Riot police enter the pewed rows
In Jerusalem, the city of pieces
On earth
Where faiths forever conflict;
Armenians and Greeks monk it out,
Separate those reversed for love
Filled with uncyclical violence;
Splinters of the cross nail So and So again,
No keys to Heaven to open the door,
But plenty of blessed brawling,
'Holey' vestments,
Vermin, and invested vice
So universal.
World News: Monks in brawl at shrine
Israeli police burst into one of Christianity's holiest churches and arrested two clergyman after a row between monks erupted into a brawl.
The clash broke out between Armenian and Greek Orthodox monks in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, revered as the site of Jesus' death.
Riot police separated the sides after the row, which centered around an annual procession by Armenian clergymen.
Heard the old saw,
"Use your head"?
Why? When you could
Cut ahead of others—
Like Cromwell while singing psalms,
Heedless of kingship;
Or the Jacobins' reigning Reason.
Was that Fouche or touché?
Yes, the "Feast of Brutus";
The eastern samurai and their slow bamboo saw
—Heads up,
And don't forget to cut the White Rose
Of Sophie and Hans;
Rather germane...
By all means
Decapitate Nablus;
Be so whole-wall hogged
The heady exuberance of hubris.
Or like the Frank Crusaders of old,
'Goading' everyone with crosses,
Downright upside down swords,
Lobbing heads of Muslims
Over the heights of Nicaea,
Blasted walls! All 'preys' to All...
Heedless to others,
And horse racing Afghans clubbing
Another trunkless pate
Headless to all,
Across a rock-strewn mountain meadow,
Or one goading Palestinian playing bloody soccer
With a Jewish soldier's fleshy skull in Gaza.
It's heady and mindless—
A real gas.
The chubby woman in a blue Pontiac
Jerked up alongside our country's curb
Where members of a silent vigil stepped
Placarding decision avenue.
One protestor crossed the line,
To ask her what she needed.
Bordering on the hysterical, she yelled,
"You're wrong!" her face taut and
Yanked back from the cleft.
With drowning eyes, she shouted,
"I wish I'd never been born."
So much for 'boarders'
And backwards wet with rivers.
Then she jammed her shift into gear
And sped away, not even glancing
At the clambered wall
Or down
At her remaining child
Ensconced next to her,
Missing her seatbelt.
Daniel Wilcox's wandering lines have appeared in many magazines, blah, blah, sheep... Before that he hiked through Cal State University Long Beach (Creative Writing), Montana, Pennsylvania, Europe, Palestine/Israel, Arizona... worked in a mental institution, sojourned on a reservation, and taught students literature for years. He now lives with his wife on the central coast of California where he ages. "Monks Brawl in Holy Sepulcher" was originally published in The New Verse News.
del.icio.us
