Akhamanud

Akhamanud

I remember standing on the rise, the dig site spread out before me, watching Captain Zimmerman, hands clasped behind his back, walk atop the honeycomb foundations of the ruins with his light, Prussian step. At his feet, the laborers, his charge, toiled in the clay. I was in a wistful mood; in my right hand was a letter from my superior, Neues Museum director Theodore Singer, denying my request to remain in Mesopotamia for another month, and telling me that I must return to Berlin before I caught Yellow fever or Malaria or Typhus or “whatever they have down there” to begin cataloging and translating what I had already found, which, judging by my last correspondence, “was substantial enough,” and demanded an exhibition “as soon as possible, preferably by next spring.” The rest of the crew would remain at the site indefinitely—in an auxiliary capacity, scraping the earth for whatever else it might yield.

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The Coffeeshop Buddhist Reclaims His Ego

The Coffeeshop Buddhist Reclaims His Ego

I know by now that
if I were a true poet
or a determined romantic
I would tell you that your eyes were like the ocean;
hovering, softly, in alabaster waves
above a peaceful blue abyss
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