The machine bellowed as the handle broke free. His old sweaty shirt caught in the gear well and beckoned his aging body to enter its carnivorous jaws. Screams resounded as Levin attempted to steady himself. The machine snapped out an oily retort in response to his feeble resistance. A pint of whisky fell from his pocket and shattered on the floor. Levin sighed as he looked from the enumerable shards canvassing the pavement to the faded scars on his hands.
Twelve story buildings crumbled and fell to dust. Large cement dominoes careened across the surface of the Chase building and poured in hundreds upon Woodward. Cars sank into the pavement from the heavy and oppressing force of granite punching metallic frames. The dome of the Bonstelle Theatre, already out of place, broke from its tarnished copper fringe. It rolled down Peteroboro crushing pedestrians under its weight. At the side entrance to the State Theater, chefs dropped unfinished cigarettes and scrambled for safety. Their clean white uniforms, complete with matching hats, were soon stained with dust and blood. Primary and secondary colors mixed as the assorted glass of the Downtown synagogue shook from its frame. It shattered on the pavement of Clifford and Griswald creating mounds of reflective powder. Cass flooded with cheap beer as the pumps at the Old Miami became foaming fountains. A confused mix of delusional veterans and students floated out the door. As the People Mover approached Woodward, it crept like a caterpillar from the tracks. Showing remarkable flexibility, it crossed the street and tore through the side wall of the Detroit Opera House.
Levin inhaled the chalky residue of a million obliterated bones as children cried in burning parks. On the University campus, parking garages swallowed vehicles whole. In their Bellmont Apartment, where dinner was cooking on an electric stove, Elisa and John fell from each other’s arms.
Levin laughed as he let himself go
(“Requiem”)
