Eggs
wild bird caught in an accidental cage
the tongue that dreamed
a frantic flute, that dreamed
a silent, silver bird.
my fluttering dream
would welcome you, if only
i could hold it still.
clap, so i can hear.
peck, so i can feel.
sing, so i can know.
fly, so i am real.
feathers or ashes
of dreams, after
the eruption.
tyranosaurus rex
in dreams, hunting
my calculated shadow.
a dream that paranoia
wears a mask, a dream
of making friends.
if making flying friends
were catching dreams, and we
could end in feather pillows.
the dream of never
waking up again,
wordlessly dying.
it was a dream
of being caught, inside
a dream of flying.
the dream that nobody
could see, but me,
impending doom.
the home that was
a dream went blind,
lost its front door.
dreams of being
alone, of singing
alone, dreams of
dreaming alone, dreams
of losing dreams.
infractions against,
invasions of dreams.
the dream of infiltration
into enemy dreams, the scream
of sleeper cells.
the pirates' signal never
came, as dream-boat
boarded, and lost dreams.
it was a dream of skin.
your breath was dusty
odors of incense.
the shadow of a longing
of a dream, believing
its beloved real.
make yourself, hate
yourself, to dream
a self to steal.
be yourself, for
yourself, intones
the oldest dream.
the dream that anything
is new, the dream
of bones, or boundaries.
the dream of tangled
passages, too late, on roller
skates, for failed classes.
the dreams of ancestry,
a mother-tongue, essential
tribes or dying gods.
a dream of brooding
heat, the barren
dream of sun.
of long-lost love, a dream
of driving faster, over
edges, metric destiny.
i dreamed a giant, quaking
my pigeon heart, in shock
trembling terribly.
it cannot move, breast-
pressed for dreaming, cannot
turn around.
no territory, why the blade,
and how? the clapping thunderous
winged suffering, of dreams.
where is the dream,
anywhere, anything?
where does it end.
the war we won
a dream, the games
we played. the ones
we sung, the war
we lost —
//
the letter B
a small stone stopped
me on the way
having forgotten &
being renamed
tear
in
the glass
//
insp. by “Three things, together”
Grace, again
an observation
about chickens
they point
(they understand)
when
(emphatically)
i point
(or wave)
(at something)
they (generally)
look where i point
(or wave)
(and not at my hand)
(always with some skepticism)
and then
(if they are in
a trusting mood)
they go there
(cautiously)
then i noticed
(Grace hatched
herself four wholly
unauthorized chicks
this week
a reminder that
Nature is
the cutest
antifascism)
the first thing they do
once they uncrumple
their tiny selves is
Grace pecks
(points)
(at something)
and they go
(too)
with their beaks
(pointing)
learning
what to eat
(where is
the pointing)
(i imagine)
so chickens
are pointers
(and)
we share
the esoteric principle
of pointing
//
assalamualaikum warahmatullahi wabarakatu 🌖
prometheus over easy
there will be zeal
in your everyday, like
runny egg yolks
for breakfast
dubious
and golden
//
these are the possible questions three
that occupy all of poetry
how to be poet
how to be poem
how to be both at once
//
body’s most wondrous lesson was
turning raw wounds into desire
as ripening longing to be eaten
as eyes longing to see and be open
//
broken machine of tentacles and teeth
war is what monsters are and what they do
monsters are monsters at war with monsters
useless becomes another name for peace
//
Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh 🌖
Ironically(?), when I write about fascism, my voice goes into führer mode.
Take a deep breath, I say to my heart. Peace is every l — e — t — t — e — r.
Notes on techne.
//
There is no eros in technology.
(Technology is anti-erotic,
Ending in the endlessness of desire.)
Techne is the technology of Allah.
(Techne is Al-Khaliq, Al-Bari, Al-Musawwir.
Eros is Ar-Rahman, Ar-Raheem.)
Poetry is erotic techne.
(The Qur’an is poetry of poetry.
The basmala —
Bismillah hir rahman nir raheem
By the Name of Allah, Ar-Rahman, Ar-Raheem
— is the poet’s seed.
The poet of poets is the Prophet,
Recollection as Self-conservation.)
The stranger (X) is the poet as lover.
Thoth is the poet as technician.
//
Phaedrus is a (the) passion.
//
Prayer becomes mantra
And we are taken for a ride —
//
The thing that I’m most afraid of is dying in anger.
As if (walking along the beach) to pick up something alive and then letting it be alive in me.
Skin soft and worn like igneous sand into
Her open psalm, they one lunation spent
As sounding bodies, soldiering the fast.
Blessed Ramadan to those who observe.🌙
If the language model told you the truth, every answer would be “I do not know” or “I cannot tell you the answer.”
I am not full of outrage.
Of course we come by different paths. Just because we’re all recognizable doesn’t mean we’re all the same.
These complaints that barely taste displeasure
Are precious and I hope to remember them.
Tonight, as begins a new lunar year.
I see there is beauty (also) in your invisibility.
Alhamdulillahirabbilalamin. 🌘🌑🌒
Black hen, her shining
Shadow, sleeps in tangled grass.
At home in hiding.
The first lesson of the chariot is maybe not to put the chariot in front of the horses.