dates figs apricots and pears dried and fresh and nuts that was a present for my Aba from An elderly admirer all the way out in Gilo whose piano the previous week he my Aba had tuned for free then cleared the table to leave the dishes Yesterday you forgot the pots and pans to the Queen so that Aba he could give me my bath in the water he first had to negotiate with always first had to negotiate with negotiations were always going on in my house our apartment because our water was strange or rather it was that the process necessary to obtaining a temperature of the water or waters appropriate to desired for any given purpose say bathing me was A process as strange and involved as that of any political negotiation Aba always said what exactly it was was that the hot water tap produced only the most hot water gave forth the height of hot water and that oppositely the cold water tap gave forth only the coldest of cold waters almost freezing though not scientifically freezing as Aba once explained was o° Anders Celsius of Uppsala and so to achieve a livable median an acceptable if mud-died middleground of water temperature for conducive to let’s say bathing me required An artful and experienced manipulation of both taps and so both temperatures the boiling and the freezing to A happy medium Aba always said the two taps those twinned faucets pouring individually because it was An old porcelain tooth bathtub Aba always said it had to be replaced soon enough Any day now the Queen always said and so the mingling and so the mating of the two waters As if husband and wife was accomplished not down at the Dead Sea Desalinization Plant or in the Jerusalem Reservoir then through a unified pipe up through the length of a solitary faucet but in the tub and on me and around me and over me splashing in the tub having my bath with my splish toys the boats and the buoys and the frogs those many rubberized squeezies that I leaped enormously as if they were ADD/ADHD lambs mated with the most unmedicated of rams from the wilting lilies of the gunky green faucets to crash the cruising ships and tankers to bob the buoys transmitting their blip bleeping signals of distress gurgling as the soap became drowned in the whirlpool lost between my thighs just as my Aba wanted To wash my punim Aba always said then to wash my hair and rinse the stinging yellowgreen snot from out of my nostrils and hair which he said resembled a certain bush Moses once talked to in the wilderness of Sinai the wide purple towel the Royally purple one the Queen’s extra I always got to use when she didn’t need it when its Purpler twin wasn’t in the wash and smelling of her and even feeling of her skin that softness it was Aba’s as he pinched at me still dripping running from his pinches and dripping still soapy water to darken the hallway’s Oriental rug actually Persian Sultanabad and dizzyingly ornamented with various flora that as dead didn’t require my watering as Aba chased and cornered me against the wall of the hall under the photographs of relatives dead themselves but interred as image in wood under glass then picked me up upside down to walk more like stagger with me hanging my wet head down between his legs to my room banging my head then one of his bad knees usually always his weakest one that he hurt once in East Jerusalem and once again in Eilat on the door to my room and saying a word I know but I’m not allowed to repeat as he my Aba began with the story he always told me about the Rabbi of Polyn or with the stories he always now told me about the Rabbi of Polyn or else the one he always told me too about an eagle or sometimes a hawk or a raptor or maybe even a raven at other times that flew down when Aba was out on incursion excursion or exercises up in Lebanon that flew down and stole off his helmet which got him into serious trouble Another story he said it flew with it off and away because Birds Aba once said are the first to disrespect national sovereignty because birds are always the first to disregard territorial borders flew with Aba’s helmet straight to Jerusalem and there to Tchernichovsky Street our building and its third floor to the Queen’s kitchen window which was always open because as Aba would always say We should always keep everything open Aba always said Our windows our doors our minds and our hearts and the Queen who took it of course Aba said as a sign that Aba was dead either killed by the enemy or else in quote friendly unquote fire how he was hostaged or missing in action until Aba came home a week later because Aba he always came home and found Aba said that the Queen had not only just found out she was Pregnant with me he said but had also just used his helmet as a bowl in which to mix up the batter of a cake in some versions an apple cake in others a plum or plain bundt of any cake she was making for the old women woman Or maybe it was a man Aba said Aba didn’t remember and often told it either way who then lived downstairs in what was later the Maier’s apartment but who now was dead and is still who Died a day before or else After your bris Aba would alternately say after the first mohel he didn’t show up with the guests waiting around like pent livestock then the second mohel the first mohel’s son didn’t show up either by the time they’d already gorged themselves on the rugelach all ten trays of the stuff I’d had to order in from Marzipan down on Agrippas Street Only the best meaning only the most