Consecrated by an angelic estrangement before all things worldly, and debased by an inability to carry any idea beyond the purely mechanistic, I can only imagine such is the lot of those few fully given to the insubstantial -- who, when divested of the prophet's steady brow and sun-gilded cheeks, are no more than twittering machines, energized only by a fear of a world otherwise.

NEW BLOG, though I'll continue to post on this one

There's a link to it on the left-hand side, but here's the address:

http://adhemahmed.blogspot.com/

I've been wanting to embark on a large critical/poetic project for a while now -- this is my first attempt at one, though I'm sure it will only interest a handful of you (which makes it a handful of a handful).

و-ز-ر

And him, O him, who won us once
descending from the room -- him who fell
despite himself like pigment onto the city’s grid

to name him now remembers only dust,
him who carried himself vacantly
from sky to skeleton, a good man

strange, though, to render the speck of him
whole for a world endlessly lensed,
him was an angel of sorts, an insect

to our skyline, and we, the blur
fogging nearby some enfacing window,
whose lives till then had arched towards a dream,

a stranger, all along, he had been
for us he tended to, a ghostly novice
attending a wholly different time.

Woke up, it was snowing --
wrote it was raining in the notebook:

it rained, it snowed,
I shut a window

with the same sense of impotence
trying to close another’s eye,

overlooking
and overlooked.