Hagiography of the grave birds

A philosopher burns down a monastery
in Spain, and says, “I have long
sought what to know, and not how
to know it.” A file of monks,
linked and coiffured, streams out
afire rejoicing hallelujah—
brown, then pale—how manifest
destiny might have colored them—
or green—a wild philosopher
is always guilty of commission—
he helps them bury themselves
in Portugal drunk on madeira—
a collared toddler cracks a codex
over the lamasery, implants
in every heathen a germ of guilt—
“now begins Europe!” he says,
as the gathered grave birds dither—

Advertisements

~ by Jeremy on June 24, 2013.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

 
%d bloggers like this: