The door to the place
Flew open with a gentle touch
And yet this touch carries the force of certainty.
You will find the elongated arm
Steadily protruding out of the door.
Then,
The first step,
The second step,
And you will be assured that these will be the steps of a man
Certain with purpose.
You will also recognize that this man
Is patiently resigned
In his skin where he resides.
There he is calmly walking
To the goal of his destination.
And this destination was appointed to him
In the vision he had had of the prophet (pbuh)
Two hours before this approach.
In the dream,
The Holy Prophet appeared to him with the key
And without even realizing he was reaching for the key
His hand hadfor lack any better terms
His hands reached out and his fingers attached themselves to the keys.
Which the Holy Prophet has just delivered unto him
With the instructions,
Go
And open the doors
Of the mosque
And let the people in.
And when you’re done,
Hand them over the keys.
From this,
The firmly approaching steps that belong to a shortly contended body
Is the man who was once the Sultan of the Balkans
And is now the Sultan of Nothing.
Ibrahim Adhan
Is happy
In purpose grin
Feeling the warm, early approach of the sun
For, yes,
Ibrahim Adhan
Can distinguish between a black thread and a white thread.
So it is time for morning prayer.
Ibrahim Adhan
Is heading towards the mosque
To do as he has been instructed
But was it a dream?
And is it real?
It matters none the less to Ibrahim Adhan
Because to him,
There is no separation between dream and waking
Because Ibrahim Adhan knows that it is all a dream
And that within the dream there is nothing that is real but the real
And from the real the prophet has come to give him a command
And in the real he will fulfill such command.
So there he arrived at the mosque
Early,
Before anyone got there
He walked through the door,
Turned around
And came back out with a grin on his face
And stood right outside the door of the mosque,
Extended his hand to give the key to the people
But,
Where is the key?
And what is the key?
For Ibrahim Adhan,
The key is right there in the palm of his hand
And whoever can see it
May take it.
So as he stood there,
The first worshipper came by
And looked strangely at him
And walked by him
Looked back at him
And then entered into the mosque.
Immediately following him,
Two groups of five walked by.
The two did not look.
The three of the five
Turned to look in various degrees of perception.
Through their commotional dance
You can hear laughter
Coursing its way
Through their dispositions
As seemingly passing on laughter between themselves as a relay
As if to drop the laughter
That would cause them their daily bread.
And with this disposition,
They walk into the mosque to pray
Following them in pairs
All heading towards a destination that is the mosque
In various degrees again
The symphony of mockery and laughter
And disbelief
And frankly,
Some astonishments
Made their presence welcome,
In this agitated approach
That calls themselves, the worshipper of their lord,
As they enter the mosque
To deliver to that lord
Its prescription for their keeping
And yet as they enter
You could read in this cacophony of display
Their disdain and hatred
For the man who stands at the door of the mosque
With his hand perfectly extended
Halfway between a person
Standing in a casual reach
Would extend out to meet his shoulder
So that when theres a measure
It will be as if his hand is the middle
Of two beings staring at each other
Situated in alignment with the position of its heart.
Ibrahim Adhan
Stood there
With a grin on his face
For the happiness of this day
Will be a memorial for the angels
To recite in a catechism of praise
To the glory.
so Ibrahim Adhan is in service
And at service.
The passersby,
The worshippers of their lord
Have now grown to be a conversational stream has grown
Into the mosque
And from this stream
The amalgamation of those streams,
That hatred aspire to flower
Became the recognizable garden of this stream
And from there,
Someone who’s hatred has become uncontrollable
Displayed their intent
By spitting from the throng
And the spit landing on Ibrahim Adhans’ forehead
Sitting there for a moment
As if going in the allowance for recognition
And then slowly sliding down the column of its nose
And prayerfully collecting itself at the tip of that same nose
And then as the duty of itself
Reached its critical culmination of its stature
Dripped down to the floor
In globs of baptism
As if they are bells
Announcing the approach of a happening.
Before the announcement was made,
Some from this stream of the throng
Have become imitators of the original thrower
And have followed his example
But spits coming from every possible direction
So that the face of Ibrahim Adhan is covered
With multi-colored salivas
Directed at him by those whose intentions are the mirror reflective oppositions of his grin
Those beings who are on their way to their worshipper
But displaying their true nature
In contemptible stride,
They offered the necessary medium
For Ibrahim Adhan’s baptism.
And this baptism is this grin,
This grin which is an affront to them
So that instead of celebrating in this blissful appearance
They retaliated with the best weapon they had available
And with spit in myriad meteoric interference
Of an impossible rapacity in different speeds
So that when seen from the side
You might think that you are watching the rotation of a smooth playing gramaphone
Churning out the song of love
For the one who stood there offering the key to the mosque
Defying the expression of conventional overtures.
