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Another Step, Delicately Ezekial beheld the Work of the One And saw wheels within wheels. When the wheels are known, Not a single infidel is left in the world. When the wheels are not known, Every faithful heart falls to ruin. When I walked into the Garden of Mystery, The lilacs spoke wondrous poetry. The narcissus gazed at my form. The sunflowers shined a light for my path. The lilies caressed my hands and face. The roses opened their hearts to my own. Even the stones chanted a song of welcome. Yet, wondrous as this is, This Garden of Mystery is populated by shadows. Look! The wheels are turning! Are you paying attention? The Prophet, may Allah love him without limit, entered the Kaba and destroyed 360 idols. This was easy for him, and we must do the same. Yet the traditions do not relate that there yet remains for us one last idol. Its name is "I". Oh, Beloved! Give me an ax, fire, and a strong heart sufficient to the task! I long for light; And I'm bored with shadows. [return to top] The Nature of the Beast The mind is a drunken monkey, Staggering dementedly through a desert full of perfumed scorpions. The intellect a metallic reservoir of cold mathematics convinced of its own superiority. The heart, a labyrinth of phantoms the shape of water. Do we not see our enslavement to this unholy trinity? Do we not contemplate the shocking violence we do to our own souls? Look around you! False gods begot of human vanity lay in ambush; laughing as they wait to betray their devisors. Are you listening? Or are you lost in the house of mirrors you built with such meticulous care? Have you become hypnotized by the endless spectacle of human stupidities parading through history with such mechanical precision? Are your hypocrisies finished flattering you; Or would you like a little more time? Don't look to me! I can't help you! How can I when you ignore the date on the prophetic calendar? I am a human being! An ambassador of Divinity; And I am angry! The pharaohs have ordered us into an invisible prison. Pouring lies into our ears and poisons into the earth, and giving us circuses and sitcoms to distract us from their abominations. All the while creating their own enemies from ignorant, helpless, frustrated, nationalistic laboratory rats who metamorphosis into the very thing they hate; all the while thinking they're doing God's work. They have all tampered with the primal forces of nature; believing they will never face the consequences. I will not answer for them! I am alone! A traveler in this world engaged in the Sacred Drift. I will not be here long. I stand on the outside, looking in; engulfed in Oneness. I am of the People of the Truth; I am fearless in proclaiming my heresies against the new world order. I weep at the suffering of the innocent, and rage at the stink of corruption and lies. But when I behold the Great Chess Game, and contemplate the bureaucracies, financial institutions, nations, armies, and empires, I see little more than self-aggrandizing bacteria in a petri dish whose activities I cannot pretend to take seriously. Do you think I want your treasures? Fool! I have my own! Look me in the eye: I am a White American Muslim! I wear history like a yoke around my neck without platitude: Why should I expect anything less from you? You see, I know, as few men do, That there is no god but Allah. Oh, I'm sorry; Did I wake you? [return to top] How to Play Music In stillness, there is action. In speech, there is depleted communication. In form and style, there is imprisonment. Your pattern of conduct is water and incense smoke. Your teeth will fall out of your mouth before your tongue will. Look beyond the light: you will find "No-Thing". "No-Thing" is the guide and goal; they are one. [return to top] A Burning Desire Upon what threshold do I stand? This night; in the last ten days of Ramadan wherein all I thought I knew dissolves in a formless mist. My books! What mighty and enduring things they once were! Now, they are but piles of paper, with incoherent markings on them that I can't even focus upon anymore. I suppose I could burn them, that way they would keep me warm and be of some use. My CDs were once monuments to the majesty of music. I imagine I could entertain myself by throwing them at passersby. Or smashing them and watch sunlight reflect off of the surface that once held euphonious masterpieces. And my body! I was once so strong and quick; pleasing to the beholder. Betrayed is the flesh to the ravages of time! It should make a fine addition to a grave someday soon. The face that stares back at me in the mirror. Is it still mine? Eyes that well up with tears as undeserved provisions and honors weigh heavily upon my scale and speak no evidence of its real import. There is only one Reality: all else is smoke and mirrors! I'm getting tired of playing chess. What mosque can give me refuge from the 72 gates of Hell? To what Imam or Sheikh can I go who is not tainted with "that which is not al-Haqq"? I suppose it matters little; I have my solitary path (maybe old Hassan wasn't so crazy after all). A spiraling path, ascending within a double helix of "Sacred or Profane". Which most call "either/or", But the Awakened call "Both/and". The Righteous will enter Paradise and say "We saw this before! We know this, despite the shadows we suffered while we were being purified". Are you shocked? Don't