There are moments so small we are thought crazy for thinking they matter but their gravity warps our very Being with their passing.
How can I speak to the dead? Why bother speaking to the living?
Here, in this pile of graphite and wood dust I exist suspended between the two. There is the carcass of a lady bug that left me weeping. The world within a grain of coffee envelops me entirely. Do you know what it means to inch along the cold concrete floor through the cobwebs and urine? Do you think, really, the world is so small? I have spent years in a single puff of smoke.
It is so easy to get lost where a strand of hair meets the eraser shavings. Or to wander dazed in the scent of animal musk. Who encompasses all of this?
It is to the Source that I am falling.
The Truth They Cannot Kill
I don't pretend or expect to be understood. If that were my intent I would leave it at this:
Islam is the Truth. This society is falsehood. Lo! Falsehood is ever bound to vanish.
An Opening, Darkening
Beauty exists. Between the concrete and concertina even here balanced on a blade's edge suspended from a rope of hair-thin steel, the Finality of six walls.
(they yearn to smother us, but they only harden our resolve to grind their world into dust)
Beauty endures but there is a lesson buried beneath the beast's boot: We must learn to make our beauty light, to feed it nothing but raw essence for how else can we survive but to fling our hearts into the vast sky?
What can i offer across this void that thirsts endlessly What will be left as a gift beneath your eyelids? What is this Abyss that cannot be traversed even by ten thousand nights of weeping? It would be easier to enter Paradise than to give you of my self across this hungry void that swallows up my breath and evaporates all tears That turns ink into the absence of light, electric, And even my blood, however much i spill, cannot give you warmth.
And yet, dear it is to this void that you give countless precious hours When all around you children's eyes overflow with the light of God's Mercy And how many of us yearn for your affection As all of Creation bends in worship to the One, Who even now Harkens.
It is not too late.
-- -- -- --
"Ten Thousand Suns Are Blooming and We Will Not Go Blind"
-- All Glory is to God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful --
The people of the Book die eating bark and shoeleather in the blackened deserts, irrigated with their blood for to grow phantom buds blooming confusion.
Man-eating, child-molesting adulterous locust rain down a buzzing cacaphony of death upon smiling children sighing orphans praying mothers rejoicing believers . . .
The gutters are clogged with suicides and the alleys are awash with dream-chasers
Insects devour men and water is more precious than blood And some seem to think the taller their buildings the closer they are to God
And every time the sun sets it is as though God is telling all who may hear: Hasten unto Me, for the Hour is Near.
Surely, the dogs of hell have been unleashed They are pouring the foundations for the vile palaces of the Antichrist.
Enemies of God on every side throw fuel on the fire Burning the flesh of believers, even as they are condemned as infidels. Everywhere the blind have risen to power. Witness the signs, dear friends.
There can be no sense in reasoning with a hellhound And so, if God Wills it, my words are for those who have not yet cast their lot: Harken to the Supreme Guidance of God and His Messenger, Muhammad.
You cannot control the Storm. Not even a little. Do not lose yourself in that maddening Abyss.
Caressing the contours of the Alamin, i am reduced to weeping
May God grant me strength enough to endure the flash flood of tears that swell the rising oceans of misery upon contemplating the innocence of children, women, starving . . .
And there are endless processions of faces of her, of boys, of mothers weeping of starving children in deserts drowning in the blood of the earth -- have you not heard, they are irrigating the deserts with blood and oil -- a newborn, deformed, cries out in some agony we cannot know and always the mothers weeping.
Brothers, put down your weapons. This dying patch of green on this drop of blue suspended in all this vast darkness is too quickly fading.
Brothers, were you not told? One God, one Community, one Book. Why are you cutting out your own eyes? Holding your hand in this flame will not move God, it will not undo Divine Will.
Brothers, i dare say that is Satan who is tossing whispers gently in the darkness of your minds And none of this -- volumes of poetry! -- will change a single stroke of what is Written. But brothers, have you not heard, we have free will and besides, i cannot remain silent.
God is Great!
If nothing else, we owe it to the children the orphans the sick, for did God not tell you that they are He that He is they, and God knows best.
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"futile wanderings in a white abyss"
In this intimate space, this darkness between the dumb white of the page and the blinding light of being i must make a confession. i hate writing poetry. It is like a ghetto riot like a thorough war like a night of drunkeness like a
wet dream like some sticky cathartic process that leaves me feeling empty, drained robbed
Where have my tears gone? What wretched force has dammed up my weeping?
Perhaps if i abandoned poetry like i have abandoned intoxication like i have abandoned hopelessness like i have abandoned godlessness like i have abandoned self-indulgence Then i would be able to go on weeping and teeth-gnashing all through the night until i could all but feel God bearing down upon me.