Adriaen het Kint

Adriaen het Kint, dead prisoner, passes back through the eye of the needle into the wombed-shaped anatomy theater in a caul of umbra mortis, lo. Tho I pass through the valley of the shadow of death, I wear a caul stitched by the needle through which a camel passed, like the condom passed through the drug mule, sperm through the pierced condom, a camera through a heart.  Just as the face of every Dutchman is lit by a flashbulb conceived two hundred years in the future, Adriaen het Kint now lifts a flayed hand to demonstrate how to put the god back together once he’s been dismembered and scattered among the reeds. Adriaen het Kint, shall we gather at the river to scoop up the disjecta membra? How, with flayed hand, shall we pluck the white lyre that rides the black thorax of the zika mosquito, resplendent in her viral robes? She is a messenger to all nations as she lowers her improbable proboscis into the human layer and vomits an inky toxin from the Greek for arrow ink for arrow, an arrow that sinks its bleat into the alien chordata so that the future contracts into itself, slinks off, slips further down the drain, sinks further down the wall outside the clinic, the infected needle blocking the stoma of the future with a crusty pus. The sleeper juts a canine up through the gum without meaning to, and an answering moon orbiting Jupiter winks back a salt signature, betrays a vein of water asleep beneath the frozen strata whereunto a white-clad nurse or rover soon will sink a toothed cannula to draw it off How complete ly she circumvents the eye of the needle how completely she bypasses that camel-route to Heaven as she drains away for human use the plasma and the data