I follow him back to Greene Street. It seems to take a comparatively short time with him by my side. Once there, Jerry ascends to his rightful place as vitriolic fixture on plywood riser.
Watching him take even one step, balancing his weight on cane, then swinging it over to his good leg, is like watching an Olympiad in his prime.
“A shot star left bright on white cinder wall,” Jerry begins without preface to a mostly empty street, pointing across flowing traffic to the side of one immense, glittering office building.
“Smoldering temples of submersed volcanoes – Turquoise remnants of Atlantis undiscovered – Sand-carved pyramids – Red reflections of Giza in the clouds – Ladder to the heavens engraved in limestone, built on crumbling piles of bones, weak and impoverished – Visitors forced to bow on steep steps, precipice jagged and narrow – They bow not with reverence but with fear of The Fall.”
When he began, one or two stragglers paused mid-commute to take time to listen, but with each sentence more pedestrians are pulled into his gravity…
“Wonders of this world all fit into a child’s paw – So who’s mightier than the warlord gods? Who fashions deities of marble and incense? Who bestow upon them their ivory luster, trickery and promises of benevolence?” I can tell he’s speaking to me. There is no coincidence here. Even though he makes sure to keep his eyes locking at least once with each member of his audience…
“Gods fit in the tiny palms of a newborn – So why the immense mosques, chapels and statues gold and gargantuan? Why not split discarded yak horns to shelter us from pounding hail? There is room for all! – In this little fantasy – And why the immense tombs for rotting meat? Why nothing but these volatile heirlooms of hatred for our children to inherit? Why young crusades, persuasion by sword and ablutions of blood washing off blood? Skull in palm and censers puffing out fragrant clouds of nerve gas? A thousand waving flags and families clad in filthy humble Dalit rags? Why rival prayers intoned in mournful mass by two mouths joined at the mind? Why all the gaudy spearheaded cathedrals threatening the heavens like street thugs? Why all the names if the One transcends word? So many shameful idols trying to steal it for their own earthly cause? Imams and shaman and suicide cult packs, popes, kings and heretics all one in the same! – Does a god need a face, a name, political affiliation to make you feel comfortable? Does it make you feel safe, nestled in the in-group for once? (Who would kill to prove yourself right –) Must a god be born, crucified, and left strung up to die to make you feel less miserable in your frail little body? (As if killing would prove a goddamn thing…)” Negative mutterings rise in oscillating currents...
“So who is mightier than your warlord gods? Who fashions demons out of brimstone and silk? Who bestow upon them their blackened skins, hypnotic tongues and mirror blades? And if our palms are so much bigger than a newborn’s, why won’t those gods fit into ours too? Squash out the demons of your own Anger, Ignorance, Desire! Curl those knuckles and let their ethereal bones liquefy under the heat of your bright awareness or even Love, if you can decipher it from that flame in your loins…”
I’m scanning the crowd, reading their thoughts, sizing up the reasons they’ve stopped… A few feet away a small girl with thick brown hair clings around the midsection of her father’s friend. He kisses the top her head thinking “I want kids of my own,” but it’s the stirring in his pelvis at the warmth emanating from her tiny body that forces him to question his own motivations… It’s her unyielding embrace that causes the flurry of orange sparks to skitter and disperse in the base of his stomach. Stand those ancient karmic strands of lust embraced and smiling in their purity – Resist unfurling buds, their subtle perfume, delicate features of cheekbones and round noses…
“…Let the gods too be torn down! Let them be vanquished and transcended! Why must they dwell in cages of opulent temples drawn to sermons of scorn concerned only with the pounding of hells? – You are creator and destroyer! You were gods, are gods, are burning Suns, are limping dogs diseased and eaten by lice! You’re one finger pointing to the earth and through the crust and through the marrow through the core and out! Out into the same cataclysmic heavens above your brow and below your seat! Emptiness, emptiness! To feel it as emptiness! My friends, draw out those poisons if you want, or bathe in their venom if you like the burn on your skin – But who can you blame for this, your state? Who else can wash your flesh and administer the priceless antidote? And how much violence will you ingest to calm your stricken soul? And how many lives have you wasted feeling tormented and oppressed by a faceless enemy? And how long will you continue your search for the remedy that’s hidden only in your own ravaged breast? And after all of this, who is it who will inherit the piles of rubble that are left?”
As the applause begins, Jerry flashes me a sly wink I take as my cue to exit. Proving myself worthy of his trust, I vanish into the passing hordes...
