Friday, May 14, 2010


by B. Thomas Hunter

"Have you ever sleepwalked across state lines?" Moshe Rabbenu asked me in a hushed tone near the microfiche in the basement of our poorest High School. His cock pressed tight into denim: a rival, not a friend.

"If Eden was a time, and not a place, it would be those first days of Spring. That terrible season...." He trailed off, distracted by the glow of some neon light, a creature of El, yet un-melt-able.

Gershom and Eliezer had wandered in the desert. That damned wilderness. Why were they forsaken? He said He'd catch up to them but He was nowhere to be seen, and they had done all He had asked. Their foreskins, shriveled away, blackened by time. Brit milah, a covenant between Him and the tribe they had lost. They sweated and sang, and above all rested for everyday was their Sabbath. Their beards had grown long and complacent. Their brows furrowed. Their fields fallowed.

"He's never going to show," Gershom whispered.

"Did you know I once had a cock-ring made of solid gold? It turns out my Grandpa made it out of stolen Jews gold and the Shoah Foundation came and took it." You were wearing a striped shirt that made you look like a comical burglar. "America is the Black man's battleground!" you screamed at the top of your lungs. We were on a roof. A track team stopped and stared.

They couldn't afford a skywriter, so the note read: MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH!

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