Mohammed had been sitting outside on a rock for about a thousand years when Youssef pushed his way from the tent to join his brother.  For nearly a hundred years, Mohammed had been waiting on the rock while Youssef deflowered virgin number seventy-two, taking her every-which-way his imagination would allow.  In the sand at his feet, Mohammed was using a stick to draw letters and figures, while he listened to the grunting and groaning, screaming and moaning, biting and panting.  Sometimes, while watching a passing caravan or grinning at the vulture who hunched and returned his grin, Mohammed would lean back and yell:  “Youssef!  Youssef!  Have you not had enough of her?”  In a way, he didn’t mind Youssef’s nonsense.  Without the sound of bombs detonating in the distance, or the burst of machine gun spray, the silence sometimes drove Mohammed to the brink of madness, so it was a relief to hear his brother’s noisy exertions.

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sometimes we desire what we cannot have
but unable to extinguish the desire
we fan ourselves into a roaring flame

and so we rage
and we flare
but consume nothing

from this
god utters forth
the usual useless shit

then
obedience comes
not from love
but from its failure

we draw on god’s teat
like sucklings on an ashen nub

how great the fall
crashing down around my head
how great the dread i feel
when winter breathes her first chill
across the land
the great hoar undresses gnarled limbs
then laughs her limpid taunts
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