Finally the pot boils over, foaming thin;
The ceiling blurs, falls fast, a paper plane is hurled
From mountaintop, delirious, spinning, and the world
Splits open like a plastic bag, and truth pours in.

The arrows of rain are silver-shafted, fletched in grey.
The skyscrapers’ steel frames are sketched in grey.

Each thunderhead drifting across the hem of the day
is whipped water vapor, shining white and edged in grey.

Each drop is a silver nail driven into the clay
pinning down the world, intaglio etched in grey.

The fuzzy-gold goslings are ready to make their way
south on powerful pinions newly fledged in grey.

The rainbow was once a promise, or so they say
but God’s raindrop kisses are life being pledged in grey.

i want Truth

Oh no you don’t–
that’s like cutting off the branch you’re sitting on,
stomping on the inside
of the glass bubble we call Reality. It pops
(the bubble of your skull)

and you are immersed in a boundless sea
immaculate depth, without ripples.
The ocean of the formless
beyond the created world.
The sky untracked by human eyes.

You fall like a meteor, a suicide
trailing fragments of your bubble!
You rise like a diver who’s lost his belt
with radiance exploding
in every vein of your body!

But all this tumult of images
is just the swirl of plastic flakes inside a glass ball.
You can shake it all you want
but if you want Truth

–smash it.


I lit a candle under the new moon and was proud
of how bright it burned. The full moon
swallowed my tiny flame without a trace.


Even the hawkmoths
who haunted my window with such passion
in dark nights, abandoned my candle
for sky-borne glory.

The moon at the end of the month grows thin
devouring its own light. Forsaken moths wander the air
searching for the silver dust of midmonth.

Ramadan burns flesh as flame burns wax. Souls
circle the candles of the Nights of Power
on private miraj.

New moon leaves us famished for brilliance
that swallows our souls as the moon
swallows my candle.

At birth you must drink a whole pail of forgetfulness
and spend your living days in the vale of forgetfulness.

Wet wrinkled newborns cling to their mothers
and shed their first tears with a wail of forgetfulness.

That radiance we knew from the time before time
is blown out, swept away by a gale of forgetfulness.

Piracy, romance, adventure and mystery:
all different versions of the tale of forgetfulness.

Pilgrims and pioneers, stay-homes and wanderers:
all travelers together on the trail of forgetfulness.

The soul can be injured by an unwary purchase,
but who seeks a profit from the sale of forgetfulness?

In the close confines of the dergah, the dervish
is seeking escape from the jail of forgetfulness.

In the waste, far removed from the doings of mankind
the hermit hopes to break down the pale of forgetfulness.

The last and the least of the seekers after truth,
God grant me a glimpse through the veil of forgetfulness.

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