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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Being Real” cc&d (v264) (the July/August 2016 issue, v26) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book After the Blues the cc&d July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 318 page July-Dec. 2016 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Muhammad in transit

A.S. Coomer

1.
I went out and bought a printer.
I decided to print out a copy
of the New Testament
in Arabic.
I made the thing on the thinnest
paper minimum wage could buy.
I turned the font down low
--like I was setting the mood--
eye-strainingly-low then clicked print.
I smiled in rapture
watching the laser etch horizontal,
prance its little frenzied dance,
creating the Good Book in the Beautiful Language.
I stapled, collated and made another copy.

2.
I met you at your parents’ place in the country;
late, everybody was already there,
cousins, brothers, sisters (including Maggie), Grandma & Poppy.
I didn’t knock though I’d never been there before.
I assumed it was one of my houses from a previous life.
I strode in smiling like Buddha,
glowing like Joan of Arc,
radiating like Muhammad in transit.
You all were waiting for me at the dinner table,
plates & glasses, forks, spoons & knives
set like type, food uncovered and steaming.
“Greetings,” I proclaimed. You should’ve seen
your mother’s face.

3.
I pulled up a chair, two down
from where you sat, confusing everyone.
Your grandfather, Poppy, cleared his throat
and everyone joined hands & bowed their heads.
I let my eyes study each waiting, hollow face,
hunger, impatience, impending drunkenness, boredom
flashing across the suppliant faces like a news crawl ticker.
I don’t remember what the old man said.

4.
I doubt you do either but there were
Amens all around. I cleared my throat
and pushed myself up from my chair.
Eyes darting up, expecting, fearing,
stabs of annoyance, shots of caution,
all turned to me, face smooth as
melting butter, eyes as clear
as a ringing Tibetan prayer bell,
mouth as moist as green spring mist.
“Yes?” your father asked,
more demand than question.
“I have something, sir, for you.”
I reached into my inner jacket,
one copy, shining & golden & waiting there.
I retrieved it. I reached down
from my place in the clouds,
high above you & your family,
my cherub’s wings a-flutter,
the golden trumpet poised at my wet & shining ruby lips,
and gave your father the News.

5.
As he unfolded the stapled & collated
pages, white as the first snow of winter,
your sister, Maggie, caught my eye.
As your father squinted down, confused
and disoriented like the neophyte he is, she
sent the message across the gravy ladle:
I...want...you...I...want...you...NOW.

6.
“The fuck is this chicken scratch?”
“What is it, Clark?”
“Jim, what is that?”
“The boy is in-sane.”
“Why’s he smiling like that?”

7.
Maggie, as forgotten as Mary after her son’s Ascension,
got up from the table, eyes as sharp as
nails, signals vibrating like a cat’s soft purr,
& made her way out of the growing Babel.
I got the other copy and left it in Poppy’s
frail, shaky hands and followed her.

8.
“What in the hell?”
“Is this Arabic?”
“I think it’s Russian.”
“Japanese.”
“Is he some sort of terrorist?”
“He’s a weird sonofabitch, that’s for sure.”

9.
Her trail was lavender, sweet, light & enticing.
One door, two doors, three doors,
the fourth was open:
the bathroom, recently scrubbed and glistening like diamonds,
smelling of lemon-scented disinfectant, votive candles,
soap, piss and, there, Maggie’s sweet lavender.

10.
I fucked your sister in the shitter
of your parents’ country estate
while you
& your family stumbled over the Word of God.

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