TO LITERARY BUREAUCRACY
you interrupt god
and you allow the chatter of winter mermaids
their unearned triumph
triumph should be earned,
I want to earn my death, one that is perfectly mine,
so little is completely mine, maybe only my poems until
bureaucracy puts them in its mouth for a wine tasting
and says ”we absolutely cannot use this,
we need vinegar
for our American salad”
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not alone, not at all
my brother is the misunderstood carrier
of the cosmic knife
my brother: the chivalrous, mercy-bringer
vilified as executioner
by afraid villagers, they expect to live forever,
they want to sleep with the famous and to vote for absolute evil
in the elections of the continent of good ideas
they throw the dead at each other
like clay
like a drunk girl throws a plastic cup, across the lake
hoping to beat the reflection of the moon
and the disappointed illusion she once had about swans:
she thought swans don’t bark across the tundra
and swanhood is democratically attained.
and her throw succeeds,
her pitch perfect
but to what end?
the ugly want to be independent swans of the wadi
the academics want to beat the voices of the diwan
Jamshid’s cup cannot be made of recycled paper
no competition is desired against the moon and her light
of her nakedness oh Nour Al Kamra rasul allah
My sister is the muse, my lover yet another muse, and also my sister
my mother
the desert,
my only mother
and never breathe an oxymoron like father-land
never utter that lie, hateful toxic as frangipani grapes, they grow in desert islands too
my brother: the famished hoodlum waits just around the corner
his leg extended hoping to trip up a somnambulant
dreams are hoodlums, they break in to rob in the midday
they wear thin muslin over their eyes and see through it,
pretending to be pitiful blind men waiting by the traffic light by the lantern bright and useless
Somnambulants, at times, are unsuspecting
I am the son of Hajar, fed on Hajar’s milk
her mouth was parched then
the dietary law
forbade she drink of her own milk
her mouth was a prison then
like the most vast and worst prisons, open
We were once a Zoroastrian family circus,
the others died, I am the only survivor
and learned to drink from the sea, while letting the salt and death drop out the other end of my mouth and ear
technique, hard work, skills
neither a miracle nor gratitude
not an especially adept tongue
that refined what I licked up from hands just wading
here by the innocent wadi:
a desalination plant, the size of ten tears
was hidden in a point,
vowel-coordinate just above and behind my second lung
next to a persecutor that propels me somnambulant
to look for more water, for night-miasmas
for fish for my mother Hajar’s medulla at night
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
~~(poemhaj by Arturo Desimone
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END ALL EXORCISMS TODAY!
Against all Exorcisms
FOR An art with demons against an art of sublimation
