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.
April 1999