You ain’t a dog, is you? the goy asks, lowers his gun, then sets it down against the altar’s fence, squints an eye, the other’s patched with the pad of a waterlily. I ain’t going to say it again, he says. Stand up. Stay. And so Benjamin heels, straightens out, cracks His back. I want you to take off your skins, slowly now, you’re already halfway. And so Benjamin begins to strip, easylike: disrobes His clothes, first shoes and socks, then plural pants, the goy stares, everything, he says, so He gets Himself nude out of the fruity underwear, and the pressed pinned shirts of His father, lays all in a wrinkling heap — throw it over…and the goy slips Him a slop pail on a pulley slid along a downed powerline. Not folding ever, He stuffs His clothes down into the pail, which the goy in the log reels in over the fence, then shimmies up a tree inside, logged torso and legs smoldering trunk, he descends with the clothes he heaps at the rear of the altar. He leans over, strikes a match from his mouth on himself and fires the pile, whistling through oozy gums he blows on it to burn through the soak — puny smoke, the flames gutter: this offering refused, Benjamin’s pants emerge only singed.
The goy lifts his lily, squints what’s his one good eye at Him and asks, what’re you doing here? To stick a twig in one ear, stick out the other. You lost? Got a name?
I’m fleeing.
He scratches at himself, raising splinters — they after you, too?
Benjamin thinking, who isn’t?
He peeks past the goy into the fence’s interior, nudging up on His tiptoes and around the altar between them: the growth seems to clear, comes sparser, unnaturally nude; resembling nothing but a risen scalp, a barren balding from haphazard uprooting, use, trod upon, paced gleamingly naked if not purely white, coldbleached leaves and needles giving way to a covering of only a small stubble of saltgrass up from under the snow — a skinned head, rimmed around to the west by an armband of brackish river, flowing toward the east and its trees, the dogs, the Parkway then the Atlantic, there the water refreshed of its frozen clarity, clouded and heavied with salt; this and its compound — apparently, a vast wall — hidden by the forbiddingness of this altar’s late treyf, pilings secreting all access.
Anyone on the lam’s a friend of mine, the goy’s saying as Benjamin sidesteps idolatrous Madonna statuettes, the shrouding vestments, censers extinguished, and the meltfilled, birdbathing, dogdished fonts and collectionplates stacked. I know a victim and you, friend, whatever your name is, are you ever Him; the goy stooping Him through a hole ripped in the fence, squeezing Him in — its links stabbed through with the voice of the wind, as if in warning but which: flee thither, or don’t; the chains bind His flesh, slice and gash at His pudge. There’s no infiltration here, he promises, serious lockdown, my perimeters are ultrasecure, and he releases a bush back into the wild, on the other side of the fence snapping it into its planting to screen. The goy stands with his hands on his log, proud and beaming, as if after a kind word, a compliment or thanks. He takes from his helmet’s spike its rotted apple and with wrinkly lips lays into the mold, a white fuzzed sheen the same shade as the flesh beneath, he gnaws from it a hunk, spits out half a worm and now has two teeth remaining: you want a bite? he asks, then swipes the mud and the moustache stray from the fruit and with an empty smile offers it out.
But Benjamin’s otherwise occupied, turned…to that incongruous wall just beyond: a height of irreconcilably colored bricks, loosening from their laying, their cracks covered over with paperings, scrawl — so much so that it’s all drossed, weighted down, leaning to topple with wind.
This here’s my church, the goy says, replacing the apple and with a sweep of filthy hand beckoning closer, the fingers webbish and flicking dirt from their flail, HQ of LAFF’s what we’re calling it this week, the Libertarian Armed Faction or Front, haven’t yet made up my mind…you might know our work? Forget it…and he raises his rasp for His attention: I’m known as the Most rt. Irreverend Lemuel Leeds, Chaplain-in-Chief, Joysey Irregulars, the first, last, and only division of its kind, thank you kindly…Benjamin, though, He can’t be distracted, diverted, over here, this’a’way, despite how with hands and fingers and nails sharper than shivs or drops of weather and with slitted eyes and snakish tongue, too, Leeds persists in showing off his station, its militant amenities, the lately newest improvements he’s happiest about, the first line of trenches freshly dug, the dock only recently planned: what I’m saying is, you’re safe. Secure, for now. Amid this openness, veiled. A pox upon the shaved pate of the earth.
At the foot of the wall, the lone structural survivor of disaster, a boiler’s bankrupting explosion, a gristmill’s wheel rolled amuck: a ruin of destroyed foundations, blackened bricks and gray, too, and others in all of near sunset’s shades held aloft with mossy mortar — are a number of portapotties, Chamber of Commerce white if sullied, and reeking of waste, piss, and antiseptic fluid, scattered amongst what have to be hundreds of monitors heaped haphazardly, their screens scoopedopen, the wiry guts and circuitry cleared, then refilled with sandy soil; they’re being used as planters, hosting the growth of what might still flower or fructify winter: tuberous roots, black and brown and other wasteshaded, turdy starchy things that’ll squat in the stomach for seasons. Benjamin extends a fat finger to knob, to turn their volumes up to silence, as if for the edification of a flock absent from the multitudinous religious furnishings surrounding: rickety pews arranged in sloppy rows, a rattily cushioned kneeler at front, a hassock turned splintery lectern topped with a rock to prevent it from being blown away that’s how grievous it is, and how weak. And then further, as He wanders a looping, around — the house, the old homestead failed by its flimsy wood and globbed white paint: on the inside of that wall outside papered and graffitied heavily with all manner of misprint and image, and there kept safe from the weather, Leed’s oversized trailer, doublewide, without hitch, surrounded with scrap and junk not waste or the dump of materials found but more like hunks and even rooms of the trailer that’ve fallen off over time, undersky. Off its cinderblocks, though, and sinking slowly into the wet, it strikes Him as nature itself, as if so overgrown and for so long it’s become, finally, organic, embodied, incorporated, ingrown: the stairs leading to the door are stumps; its roof the slatted rows of long dead trees the wind might’ve swept into shelter.
