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1


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AC anzone

by

Jay

Snod g ras

s

3


For a thousand years her breast portal to the other world, holding in her giant dome.

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er g iant dome .


was architecture’s flagship, g the sky static

For a thousand years her breast was architecture’s flagship, portal to the other world, holding the sky static in her giant dome. Goddess of wisdom, we worship the balanced helmet in glossy paint, ship in a bottle in a shop where with a t-shirt you get a sandwich and a certificate of citizenship in heaven, with no commitment to stewardship, and the shop keeper angels are giving away admission to knowledge or heaven or whichever way you feel most conforms to what ambassadorship the lord endows his buildings with, whether it be wished for or the smug, inverted hang down face of wisdom

5


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bearing hawkers of penance and bouncers pelting wisdom with denial and velvet, buck toothed, high on internships the cavernous emptiness of a bronzed-over wisdom hides under plaster, saint craw, forgiving wisdom where the priests rub their naked bodies, raising static columns of fleshy worship, supporting the wise dome brought from the temple of Artemis, sister of wisdom who pawned her father’s house for what she could get some track marks where they dragged her to get her out of the way, morphine needles of wisdom, minarets in her arm, blood poison to take her away forsaking her as a goddess, though not even a saint’s way

7


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ue p la q

rough

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an who fights aw a wom w ay o h

n in the s hew

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ed plaster seal nd

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ca rr ied aw a

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is rough enough, like how a woman who fights away the devil gets a plaque hewn in the scar of wisdom like the church’s medical records, silver, bronze carried away by the Moors, or under lathe and plaster sealed away. Nut who gets tickets to heaven can be a matter of ownership. The rest of you maybe get statues or get to stay in the wrinkled organs of the world, menageries packed away like hard lozenges of mud and trees in the attic, little bodies molded in front of the T.V. static snowy packaging tied up and sent on rivers away from comfort and couches, sent on a mission to get life out of, not reviving juice, but the cracked eggs we get.

9


People get impatient , they

go f or

m wave dinn icro er

sn

isd ot w

om,

th e y

wo

n

r de

w

t hy

h ey we re

nev e t n er l

i

on

e

th g

et or

w

h

y

the red silk ri bbons s pilled over the wall get stic ky.

10

The y

won


When the earth quake opened Sophia’s dome she didn’t get under her desk in time, she couldn’t move the stars away and climb in to the painted firmament. And things get tricky when heaven is an idea on a wall. People get impatient, they go for microwave dinners not wisdom, they wonder why they were never let in on the get

or why the red silk ribbons spilled over the wall get sticky. They wonder at the nibs of scribal penmanship. It’s not irrelevant that the minarets look like spaceships how the hell else could we be expected to get from here to there? She wears a holy gown, mother fanatic, it shimmers golden at the edges, paramour ecstatic,

tt he min

ar e

ts

S pa c e ships

a

irr e

lev an t

h

t

ot n enmanship. It’s ribal p c s f o s b i he n nder at t

11


Hagia, saint of b rubbing up elect shocks of knowle of the brain

etasta

and heart m

tic,

gro

win

g on

e in

to

the

til un er oth e’s er th

h er

no ot

way but Go d to

inve rt

e th

m do

o nt ei

a

so sh di

that

it’s s

table 12


ball trost ed

,

Hagia, saint of balloons, rubbing up electrostatic s hocks of knowledge, the brain and heart metastatic growing one into the other until there’s no other way but god to invert the dome to a dish so that it’s stable in the middle, fruit on the table, round dogmatic and delicious And a ripe and ready cure for wisdom can be injected, spaceship, module mother wisdom, church, sepulcher, juices injected, serum vatic whosoever man or god can deny her ladyship, one garment worn over or torn off, we worship.

13


n journeyed full

blown across the mingled one

was eating m salvation spr journeyed ful one forged so sick by noon

ing habit’s abl in half humili

tt i ng

dr u

forge

asily

s in o at

do y wis that b call

the w a

Re

ter, e

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ip d em an ds

n

fello wsh

si es

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nn

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d, b

tling s, set cover that ust ed d

ke mw e are tie

der

n

pow

the

one one forged some berries nauseated poverty was sick by noon sick with suffering brings joy heaving habit’s able labor brought rest pillows to jump it in half humiliation brought glory and cakes


was eating my own liver once swollen violent

salvation spray lifted in notation emmacualti

my own liver once swollen violent ray lifted in notation emmacualtion ll blown across the mingled one one ome berries nauseated poverty was sick with suffering brings joy heav-

le labor brought rest pillows to jump it iation brought glory and cakes

Crown of thorns, minarets or horns, holy fellowship demands drunkenness in air. Recall that by wisdom we are tied, a boat in passing waters, may easily forget the powdered dust that covers us, settling away like the saints faces laid out in silver iconostasis.

15


still permitted access comf re or a t nd a h

omfort of wit hou umn c t

s

ea

the s

r ’s

ed

uc

ed

to p

owd

omfort of the removed wh o wa tc

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16

on

ine

o sand.

f aut

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ep f th

th, air t rea sb

rk o da

Sa n

ng wi

d, flin t, s

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pa

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kitchen window outsi gh the de u o r in t he t th h g co bri l r


Inside a pot of rice cools on a ceramic tile spidered with glaze, center of sand we recognize the removes, stepping from the dark around a neighbor’s house, into a light that does not show how comfort is a series of containments each requiring a permit. In the past we understood the stars as barriers between us and heaven. Now they are the impossible, even the words to describe them are unattainable, clear stretch of glass holding out what’s coming, summer insects, winter air, up close, the curtains are dusty and there are finger stains upon the glass.

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Hagia sofia