The Book of Glossolalia or a Calligraphy of Tongues

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the poem opens with a dancing mouth / a tongue / unfurling into sounds—

      a cascade of consonants / vowels rippling to intensity—like the song

of a hosanna twirling on the tongue of men / the song scythes my

        earbuds / its rhythm—a body of hand dressed with pins / syllables

raining from the ruh & soul of a man like an altar of miracle / the day is the

      physique of a splintered song like shards of glasses / in the

hideous mountain / ten men / ten robes / ten tongues /&

      a wide motion in prayer with tongues too heavy to tremble in a wind—

& they unbuckle the godliness that heralded my soul & its devil / say—

    a question billows— can prayer be a pill to the threat in a cerebrum?

the preacher says: only a man can drown into a prayer & a god would beckon

        its wings to the almighty / i undo / from my tongue /

a preceding set of consonants; / & a jumble with vowels/

        the god unknots the uncertainty on my tongue like a division

of a blurred borderland — say the piety in my body can fit into a fist/

      every speaking-in-tongue / the glossolalia —the language of the unknown

/ a part towards prayers—I'm learning to sing in a country of silence / I'm learning

    to draw in a country of blindness / I'm learning to smile in a country

of tears—the prayer & the tongue etched on a caligraphy of my mouth /

      my mouth, the body of a prayer—

I pray in a language I do not understand / weaving cords of syllables /

    calling unto to the روح ruh / the holy spirit /