the Nazir goes along hummin', tying together history's sleepy Wake-up call of beginds-&-hens:


He walks the thread-thin bloodline
like a lion on a tightrope, or a Templar
in Jerusalem, or like a Nazir
scored by whiplashed Narbonne

Moorish twine (from Septimania
or Babylon). Walks on palm-leaves
naked as a Galilean, grooved
for service as a Benjaminite lyre-

plucked brand – the word God flying
from his ribcage like an undivided
pigeon. Yes, he bears it, laden
with J-puns: his mother (Hagia

) grabs him by the hair and
carries him off to Mount Moriah
singing, dancing (Messiah
between his lips, under

his tongue) while the dread iron rings
of Rome (all nine of them) congeal
and Pilate's unrevealing,
convenient surprise brings

down the curtain of the veil again.
Yea, upon this Rock I have unfolded
your Mandylion – my body held
in golden photoplasm for an icon

of a raptored rhaptor's kingdom
So in present tense infinity
that honey-hunter's blind tenderly
scotched his mother's mordant home.


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