Song of the Andoumboulou: 304

By | 1 May 2021

To be bled into by this or that borderless
event while the birds were away, the very
ones that were never not there. They had
the fall of Troy, what Huff had been call-
ing the fall of Troy, loath not to euphemize the
knife he’d gone under, the cyst on his ilium,
vic dismay. Playing loose with fate, mak-
ing fun of it, making light, was prophecy, what
Huff meant, what Huff the Prophet meant…
light rain was coming down in Low Forest, a
drape or a veil of sorts, a curtain of beads it
looked like. One lay back or one looked out, an
on each drop if one could, Nub at the torpe-
do prez’s mercy, a harder rain eventually
to fall. Why were we there, I was asking Huff, of
all possible places why were we there, another
good cop show on the tol’you in front of us.
I thought of my niece and my nephew, long since
gone, never not no way I was over it, never it
only the way things go… We were watching the
tol’you reminiscing the times we’d been in Hous-
ton, a static song of not yet readiness, a street or
neighborhood we knew. What will being dead
be like the abandoned boy was asking. The a-
bandoned girl was asking as well, a disconsolate
thereby enacted, static itself grown sonorous,
an articulate brogue regret. Between them and
what being dead would be like there were nearly
nine minutes, a floating coffin had been leaving
church when we tuned in… A light rain was
coming down, a harbinger of rain to come, col-
loidal song of the not yet ready, Nub’s oncoming
collapse. We born with a knee on our necks leaned
the what-it-was window, a safety pin hummed in
the ground outside. It was a wet, gray play on words,
the reign of our lives not mattering coming down,
more not mattering we yelled and clamored for, the
numberless days of outrage it would take… The
word “moment” was on every tongue, we who’d’ve
er been mystics or philosophic pissed off, so vi-
cious we could see Nub’s way was. The birds had
come back having never left, a certain way they had
of being not being there. We sat with big books open
our laps. It was we who had gone in search of Mount
Qaf, a cyborg or a sunbird said to live there, the Simorgh
they said it was… Where had we been when the birds
had never left got back, we ourselves who had nev-
er been birds? How was it to be back having never
left? So went the questions against the walls of our
But for the pictures the books on our laps bored us,
quizzical couplets it was too late for, unsurprising
rhyme. The word “moment” cut everyone’s lips and made
them bleed, pecked by beaks it seemed, the birds having
and come back, the birds who were never not there…
It was all another day in photo-op Nub, another day a-
mong the so-called colorless ones. The birds were back
ing never gone, lives not mattering no matter, soul no
one spoke of anymore. The abandoned boy was a white-
haired lad raised among nestlings, all atop the earth atop
bull atop the fish, not what had been said but also that, no
the only one there

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