be; unless you enjoy thinking like a Christian or Muslim fanatic. But explain if you can why I must wage war against the Throne which praises Allah better than I? And why my refusal to do so makes me a heretic. Pardon me while I laugh at the top of my lungs! Have you noticed that many fight to the death over the paths to salvation, but never over salvation itself? Could their concepts of the Garden be but more idols? But no! I must not say such things! Lest I upset the orthodoxy! Pardon me while I weep with inconsolable grief! My own idols linger still. Like drunken djinn that refuse to believe the tavern is closed. But no! I must not say such things! Lest I place my head upon the chopping block. Pardon me while I shake my head in wonder. Why it's easier to write a book than to read one. But no! I must not say such things! Lest you demand that I interpret someone else's poetry! Or worse: my own! I go to the mosques and find saints in the guise of hypocrites and hypocrites in the guise of saints. And I sit among them! Unaware am I of which side lay rightful claim to me! How dare these people call me "Imam"! Boy, did I ever get over on them! What right do these Fools have to take my khutbahs seriously? If they only knew what Jihads I fight daily! If they only knew what betrayals my Nafs commits upon me each moment! If they only knew how Shaitan entertains himself with me! They would cast me out into the dunya without a second thought! And I would crawl, a weeping and repentant bum, into the first tavern I could find, To be received as a holy man. Ah! The Burning! Merciless torment! Veils ripped away and incinerated in the flames of my own separation from the One that transfigures Loving Radiance into a blinding agony! Drown these flames in Wine! There is no other hope! Lead me to the Four Rivers immediately! Rumi had his Shams. Ibn Arabi had his Meccan princess. Ibn Iraqi had his Qalandars. Big deal! What do I care for these ancient poets! This has gone too far; stop guarding the Pearls with such jealously! Let flow the Water! Bring me my Wine! Pour me my Milk! With Honey on the side. Oh, my poor unsuspecting reader. I know what you are thinking! "How dare he write such insanity, and call it poetry! Who does Dawoud think he is?" Relax. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just burning your temples, and all the idols you placed inside. [return to top] Reaching I am tired of this heart! I want to cut it from my breast! This thing has given me nothing but pain and madness since I got here! Is this thing really a heart? Isn't a heart supposed to be a source of joy and happiness? All it does is sing lamentations. I lament my dread and loathing, Of the Dark Age I live in, A madhouse wherein slaves sit upon the thrones of kings And corpses that lack the good manners to lie in their graves and decompose Presume to call themselves my masters and teachers. I will not sit at their table! I lament the separation from the garden. The forests of verdant beauty! The oceans of power! The deserts of perfect purity! The mountains whereupon I once stood above the world and danced with Laughing Lions! The rivers of Wine, Water, Milk, and Honey, Above which Green Parrots of great majesty solemnly keep the Poetry of the Wise. And the wind whispering through the trees shames the greatest music of this world; And the musicians play the very stars like flutes, drums, and strings. The mansions whose doorways are the letters of the Qur'an, Wherein Kings, Warriors, Magicians, and Lovers, Call me "Brother" and bid me to take my place among them. Where women of beauty beyond compare, Who would never dare cover their faces for fear of insulting Allah's artistry, Dance with modest subtlety towards me and say "I am yours" I long to return to that place where my heart can be a heart once again! Oh Allah!! I have forgotten so much! Take this heart and burn it in a crucible of Green Light! That I may rise to the Jeweled Crown, and beyond! Oh you in this world of struggle; Whose path takes you here! Consider well my music and poetry: Dawoud's been a long time coming; He'll be a long time gone. [return to top] Manhattan Meditations I extend my hand into the night, perchance to touch an intangible piece of life in my never ending quest for commerce, communication, inspiration. A wandering pilgrim on the well beaten paths of this well beaten city. Monuments of gold plated corruption clamor ostentatiously for my attention; my adoration. But I know better. Let the transient illusion pass: frustrated in its purpose. The streets wet with recent rain: traffic hisses by, giving odd luster to the colors recklessly splashed about. People go about their lives pressing inward: well practiced extroversion boarders upon hypocrisy: everyone is alone. I float by, invisible. I dislike attracting too much attention to myself. Don't waste your time on me: I have nothing you want. Women saunter about in shameless display of their ornaments; oblivious to the tragedy of self-undermined dignity. Their true inner beauty treated as a liability. (And they say that an Islamic society oppresses women!) I see no mind, no spirit. Only tits and ass. Yet sometimes it's hard to look away. On the corner a man with a saxophone gently hangs his bronze lament in the air. I listen, mesmerized by this fearless display of sincerity. A labor of love with no hint of reward. I give him a dollar, and a smile. Off I go to take care of business. My acquaintance and I meet. The chess game has begun. I like this man. He appreciates the beauty of competition and the deadly need for integrity. How rare is his kind. Yet I do not let my guard down: Business is war. An agreement has been reached. I go away pleased. Off into the night again; occupied by thoughts of plans, schedules, needs. Dreams and meditations season my musings with their ontological ornamentation. A higher purpose is alive here. Ask yourself why many cling to provincial barrenness; oblivious to the bigger picture. Manhattan. People live here. Each light a story. Each motion assimilated carries its own history. Life hums all around us. The aggressive pursuit of survival and satisfaction of desires and wants real and imagined. Desperation clear as the lights that illuminate this strange dance. Echoes of the Message comes out in strange places, weaving an interconnecting pattern of almost incomprehensible beauty; sublimely negating the despair, hate, hopelessness, and corruption that exists here. Yet most refuse to see it. They will look for the Truth everywhere except where it is to be found. It's too bad: the One always calling, always inviting. Riches beyond imagining await; and for such a small price: Yet most turn away, trading gold for trash. And we have our provisions. We have our share of this world. Behold the tragedy of transience, the sorrow of longing to return home. Clinging as we often do with childlike desperation to pleasures guaranteed only to fade like incense smoke in the wind. So will our distress. Death and resurrection: the cycle continues. The wise recognize the infinite spiral often mistaken for a 360 degree circle: finite alone; infinite when seen beyond the linear. Here is the evidence. Sorrow is cause for gratitude. We are poor, but we live like kings; if we only knew. The world is ours, with plenty for everyone. The struggle itself a glorification. Waste not your time thinking of the Big Payoff. Love and loathing, comfort and pain. All conspire against human self delusion to submit their own mode of prayer. See the design and the Designer speaks. Listen to the petition of your heart with new ears, and await the Great Event. It's late; time to go home. Walking on, I stop just outside an East Village record store to listen to the music playing inside. It's John Coltrane's "Ascension": ironically in sync with the implied chaos and perfection raging around me. On my way to the train I buy some food from an Egyptian gentleman. He has his own music; Everyone does. [return to top] A Musician's Revenge Dear friends, how well thou know the story I tell. The misery of having been played victim of the record company. But, though tale after tale may be told of humiliations and abuse heaped upon the innocent and unwary practitioner of the musical arts, This time, the tables have been turned! Behold! The treachery of the A&R man has been loosed upon him! His own unclean practices which, many years fattened him with ill gotten gains have betrayed him; turning upon it's haunches and leapt at his neck with barred fangs! His own empire crumbling at its foundation; His trusted servants howling for his blood and salivating at the prospect of disemboweling their foul master! And lo! Listen with ears open, yet heart shielded against his cries of self righteous indignation. For consider: has not the musician such right to justice and lawful increase of capital as any man? Did not the A&R man know well enough the rigors of the bond when first its terms were named? Yea, though he did, inwardly he did laugh; thinking us musicians all fools and dreamers. Lulled into submission by idolatrous adulation, sexual peccadilloes, and drugs. An easy target for his well practices thievery! Though now pardon is his plea, meditate upon my words. That I, the musician, composed and recorded the music burned upon the CD; shedding blood, sweat, and tears in the performance of this; the most sacred of all arts. And did I not uphold the letter of the law engraved upon the contact which bore mine hand; trusting the just completion of the bond? And now! The A&R man comes; foreshadowed by a poorly veiled heart full of hypocrisy and viscous intentions and asks for mercy in lieu of justice! What weight, dear friends, shall bend the contract and the word of a man? Shall we, too long the abused and extorted, be bent by empty pity and soft mercy for one who lacks such qualities himself? Of what mockery of righteousness shall the mighty mountain prostrate; cowering and abased, while the manure pile stands tall and mocks? Nay!! Too long hath the riches of our efforts and the songs of our souls filled the coffers of the corrupt and ungrateful! The quality of mercy is for the merciful; not for the unrepentant extortionist and usurer who, in reputation and record, shown pity to none! Verily! Let not our softness of heart be strewn gratis upon the common ground like pearls before swine for any corporate criminal who, out of greed, hubris, or stupidity, staggers eyeblind to his own demise, crying "Oh! Pity me!" Else mercy's self becomes soiled and valueless from indiscriminate dissemination and undeserved overuse. And the minions of Satan once again escape retribution; Laughing at our foolhardiness while we lay bleeding and impotent with empty questions upon our lips. [return to top] |
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