I walked down the path
from whence the sounds
shivered through time;
through an inveterate trust
that flies in the face of
evil actuated through checkpoints.
The light that spins across
highways (as the trains sound forth
into the night), through the
clenched fists that riots
and shaved heads procure" fists
of putative wars and televised whores
who would stifle the Queen's fractured existence.
I wrote of what could satisfy
the skeptic's dance in halls and camps,
that reticent song that Abram intuited
and sang from heights of feigned drama,
that calls forth the rhythmn
of flat Aryan diction;
of that dark enigma which contains
autumnal plights, red and orange.
The siren's tune that once floated in the hollow tomb,
now lodged in Don Farabi's womb.
I wrestled with bellicose hammers
whilst the occident slatterned away,
wrought with ideals supercilious;
Prometheus' ceaseless pledge, tilts and nods
to watchful strabismics: "Hadji! Jihad!"
The ghazi who sought Judea's throne
and Abraham's crown, now held at bay
wit
