Wednesday, November 21, 2007

al-Maskubiyyah 3

Crushed by the truth I go on,
chased by death angels who are lost near the grassy stairs that lead to the doors of God’s territory,

I must go on and hold on to nothing.

My foot steps are embedded with magical lanterns and bendir rhythms, and nothingness floats:

“Touching is winter, and you didn’t offer me water after “the water,” and you didn’t say be peaceful within the peacefulness of winter, rather you roamed.”

I stared down at all of the not-my-selves in myself, and at some distorted songs and poems that provoked my childish innocence and left me hanging on the poor electric utility wiring like speechless old clothes and I’ve become so speechless. And you’re watching every move I make and becoming noisier and noisier while playing backgammon! I am dancing with each idea that’s stoned between my fingers and I want to hit every wall that resonates with every attempt to achieve ecstasy.

That’s how I hid my first cigarette, right between the gutters, and I hid along some innocent secrets and an evil-eye from my childhood.

“Secrets are weaknesses, exposing them is strength.”

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