Chastity and purity have always been the great virtues that come naturally to women but which men must learn. The Quran uses Mary, the mother of Christ as a great paragon of chastity and virtue and purity of heart and describes her as an ideal for men and women- for men and women. Quote “And God has made an exemplar for those who believe in Mary, who guarded her chastity, so we breathed our spirit into her and she confirmed the pronouncements and scriptures of her Lord and was among the pious.” It is from women that men learn chastity and purity, which is turn protects the sacred nature of women alluded to in the arabic word for woman, imra’a, which means “that which is scared.” The failure of men in imitating women in their natural virtues has resulted in women rejecting the double standards of men and imitating men in their natural vices. The spiritual power of women is great, but so too is the power of their physical attraction to men. It is this power that causes vile men to dominate women and virtuous men to honor and want to protect them, but that physical power of the female form over men is a sensory power that veils men from her metaphorical meaning. Her sensual form prevents men, lost in carnality, to realize her spiritual reality. She is the source of mercy in the world…In degrading women, we degrade the highest qualities of our human nature; in elevating her we elevate our highest nature. When her natural virtues; compassion, kindness, caring, selflessness and love, predominate in men, men are able to overcome their natural vices and realize their full humanity. However when those virtues are absent, men descend to the lowest of the low and are worst than beasts. By unveiling the outward beauty of a woman, we become veiled form her inward beauty.
Scarier than the SAT with a hangover
are the nineties in the rearview of my life
the Kel Mitchell, all that orange soda
and school breakfast apple juice jukebox,
spitting rhymes, tapping out instrumentals
on cafeteria tables at free-lunch recess.
Getting ruined on black sharpies,
thrash metal, blast level bong rips
and other exorbitant malarky.
Those late teen years were too,
scattered, rambunctious, sweet -
our adolescent antennae abuzz
for the tickling scent of crushes,
squishes, smooshes and smooches;
the empty beer bottles and cans clanking
loudly in the back of the AstroVan,
our contraband songs ringing against the cliffside too.
Glancing back I blush as bright red
as my new nine-to-five work tie, flushed as if caught red-handed,
spotted in public by my ex-wife, courting some gal half her age
or by the goth-punk ghost of my gritty inner bandit boy.
My old lover is painting me with deadpan eyes.
She told me that I was a figure now; not the man
whose cheap trick made the crevices in her thighs
sweat and that my touch was her heart’s contraband.
I woke to bodiless beds and ate breakfast alone
when the end was near. In the night she peeled
my strict embrace off like onion layers and fled me to see
herself blanched white reverberating in street black night.
Next door, we hear her flatmate fucking, though they complained
earlier about the sweet swoon music we made
and the way it would meander under his door in the wee hours
slinking across the floorboard and into his lonely living quarters.
I can only smirk for the clarity of those memories,
how close I am in my mind’s eye to seeing her clearly
again as she sees me now; on this grim stool,
grey and goose-bumped from the cold winter
we were so careful to keep each other from.
Her kitten quietly pawed the crushed cigarette
butts built up in the flower pot on the window sill
like bodies in world war trenches. Our insignificant sacrifice,
the abortion of breaths, magnum tombstone wrapped
in gold, climax eulogy groaned, nicotine sacrament.
Now this bed that I was a stranger to,
and then knew all too well, became subdued in,
and then outgrew feels once again foreign,
flagged by another fleet with scents unfamiliar.
My ex-lover is painting me with deadpan eyes, lips sealed
making the kind of portrait it took all these years loving
me and learning to love herself more to have the autonomy
to depict in a light only antique flames could reveal.
rise alongside drums, African
night k’panlogo cacophony;
odes to raw love and anthropology.
Crickets and Liqour
in clanging rain/
robot trains track rails/
the crickets allowed to
under trees in a little bit.
now. start noticing
the police sirens/
more my arms to the fold
on numerous occasions.
to drink liquor set of you and I
frozen by the prospect of seeing
your spectre in pieces by Kahlo
or Kanevsky. Your voice comes to me
with facts about form, turpentine,
confessions of love and west coast slang.
I tilt my head, pouring it out, bath water.
I shake the dust from the lenses.
I rebuff the place where your phone number
was engraved and save money
for newer slabs of granite.
How many angels shall I carve
before I dream of you again?
I was led by the hand
to Bohemia, by you -
lost child of the wildlands.
At the gate, we accelerates
and flow mad. Your magic;
growing over me like a fever.
To a Cherub
Your parents kept the portraits
you painted when you were eight -
naked in the garage,
acrylic under your fingernails.
Your parents kept those portraits.
I did too,
and when I think of you
I am like a child.