24 December, 2019 – Nicholas Dolinger

I never understood the wind,
I know the windmills very much.
At Kourtney Jenner’s house on Christmas Eve
the heir apparent makes the rounds to chat
with men and women, names as seen in print,
to celebrate the joyful mystery,
the bleaching of the shadowed temple walls,
of course, Scott Disick and Sia will be there.
The Occidental Man, upright, transplant,
is at the fullness of his game tonight,
with human statues and Versace gowns,
Moet and Chandon, Burgundy and snacks,
all to the glory of God, for whom they die.
Harper Beckham and Saint Nicholas of Myra,
awash in glow of cleanest water and air,
posed in the corner by the tree of sin,
a pine majestic, transfigured by the glow
of incandescent lights estrangulating.
I never understood the wind,
I know the windmills very much.

He signs a copy of Jesus is King
and looks around to find Kim and the kids.
Thirty years ago, he destroyed humanity,
when he reached into his father’s hidden chest
and put his finger on the magazine,
allured by strange contortions of the flesh,
all skin and juices, staring from beyond,
and did the customary things with this codex.
His surname: next in line to take the fall;
a tendency bestowed by intercourse,
passed on from generation by carnal act,
which carries fruit of Eden to end.
He looked down at the shame he wrought with hands,
and in it saw the shadows of his grandfather,
Adam of the Occident, defiled Eden—
I think he was involved with the Panthers,
and with the CIA poured boiling water—
following this precedent, he ate ass;
and covered his shame with a dirty sock
and mopped up all the sin on his belly.
I never understood the wind,
I know the windmills very much.

She did the same another time,
two decades later, but antecedent in telos,
Ray baby, Ray, will we invade Iran?
Shit’s different now, it couldn’t happen again,
there will not be another war this year,
unless the serpent swallows its own tail.
Humanity is good, and we’re all gods,
there will not be another war,
the people will install democracy,
he says as he unholsters his penis.
Now let me piss on you, ok, ok,
and if a thousand hezbollahis fall,
it will not be a limit upon my right ,
to spew sperm and death unto the world.
And while I’m on my soapbox, Kim
just let me say a thing that’s on my mind:
I never understood the wind,
I know the windmills very much.

You know I know the windmills very much,
sprouting up like tumors from the land,
littering the garden with once-birds.
I never understood the windmills very much,
which look so serene from the shore at Carson Beach,
and besiege the Northerners with noise pollution.
These windmills are sin, utopian promise,
stolen from the sleep of the Maldeners,
accelerating thermodynamic decay.
We have a world, you know we have a world,
the world is tiny, our air is their air,
in Cathay, Almains, Persia, all alike,
emissions are a universal stain.
This time of year, the waves roll in and out,
cold to touch, kissed by long black night,
with only pigeons and elderly to witness.
From afar, the windmills churn the frigid air,
the garden is a pile of ash and cum,
littered with the rot of birds and snakes,
and the wind wind follows the plan unknown,
the weatherman’s flat brain cannot foretell
how many seeds are carried by the cold.
Nori, Saint, Chicago, Psalm and Kim,
Go upstairs, it’s time to pray the hours,
as day the day recedes and eats its tail,
we must give thanks to God for first priorities.
I’ll be upstairs in just a minute,
first Daddy must go say goodnight to Kris
and take a break to use the toilet.
I never understood the wind,
I know the windmills very much.

You have redeemed us, Lord God of Truth.
Into your hands Lord, I commend my spirit.
Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom,
go if you must, but we’re almost done.
Lord, we beg you to visit this house
and banish from it all the works of the evil one
who dares to kill himself and tempt the Christ,
all the deadly power of the enemy.
May your holy angels dwell here
to keep us in peace,
and may your blessing be upon us always—
no Persian war, no more stain of sin,
for the Theotokos vigil has begun.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit—
I never understood the wind.