Sunday, September 05, 2004


Mullah Jalal Speaks

My soul drunk on too much cheap wine, my body ruined by rich food and fast women, the two of us sit here helpless in this wrecked wagon, not a tool between us or the knowhow to use one. My heart? A lame mule in a mudhole. Every frantic effort to work free just mires it deeper.

You know the rule: drunks must argue and pick fights. Lovers too, of course. They fall into holes just like my mule here. But at the bottom of those holes they find shining things, treasures like the moon traipsing down the street singing, shedding clothes. I couldn’t help myself, I saw that moon and started singing myself, and tumbled up out of my wagon into the upturned bowl of the sky. The bowl shattered, and everywhere I looked everywhere was falling.

New rule: smash the wineglass. Fall into the glassblower’s breath.

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