But it’s the wall above that interests, that holds. Webstuck to it under kinks of spiderwork, nailed, screwed, needled and pinned, there’s everything you ever need to know (but, yes, were afraid to ask), the casebook displayed, the fact file. Benjamin approaches it again in His wend, slowly around and circumambulating around its corrupting presence amazed, what not to be by these skins, these hides, maniacal pagings parchmented by weather, burdening the faces of slagblackened, goldenbrown brick: windrustled tattery newsprinted images of white middleaged Midwestern balding and cleanshaven and glassesed politicians posed in meticulously managed stages of photogenicy and colors of tie blue and red, faced amid a clutter of magazine clippings, tearsheets of fawning, gawking celebrity profile: who adopted whom, who’s dating, who’s married, who’s all broken up; faded mugshots of movie and television actors and actresses and those ostensibly famous for doing nothing, for being nobody — an act, their eyes and mouths circled or xd out in black; above and below obsessive reams of mullet length statistics subtracted from the ERAs of assorted Yankels or were they Metz pitchers since traded in an unspecified though rare losing season, multiplied by a multitude of precipitate statistics for greater Berlin circa every year of the last war; a ream of passenger manifests, apparently, recovered from the wrecks of defunct, Russianbased aerolines who could read that language, that unalphabetical foreignspeak; timetables of garbage pickups for Harlem, New York, New York; a flapping, dogeared map of Mormondom, Utah, strung across to nails with human hair meshing together every known abortuary ever to offer that procedure of damning sin for under a grand out-patient; Leeds’ hands splayed open it seems what with the dirt prints that remain used as stencils traced in pen on a map of Joysey, superimposed atop National Parks Service and U.S. geological survey maps of the Kieferöde with areas of probable dog saturation labeled and keyed according to the phases of moon; pornographic stills of male and female minors, hairless and pigtailed both demandingly angled, cut up and remade halfsexed, quarterlimbed, their resultant anatomies sectioned, and labeled: hearts, livers, kidneys, and spleens, where they would be embellished, in chalk and charcoal, with various gematric inversions and retrogrades attempted with the mailing addresses and telephone and facsimile numbers of a host of Texas holding companies with interests in both oil and war; the ages, too, heights and weights of their CEOs along with the dates of their mistress’ birthdays, then stapled and clipped to an alphabetical list of and scripts for the medications they take for any sexually transmitted viruses they’ve been given by them; Leeds says, finally noticing Benjamin’s curious browse, did you know that when the Freemasons dedicated the Washington Monument, that it stood, what’s it now, 555 feet and 5 inches tall, all those fives, and that its base, you should be aware, is 55 square feet and then that the windows they’re set 500 feet above that base, too, isn’t that crazy, I’ll be damned — now, didn’t know if you knew this one, either: that if you take the base and you multiplied it by sixty, or in other words by five times the number of the year’s months, which are twelve, and you get what, 3,300, that that’s the exact weight in pounds of the capstone of the thing, like the pyramidschemes the aliens made, the allseeing eye up there, Ra the Sun God, the Cyclops on the paper money bill, you with me, if I’d had one I’d show you with all the poisonous spiders and Latin; follow me here, as the name Washington as you know has ten letters, of course, five times two, and that if you then take that capstone’s weight multiplied by the base yet again you get, just give me a second here, 181,500, that’s it, which is as we all know roundabout the speed of light in miles per second, the whole atomic project, this is nuclear now, you get it, no one survives; and then, that if you take Washington, the name, I mean, which has a numerical worth of 122, with W equaling 25, A, 1, S, 19, H, 8, you get me, alright, and then let’s say you go and take that 122 and subtract another seven first for the G in George Washington, and then again five, which is the governing number of the Monument, as we’ve found out, and also of the Pentagon’s pentagram, if I haven’t yet mentioned, which is the symbol of the devil, Satan 666 (and how many letters does George have? now you’re getting my drift) the dragon serpent and the fallen prince of this world taken times two for the division between the base and the obelisk’s top, between George you with me and Washington and what do you get, you get ten, also the number of the Israelien tribes and so of the sons of Jacob, too, of Israel the goddamned IRS ATF kikes and then let’s say you go ahead and map that onto the calendar, say, the 365 days of the year and what do you get again, you get 105, if it’s not a leapyear, that is, which is the day that taxes are due, you get how it’s all connected with the Vatican Mafia and, if you weren’t aware, the day Lincoln died the same day after having been shot the night before, which…not only nailed and screwed and stuck with web and spit to the wall but also stuffed, stuck deeply into its cracks, between the burnt, ferruginous bricks, as messaging mortar, as all that holds the whole repose upright, keeps it from falling from its own grace: as a safe and secure depository for this madness, preventing it from becoming actioned into violence or humiliation upon the surrounding beach communities, exits north and south on the Parkway, just upstream, then down to the Delaware Bay. Far to the edge, a strip in white spraypaint, a thin listing stretch swathed entirely with naming displacements, interpolations of vowels: