Let the sunlight of this folklore shine on you. Absorb.
Paint chipped is the hour of the day before prayer commences. I am a Mesopotamian remnant standing where the disfigured moss giants once stood in Damascus square, hands on their scabbards, preparing for a war for freedom. Canine scouts in Egyptian body mosques march Trojan on the way to the land of Troy which is crestfallen at the edge of a nuclear beach. When two streams adjoin sentence flow, the ninth gate of true truth opens, Tutu’s smoking incense so distinct it’s like the chimney atop the tower of Babel. Why… purgatory in a Cadillac Deville would impress anyone searching for half-paid angels. I had a circumcision trial, I had ceiling tiles, I had a medallion from the fathers of my fathers. I had relevance and clearance from T.S.A. traffic searches. Stockpiles of people flooding the airline terminals of Qatari Air with ear plugs in their ears speaking in a soothing mollusk voice: Al-Jazeera is Alhambra’s handkerchief wiping clear the doubts of West’s perspiration, streaking sweat from citadel to freshwater kidneys. A country’s resources are up for grabs for as long as cyberspace is willing to lend a digital hand, assigning contracts, Riyadh at the center of crustacean-obsessed eyes, beaming and glowing like those possessed by a bioluminescent resurrection of Allah - all aboard, all in awe, wondering where the dead sea scrolls lurk. I considered parting them but found that being a mountain herder and a truth seeker at the same time is a hard act to grotto.
I’ll Ben-Hur over the stones of a cave overlooking the Valley of Lepers, thankful that I have my wits and good health about me. The man I was, the woman she’ll be, the country I’ll raze. The miraculous microbes swarming the rotor turf on the exterior of a green leafed bionic arm, giving us reason to embrace Tran humanism. To accept that these golden domes of old, smithy in turquoise rock and the blood of the oppressed will be replaced by the saline, the sanitary, the steel curvature, automatically junkyard.
They’ll turn your mechanical pacemaker into an ungodly star fruit pumping R.E.M. fluids. And you’ll wake with the messiah on the pillow next to you blaming you for hogging the cover story.
I wonder if Muammar Gaddafi had Bluetooth. If he was pandering through the Old City with his headphones in, listening to the Sounds of Triumphant Judea, that he might imagine the ruins of his lands in advance. I remember when the spotted eagle fell, and dispersed. Leotard slung over his chest like a made man, it soon became full of dusty concrete, the soot of a ransacked “Axis of Evil” club member. I remember the yellowed tanks of Israel with ancient painted armor, and memories of climbing the hulls as a child. Dancing with the children of Israel. Scrimmaging with the adult-rated version of events.
If it were so easy, all you’d have to do is click Restart.
In : Poetry