The Ya(h)ad
Definitions of The Yad vary, for some it is written on car-number-plates in cryptic
scripts and in the spaces between invisible hyphens, for others it the sudden scroll
unscrolling scrawl of an atrophied sense, like that of smell, for instance, which as is
well-known is a reduced faculty in humans, and often confused with precognition,
unlike the case of our cousins gorilla gorilla or pan troglodytes, despite the products
and marketing of ICI and Chanel et al. It can be
very silly, like that joke we both know, for indeed, as is said, in much wisdom lies
much folly, and verser-vicer. Etcetera, ta-rum. It can be plangent, plaintive, like that
tune we all know by Bach (yes, that one, the one that makes us sad to be happy, happy
to be sad) or one can find it in reflection, beyond the mirror's morning call, on, say,
that in Mumbai or Calcutta the homeless have to pay to sleep on the night-streets,
protection rackets run pavement space (and we think we're hard done by, eh?) or it
can be Crashaw calling Love, thou art absolute sole or
something otherwise again. Like that bend in the road, yes, the lane's curve, where the
accidents never happen. Or maybe do. The way that water writes. The flow. The
never-shall-be-falling-again-risen-found-it-is, the
Yaoummm, I like that she said, touch me there again.
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