An Oriental
Tapestry
A
Damascene Nowhere
In the
middle of a Damascene nowhere,
I find
moss-covered columns
and
leftover citadels.
I find
falsified happiness,
and
compelling traces of genuine despair.
I find
dauntingly superficial love,
and quite
the intrinsic rage.
I find
deep-seated holiness,
and
well-nigh genetic shame.
Right
there in the middle of a Damascene nowhere.
Sleepy-eyed,
I walk through
cluttered and stiffening veins,
the
Old Hag remains
welcoming
in her own rather peculiar
way.
I leave behind a jugular,
a few hapless valves,
imported novelty,
and indigenous ruins.
And I
receive into my open arms
many a crowded square,
a humbled Mount,
a flourishing swamp,
and a prayer.
And as I
slither
through that
haunted goo,
that
mucus,
that is the unavoidable gift
of a six thousand years old
case
of the flu,
and civilization,
I cannot
help but think about me,
you,
and dying
youth.
It’s
no wonder our love does not matter here,
there is
just too much history here,
too much
wasted
faith.
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