i.
do you look the weeping weapon
in the eye do you stand in stead
of mirth can we speak
the sated vowel as birth as threaded
song did you peel the sung of heaven’s ceiling?
ii.
the poem makes exception
rule the creed of gift
crasses by unsung as we
collect mistakes hoof
prints of past songly
cast as exceptions which
the poem rends to correct
the sunken star
let me know the
grazen palm
root the banished
star whose time had
run the sunken
tepid humless star
whose time began
with the rootless
par come leg this
withered washed unspun
roar the banished
star whose wicked warp
has thanked begun
let me know why each
vessel woofed my edgeless
bark the sunken star
each starless known
where the jujubug whispers slush
where the cant of the lord brambles
where the sluice of the monkey-god
tears right through
this fabric of wear this hunt of word
unsound decimals grounded off error
arouse groundswell sweet horror smell
of now –
bring us the tidings of another glad!
of when the night was green of
where
each eye stood in closeted lines and
participated of when the night was
green –
….was the day Israel began to bomb the hell out of Lebanon in earnest, in July 2006.
Huz was on a ‘mission’, and Amu and I tagged along as I was very eager to see what all the fuss was about as far as Beirut was concerned, ‘Paris of the East’ and all that jazz. Not to mention the taouk sandwiches that Huz raved about from the last couple of times he’d been there.
Needless to say, I fell in love with the place, and most of all, the people. The Lebanese are just gorgeous if you ask me. Beautifully skinned, beautifully dressed (skimpy for women for a country in the Middle East, I thought) and I loved the way they spoke Arabic…and French. Hearing my own name being pronounced by an Arabic speaker was pure pleasure, and considering I wear my heart on my sleeve, I merrily proceeded to…
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an unchantable repose, growth of wrongform, stem of the artifice of weft, mismatches of vice
make room for me o woofer of words, works
make night my tryst of deed
my word, my void speaks no tale of false but itself –
—
“How should you treat a bird?
As yourself
Or as a bird?” – Excerpt from Chuang Tsu’s “Symphony for a sea bird” translated by Thomas Merton.
It takes two heavens to dismantle
a grave
the error of one contributes to
the shame
of the other the other where
the pain
of green abounds it takes two
heavens
one should know the clouds seem
friendly
enough the error of one is but
lost time
—
the kindness of simple folk
ready word
leaf of the wind’s say turning
which way?
kindred of the folksy tune turning
this soon
away from time’s distress turning
subtle I
– the whoosh of wanting to be I –
kind of –
Gathering just-a-bit-o moss 