The Golem

And with the spoon of creation he stood, bending over banks of the river, carefully placing spoonfuls into the casket. The soil—white, burning bright, bleached, sucking in desperately with its porous, speckled mouths the skin of the Rabbi, sensing the Hebrew blood that coursed within. It clung tyrannically to his hands, merging in with his flesh to the point that his blood began churning, swooshing, pulsating, crashing, buzzing, blasting to the rhythm of the primordial earth. The river water, stopped to the point that it began to run backwards, forming little cancerous pools along the banks under his feet.

And with the spoons of creation—liquid in the blinding starlight-moonlight forgotten overhead raining down in libidinal torrents, the little man began to form the outline of Man. Into the clay mouth was placed a scroll with The Name written upon it, and with that, the little man began to chant the ancient incantation as he marched around the—

And from the sky—the heavenly vault screeched, the rusted hinge began to weaken in the trembling. And from the sky a thousand eyes bled forth from the shavings of rust and dust, their retinal fire burning. In their pupils, a lighting buzz ran the circuit of a code, flashing in a thousand directions, all at once, so that the sun screamed in birth pangs, and the caul of creation wrapped the earth in a suffocating whisper.

The clay figure stood up from the casket, each orifice screamed to match the pitch of the asthmatic breaths that ran forth from the roots of the trees, chaining themselves to earth, as hemoglobin does to blood. The little man fell onto his feet and from the chest emerged the visage of Adolph Hitler.

There he lay, a mechanical womb in his gut, swarming with bees and maggots, churning to the heaving black smoke that issued from his lungs. The womb, buzzing in a numbing blaze of cosmic ejaculation tensed—released—tensed—released, so much so that the atoms present within the abyss between each molecule began to burn with the intensity of a thousand infantile hiccups in the eddies of flesh that issue forth.

The sound of metal bashing against metal, chimes in the wind, a distant call that shoots across the caverns of space, the caverns of a man’s hands, cursed with struggling ligaments. And from the womb one could see with one’s own eyes, and smell with one’s own nose, the crowning head of Judah. The child slipped out, and after him, person after person—walking skeletons, grabbing onto the placental flesh of the afterbirth, using it to cover themselves in human organs, and flesh, and hair, and eyes

The machine—a perpetual engine—hummed for days, and more and more people came out from the abyss, from the ruins of the womb. Oceans of Jews, six million lost, had been given life again. Mothers and fathers, children, rabbis, tradesmen all came forth.

The new inhabitants of this earth began to wander around in their nudity, examining the streets, looking into windows, inspecting the gaps in the sidewalk. But as the morning came, and as the sun hung itself in a consumptive fever, sweating down drip by drip onto the planet Earth the spittle and phlegm of the night’s chill, the new inhabitants lined up orderly, and one by one, travelled back into the womb. Exhausted was the cavity, but inviting, and so they went, each taking off his or her shoes before the entrance.

“Why are you leaving?” the rabbi asked, “Do you not intend to redeem the earth from its sins, to set forth finally the difference between right and wrong?”

“We are going home. Our home is in history, and in that corner we have made for ourselves a neat little existence. In history we have stores, and families, romances, trails and travails. And what here? A stick lays on the floor. Here, you can pick up the stick, and you may enjoy it.” The man picked up the stick and gave it to the little man. “Here, a stick, have fun.”

And so eventually, all of them left, and the sky was draped in the dried blue skin of the leviathan—holes in the leather turning into billowing clouds. And the rabbi took the stick, and stuck it into the ground. Now people go to the stick, and pick it up, inspect it size, and put it back in the ground. And so, the stick is good. And in the goodness of this stick, one is able to see the goodness of the entire world. Every rock, every creature, every human, for like the stick, they are also good. Each particle of their existence sings out with the word “good.”

As for war, and strife, all has ended. Now, one only has to go to the stick, and look upon its features, and see that it is good. When a neighbor insults his neighbor, one only has to say, “Remember the stick!” and all is returned to history.

And the most radical thing of all, was that for one moment, they lived.