My secret-light yearns to revel in warmth, to be revealed in thaw…Its Kingdoms...
Cut in pieces – forgotten with flies
across a wasteland, pinned and mounted, while seated upon the ether – I
witnessed the Massacre at the Church of the Good Thief and the Raid at the Army
Surplus Store...How brittle become the bones following a splinter's dagger-tip
piercing, lacerating and developing from a germ to a pimple, from an Anther of
an Apostasia to a dog's ass, morphing memories into blistering continents…What hard, soft, sweet, and sour earthen clays this Creator
dipped in water, for spirits to take form…Alas, that were kneaded with moisture till ethos turned solid viscous curves, joints, limbs and segments, carved into
countless/infinite images, upon their drying; for presence to
be blown till patterned beings emerged, rising, not to avail their demise, with minds, hearts and souls governing what limbs, organs, sagacity & senses serve their contradictories as
properties bound, reconciled…
Before my goodbyes and while waiting
millennia, my phantasies cast spells, as a pair of doves became a castrated ox,
thieves of thoughts, not pillagers of souls…Later into the night, a tick of
blind and deaf composition, climbed the edge of a branch, sensing mammal flesh
glands, then dropped to part way obstructing hairs, till naked skin bare, such
that course blood became succulent, following yesteryears of endurance, defying
encounters with life's rest, anything, everything, nothing… To talk back at the
world is to become equal with it, a terrorist menace, with whatever
accompanying accomplices, pacts, acts, (im)potent and (in)different, are all-forceful when Winter's divorced from life…
In openings between cores, mantles, crusts,
and high skies, spirits and angels of differing dispositions fill a wilderness,
some prostrating not kneeling up, others kneeling not standing, some arrayed
not abandoning their fixed positions, others in-exhaustingly and tirelessly extolling a
Creator, their un-forgetful eyes neither shut, nor their bodies
languishing in languor for a moment or instant…In swarms of infinite questions, they remain beholden to insufficient praises and proclamations of Amour fou, speaking tongues
obediently, guarding secret gardens & abodes, to and fro, their gentle
steps fixated upon this earth-between heaven and hell, their necks protruding into universes above, limbs stretching expanses in all directions, along all sides, shoulders in
accord with columns of the Throne of the Divine, gazes cast down, sterling-diamond encrusted sterile wings spread beneath, rendering everything between themselves and all
else a screen and curtain, in the name of Thy honored and in awe of Omnipotent
power!…Affront what scientific rationalism ostensibly claims for itself of pure reasoning, in this incensed and insensible bewildered creation of unbound firmaments, with what protective ceilings
and unsupported edifice stand tall hovering above; what strata of winds glide upon water, churning it as
curd to produce foam coagulating as clouds; one whose stormy waves and surges leap
one after the other, dashing what tsunamis and typhoons are ordered back to
shed rain alongside invisible gusts, reigning over vigorous sprinkles, as winds below blow while furious torrents flow over, decorated by stars, an
effulgent moon, ebullient sun and meteor aurora lights, all suspended, clinging, as a canvas ever in motion and movement, encircling, revolving, floating as armadas and
liberated flotillas in landscapes of altering pigments, luminscent...
Only now, in becoming child-like in this weaving of narratives, exceedingly suspicious and in slight opposition to God's wishes, Khamseeni kills a doctor in occupied Mecca...
Unrestrained as a waking dream dreadful
waters foul brown – like dissolving like – the hydrogen bond between molecules
of black gold weak, un-attracted to insoluble water…Dispersed by way of a short lasting
affair with everlasting effects, peculiarly quick like this Western era
approaching its end… A hiccup, but what
quake quivers this body deep, engulfing oceans, abandoning two in rivers
proceeding, resurrecting ghosts whose light beyond a shadow they crave; ghosts
whose songs sung they revel in, a deserted desert destined behind them this
life forgotten…
What light before this present flare
speaking to an absent present?! Hear me oh Gabriel!, what pat-phrases this shadowy shade of blue morning light fading dark,
raindrop wonderlands drowned in seas, tidal currents rising, in what scant
surfacing of wavering joys and sorrows…A second glance at a beautifully strange
curtained before the summer rain, a firstborn named Adam or her name I
forget, Hawa’a… An illusionist's dream cast, passing a lover's lane,
corresponding across corridors, slipping remote postcards, in any other name, a
fine day, the earth bent swollen, writing silent second hand poetry; a hypnotic
moment in the measure of a life's scale when time is an enemy, if constructed
linearly... A hypnotist, I walk second, third hand time and hour, and dream on, with
whatever reverent, (mis)understood labyrinths, circulating between love, death
& politics, as topics, for what else is relevant…
What wakefulness, what hail, in uprisings, the
warmth back, invading everything, slowly and all at once, one no longer knows,
but from the inside, never from the place of transfusion…
In melancholy of resistance and in
returning to her Eden, the winding winds pave paths for pores with enormous
heads, noses swollen, anointed ballerinas multiplying alongside what sand in desert twirls upon crutches!, with sharp bursts of thunder erupting before heavenly
magisterium…My gaze drawn towards Lipizzaner horses hatching their egg-shells
as if glass bellies shattering, abandoning paradise having seen it, like Rabbi
Akiba, living to the extent that they became a part of death then leaving… I see you,
I see you right there, I am speaking to you before saying anything with what
faith and hope I yet pose and possess…To you, always, my radiance, abode, bask,
crescent, sol…
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