costly for the Queen as she wasn’t just then in any shape to slave in the kitchen for all these guests drunk with the schnapps and Wodka I’d laid out and some even felt it necessary to leave early and others to go to sleep to take a nap on the couch by the time the third mohel he showed up the son of the second mohel and the grandson of the first his grandAba who finally did it and did it well though he and despite his having been brought up as a Kotzker a Gerer anyway insisted on sucking away in surprise Aba said I was nervous it being the third mohel’s first bris yours I mean being the first er um putz the Rav ever cut though all turned out fine better for you than for me I mean what with the amount of drinking I did even after it all was over and you were back to bed sleeping soundly Aba said as you should be sleeping right now it’s so late and so instead tonight that night I mean to say he my Aba told me no story at all not the Polisher Rebbe story and not the story of Lebanon Aba said it was after all Altogether too late and said further that if I was good and went to sleep right away meaning not much later than now then he would owe me not one but amazingly two stories for tomorrow night we had begun bargaining haggling handling like this was the Shuk as if this were a table I had had in a past life in the marketsquare at Peshischa and not my very own bedroom in which Aba would be beholden to me for both the story set in Poland and the Lebanon story and so I said to him Aba OK which is an American word we liked to say to one another I said 10-4 B.ravo C.harlie Fine by the movies agreed to his terms You’re the boss I said which we liked to say too because what else could I do besides what I did which was to try to get to sleep right away because now at least it felt like I had something to think about something to remember to preserve like pickled pomegranate or like the jellies the preserves and spreads that downstairs Misses Soloff flecked with the rusty rind of the etrog both sour and sweetened them the many versions of these manifold stories I remembered or tried to remember To compare and contrast them as my teacher Moreh Kulp at the school terribly next door on Tchernichovsky Street always said to hold them both up as if the two tablets of the Ten Commandments to smash against Aba’s fivefold versions on the night that would begin not tomorrow but the day after that hasn’t yet dawned but when Aba he said the Shema O Israel the Adonai our Elohaynu the Adonai is One both Adonai and Elohaynu and many other names just as much I didn’t know as he kissed me goodnight Laila Tov Yom Huledet Sameach as he turned out the light I found much to my astonishment dismay mystification perplexity too all at once I couldn’t just then remember any version of either of the two stories he my Aba most often told whether it be the Poland story or the Lebanon story or even the occasional Time the Taxi got me Lost in Queens and I Missed your Cousins’ Wedding story I couldn’t remember any of them that night not even my favorite which was the Polisher Rebbe story my favorites which could have been on any one occasion any one of three Polisher Rebbe stories none of which I could remember that night that in one of them the Polisher Rebbe was asked by a Prominent Gentile though it’s not known as the Prominent Gentile Story “Do gentiles have souls?” and the Polisher Rebbe answered him “that since you a gentile and a Prominent Gentile at that asked that question that that question must then stand as your proof and as ours that Yes you indeed do have a soul” while in another a man he’s a Jewish man and he’s dying an Old Poor Jewish Man he’s dying as usual and the Polisher Rebbe he tells him to go to the Polisher Priest and convert to have himself converted to Christianity Catholicism whatever it is that they believe in the Popes and so the poor old Jewish man goes to the Polishist Priest and converts and lives In fact he lives only because he converts but when the next New Year comes around Rosh Hashanah meaning the Head of the Year how he heads to shul anyway his feet take him there and for the very first time since his conversion it’s as if he felt he had to go was impelled felt compelled by Something the God of the Other and the moment he crosses over the threshold of the shul the synagogue it falls in on itself collapses and crushes all the assembled praying to death their own Kaddish in the third Polisher Rebbe story the Polisher Rebbe receives prophecy in a dream though in another occasional variant a highly placed and paid Police Informant informs the Polisher Rebbe that gevalt a pogrom is to take place tonight and so Der Polisher Rebbe that was his name he goes to all of the town’s the village’s the shtetl’s tailors and from them collects tailors’ dummies all of their mannequins and then has them all dressed up like Jews then sends for all the Jews’ goats and cows and calves and chickens too for all of their animals and has them too all dressed up like Jews Aba said Like Hasidim they looked with their dark hats and dark suits and white shirts and dark yarmulkes and white tzitzit and black payos and cool Asian imitation RAYBAN sunglasses on all these tailors’ dummies for the gentiles Goyim to slaughter instead then evacuates all the Jews all the Real Jews to another town a nearby village a neighboring shtetl though just for the night during which they won’t sleep a fortieth of a wink because when they