Uns al-Wudjud se echo a llorar -
threw himself at a princess moon,
white pure as night tricks to a halt,
only reveals what stocking
lit imagination knows -
at stake are classical melodrama,
primed heroics. al-Wudjud gushes.
One thousand and one years before
the divorce of heart and heel,
Uns al-Wudjud gushed before
a hermit on the sea
and God - ensalzado sea.
Then, God was a gate keeper,
the owner and developer
of nature of civilization.
Like Francis de Sales and Lightnin' Hopkins
after him, al-Wudjud knew
suffering made the most beautiful
architecture of the soul. Even if
he needed to spill his intestines
across a rock jagged beach, al-Wudjud
knew God is, was
and he never had it all that bad.
Track Name: Reliquary Glass
San Pantaleimon swallowed pomegranate seeds
seeds resewn by San Isidro -
set his blood in reliquary glass
to bristle anew for the sake of the plough.
The chips of bitter bone
embedded in blood swollen lanterns,
a mouthful will fill a bowl
enamel white with red liquid answers.
Everyone around me grew sick as a pig -
I had to carry them home.
Never saw crystal blood flow warm,
never bathed in Valencia or further south
where oranges, mangled, and pigs' throats
fill the lanterns that dim snakepit bars
toward dusk. A long gargle
of chestnut paste, the most dry aluminum
later, saw me fevered sleep
on the red clay floor of a frozen friend.
She was swallowing three languages,
choking in one man's Ibiza sunset,
swishing two Moroccan mothers in her mouth,
skin a new hue of almond husk,
orange peel and pomegranate juice.
It was no season of catastrophe,
yet we never returned after the pilgrimage
we took in prior years to lift
a healthy fig tree up to the sun.