errands ran me from one line to another. been trying to circle around the lines, but people kept telling me to get back, to stay in line.
the guru muhammad prescribed salat, ramadhan, dikr, quietness. but there were no lines, at least not like the sky scraping city bank building in l.i.c, queens, not lines like the sidewalks and welfare and medicaid and kendrik lamar concerts.
lines like geometrics encircle the path of submission (islam), of hands up head down. lines as circular as the moon and the lunar calendar that men with beards spot like the three kings before determining the month of fasting has arrived.
the surrender (islam) is from understanding that the choppers with the spots shining down after the heist, the sirens and blue and red lights, and blue men with .9mm's are maya, are there for the banks and the individuals with property deeply invested in the ism of being separate from their fellow man, beings.
their lines are maya, i could hear the guru isa whisper. their lines are yours and mines. we are the lines. we are individuals in containers of spaces called apartments and houses and possible waves at neighbors, possible nots. we are the lines - mine not yours, here's my number to prove it, called it, did your phone ring? no. mine did. my money, my women, my levis and nikes, and time. all mine.
stopped by the thrift shop in between babylon doctors who clocked me at 98.5 seconds, smiled plastic and ghost like the ones my great dada would capture in bottles in our ancestral village, which has over time become for me elijah muhammad's africa, sun ra's mars, the beatle's yesterday.
got some slacks to cut into long shorts for the heat, for the line where temperature meets modesty, an idea that is as clear as yin is to yang, where tall is 5'2 and short below 4'6. the yang changes when moving to masai land, to germany, where short is below 5'10.
modesty is a line like a circle with the night on one side and the day on the other.
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