all return to their shtetl the next morning early at the rise of the sun they find a whole ghetto of Jews they’d never known before whom they’d never seen before in their lives never heard of Jews all cleaning up from last night’s chaos disaster sweeping up window glass mess fathers and mothers mopping up children all the old tailors’ dummies and livestock brought to life come to life conscience and good housekeeping and so the Jews have to leave there’s no room for them anymore in their old houses Ancestral homes Aba said they have to abandon in search of another homeland to find yet another Source Aba said are the stories that night I forgot the stories I couldn’t recall I couldn’t remember though I tried no matter how hard squinting my eyes pressed and pushed on my stomach like I do when I’m trying to go to the toilet to Pish before bed which I forgot Aba always insisted upon but just as standing At military attention at then sitting upon the Waterless old newspaper older magazine toilet that night lying I soon enough tired myself out with just thinking or actually not thinking at least trying not to think and instead occupied myself with reading all of the titles off all the books high up on the bookshelf all the way across my huge it seemed room it seemed in the dark facing my bed to swallow me with its many mouths that were only shelves of more teeth that were books but I could only make out I could only read the titles of the books that were closest to the crack of the door the sliver of hallway’s glowworm nightlight I insisted on remaining open and on and the books they just had the same titles I knew from every night I remembered A HANDBOOK OF SOCCER RULES a few fake abridged versions for kids of the selected works of Jules Verne HOW TO SPEAK GERMAN IN TEN EASY LESSONS and then as a bookend a Tanach with my barmitzvah portion bookmarked with a leaf from the “aspen” in our backyard I had to begin studying in the fall the same portion my Aba had the first one which is the portion called Genesis of the book that’s also called Genesis because In the beginning I had a late summer birthday like my Aba with the Haftorah from Isaiah Fear not for I am with thee I will bring thy seed from the east and gather thee from the west I will say to the north Give up and to the south Keep not back bring my sons from afar and my daughters from the ends of the earth the same titles I knew from each night I did this which was almost every and still I don’t know why I didn’t just go ahead and up and rearrange all the books on my shelves why I didn’t just put new titles there move some old ones around others but I never did and so quickly it seemed but it probably wasn’t I was bored of the titles and so moved I wandered my eyes to the left or so to stare dead ahead at the crack of the draft at the door at the seam the scar of the suicide attempt of the wall its light that was coming through shining though getting narrower and narrower or rather becoming shorter and shorter smaller it seemed as if a rectangle becoming a square becoming a yellow circle that was like a block I used to play with that the Queen gave away to my new cousin in Arad I never would meet becoming a generic cereal O I would string as if to bead a bracelet or necklace on a shed of the Queen’s hair drowned in my milk whole in the morning becoming just a pinpoint a prick the sting of a wasp one for both of my eyes and yet one for each too imprinting itself singeing themselves incising and gashing until despite the pain I fell asleep finally I must have fallen asleep at long last I fell asleep I did as dead as I am now and will be forever and there yes here yes this was what I am after this is what I’ve been after what I was trying to say what I’m saying that heaven is like: when I fell asleep and into a dream but into a dream THE Dream that might or might not be new novel or original but I’m sorry it was a dream at least I’d never had before and certainly not since I dreamed of dreaming and that was it was a dream of a dream only in which I was in bed with the covers with the Aeroplanes on them the helicopters’ propellers and rotors tangled up to my nose with my eyes closed I saw what I thought what then happened was that I was sleeping and that I knew I was dreaming that I was dreaming of sleeping and in that sleep I was dreaming that was it that was all I was forced was compelled it’s that I was cursed to dream myself dreaming and with everything around me the same and unchanging and me unable to change it or myself I was straightened into this dream of dream into this dream of a dream of a dream with as many levels or hierarchies or heavens’ worth of consciousnesses if you want attendant upon the phenomenon as I can now attempt to admit to know understand that was it was without revelation there was no revelation there was none at all to be had and instead though it’s a poor bargain if you’d ask me now if only you could only if I could answer in return the assurance of existence that’s it times tenfold that’s all that I am shining I’m just shining through the horror just through the raw yolk of existence cracking a shine through its knobless handleless shell it was horror yes because It was horror or rather more accurately more faithfully It was terror yes more like terror that was it was terror it was abject terror abject total terror yes terror that’s what heaven is like that absolute truly terrible dreaming of dreaming of mine.

