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—


~ by Jeremy on June 24, 2013.

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