All things counter, original, spare and strange in Khujand, Tajikistan



The angels,

Who know what they are not in perpetuity,

Enduring the raging penetration of the holy,

Often used to stop (to describe temporally)

Around the emerald gate fondling cigarettes

And speak—again, translating into sequential idiom—

Of this and that particularity

And for an instant, or with an instant of themselves,

Turn from the object of their continual desire

Like birds, bright-black eyes distracted

By whatever senseless rhythm beats

Through plumed and preening bodies.

You might say selves were born

In these bursts of unfulfillment.

And this is where he nursed it.

His three pairs of wings trembling with need,

He nourished the burgeoning gulf within him,

Not desire, but the freedom to desire

And go on desiring without end or fullness.

The impossible screaming jackal-call,

Encased and amplified

Until he was beyond satiation,

Able to stand at the very altar horns

And not fall face forward

Into the cool forgetfulness

Where all may yet be one and yet be all.

So with a petulant motion

And a sound like the voice of a multitude

He threw down the still-burning coal of tobacco

And unveiled his face toward the throne.

The moment of tense, embodied introspection broke

And fell like a star from heaven.


2 responses

  1. Peroxide and Strawberries

    Way nice. I dig it.

    December 4, 2009 at 3:32 pm

  2. Just go ahead and blame cigarettes for Satan’s fall; I’m sure that’s what he wants you to think. You need a sequel about celestial nicorette or something…

    February 2, 2010 at 9:57 am

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