Yom Hazikaron, 2004

Joshua Cohen is the author of five other books, the story collections Bridge & Tunnel (& Tunnel & Bridge); Aleph-Bet: An Alphabet for the Perplexed (with artist Michael Hafftka); and The Quorum; and the novels Cadenza for the Schneidermann Violin Concerto; and Witz, an 800-page telling of the life of the last Jew. His fiction, essays, and reviews have appeared in Harper’s Magazine, The New York Times Book Review, Bookforum, Triple Canopy, Tablet Magazine, The Forward, The Believer, N+1, and in the anthology, 30 Under 30: Innovative Fiction by Younger Writers (Starcherone, 2011), as well as in many other venues. He was born in southern New Jersey in 1980, and currently lives in the Coney Island section of Brooklyn.

Also available from Starcherone Books

Kenneth Bernard, The Man in the Stretcher: previously uncollected stories

Donald Breckenridge, You Are Here

Blake Butler and Lily Hoang, eds., Thirty Under Thirty: An Anthology of Innovative Fiction by Younger Writers

Peter Conners, ed., PP/FF: An Anthology

Jeffrey DeShell, Peter: An (A)Historical Romance

Nicolette deCsipkay, Black Umbrella Stories, illustrated by Francesca deCsipkay

Raymond Federman, My Body in Nine Parts, with photographs by Steve Murez

Raymond Federman, Shhh: The Story of a Childhood

Raymond Federman, The Voice in the Closet

Raymond Federman and George Chambers, The Twilight of the Bums, with cartoon accompaniment by T. Motley

Sara Greenslit, The Blue of Her Body

Johannes Göransson, Dear Ra: A Story in Flinches

Joshua Harmon, Quinnehtukqut

Harold Jaffe, Beyond the Techno-Cave: A Guerrilla Writer’s Guide to Post Millennial Culture

Stacey Levine, The Girl with Brown Fur: Tales and Stories

Janet Mitchell, The Creepy Girl and other stories

Alissa Nutting, Unclean Jobs for Women and Girls

Aimee Parkison, Woman with Dark Horses: Stories

Ted Pelton, Endorsed by Jack Chapeau 2 an even greater extent

Thaddeus Rutkowski, Haywire

Leslie Scalapino, Floats Horse-Floats or Horse-Flows

Nina Shope, Hangings: Three Novellas

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