the gloomy eye,
carved from
    within the fog;
high-brow culture,
met with
stern-brow
concentration...
better the world
not know me,
    and i,
   not know the world...
for the lives worth
a tomorrow;
of today?
   i am, standing still..
not, leisured,
   to encompass
a copper craft
worth of a statue...
     to take,
is not the same as
to grasp...
              i pity
the muslims...
        they have a library
with but one book...
the quran...
       one book constitutes
a "library"...
          and i am supposed
to fear, a man, with only
one book?!
      i pity him...
             because who wrote
the first surahs?!
    Khadija!
   surd the H, and twist the Jot
into a branching tree of Y -
         kādíyā(h) -
i thought that muhammad was
illiterate?!
           huh?!
      was i wrong?
               if ever shakespeare
were to be resurrected,
then came the play:
             the merchant of mecca.
i am to fear a man with
a library containing but one book?!
****... should have learned
to throw dice or
            play chess than
attempt to ever be pardoned with
an ability, to read.
           but sure as ****,
the illiterate prophet of islam
needed his first wife, khadija
to write the first surahs...
           since she was literate
and he wasn't,
and he wasn't,
        and he wasn't...
               because the story tells us
that he wasn't...
      believe the story of
"literacy" from an illiterate prophet...
only in arabia, with lawrence to boot...
i'm just gagging the laughter
in my grave, when the oil runs out.
look at my itchy fingers
pretending to wave:
                 itching a fizzling out
of vanity projects...
           they built
the burj khalifa...
                         i grew a beard.