But the true inner quality that expresses its nature in Ibrahim Adhan
Is the created pattern of the congregation
In many sets of divisions
Forming different patterns that in their nature
Give different flavors and tastes and visions
And color
And attitude
And all kinds of myriads of things that make up a paradisal feasting.
Look there~
There are no trembling hands
For the steadiness required is a flame with its purpose
To retain the measure of glow of love
In the obedience of Master’s Command
To achieve its desired state which is the key
Which is the desirable roamings of this traveler’s gaze.
Standing there,
Beggarly on the outside so that those that have no eyes to see
Only see a plain man,
Disrepute in their choice.
But if you were there
And with eyes to see
You will perceive that this is simply the sultanate of a great Sultan,
The destroyer of falsehood,
The annihilator of
I am here and not here.
Is he who now stands with his hand outstretched
Offering the Key of the Command
And as he stood,
More spit came and fertilized the ground on which
Ibrahim Adhan’s feet are planted
Giving rise to a revelation
Of a heavenly garden beneath his feet.
There the unmentionable flowers
And the created interplay of their shadows
Are all mingled in becoming and unbecoming
Displaying a place of Hallelujah’s Glow
Calling measure to bear taste
In Treasure’s Grade.
If I were you and I was in the crowd,
Passing by with my head in shroud,
I will progressively abandon
The perishing steps
That I am taking to outstrip my succeeding attempts
To reach the gate
For I would stop there
Just in time to perceive a family
With a child,
The child breaking away from his parents
With speed
Heading directly to Ibrahim Adhan
Grabbing his hand as if to receive the key
And pulling his hands down to the notion of acceptance,
Pulled him as if directed by a supreme cause,
Towards his family.
The mother in turn
Realizing that the son has torn from her hand directly
Towards a hideous looking stranger
Became afraid and disgusted,
Darting towards her son
To prevent him from being contaminated
By whatever element
Of whatever of the thing
That stood by the gates of the mosque
With his hand outstretched for God knows what
And for God knows whom
May have,
But before she could take such actions,
The father,
Without looking at her
With a single gesture
Restrained her with his arm
Stretching it perpendicularly across her stomach
Holding her at a stand still
While gazing at his son
Heading joyfully towards them
With the man who has a key.
Let us now be passed on to him.
As they reached the parents,
Ibrahim Adhan’s grin never changed.
He looked at them with the same gaze
As if he had been looking at them the whole time.
The son,
Seven years old of age
Handed the hand of Ibrahim Adhan into his father’s hand
And fell silent without words.
The family,
With Ibrahim Adhan,
Stood there in silence
All four holding their own individual grin
In one charismatic expression
To indicate that a station has been reached.
And that clenching tides of ancient waters
Have released her preference from the depths
Making them seem as if they were flowers
Gliding on a stream.
The father,
Led Ibrahim Adhan to his home
Where he was bathed without commotion.
Without reservation
He brought the covering cloth
Of his wife’s wedding garment
And covered Ibrahim Adhan with it
And it was covered with flowers.
Bright flowers.
After feeding him,
Ibrahim Adhan calmly collected the boy onto his lap
Ushered the parents to come closer to him
And as they sat watching the man from the mosque,
He gave them the discourse of the Sultan,
Which was the key to the mosque.
Pointing his right forefinger to his tongue
He said
The ineffable crossfire gazing
That is the sultanate
Is unmentionable
For who is there to be mentioned to?
And if there were someone there to be mentioned to,
What would be mentioned?
And who is doing the mentioning?
And in the mentioning,
What are the measurements and proportions
In accordance to the audience and the reception
In the grades of servant platters
That could be the nourishment at the reception,
Who would be doing the eating?
And who is doing the serving?
For in serving,
The realm is established
That there is a kingdom.
In the kingom,
The realm is established that there is a sultan
And if there is a sultan,
Than the sultanate has ministers
And courtiers
And messengers
And admirers
And admirables
And all that forms the retinue of a great monarch
And yet,
Who was there?
Who was there when the command came?
Who was there that could say,
Here I am,
O my Lord,
Here I am.
Who was there to record this saying
And transmit it from the Book of Ages
So that its home in the hearts of pious personalities
Can be a signal to ineffable realities.
But who could be there?
When there is no one there to be mentioned
Because back then,
You were a thing not mentioned
And the unmentionability of the mentioned
Has become the possibility of the impossible
Presenting us with a riddle of the sultanate
That a sultan has subjects
And subjects have a ruler.
That is,
A pattern
Imprinted upon the court of the sultanate
To comprise the happening state
Of the status graze
But if this rising is possible,
Where would it be rising to?
And from where would it be rising from?
Since there is nowhere for there to rise,
And there is no rise in anywhere to come from,
How could such a thing be possible
And yet,
There it is..
And yet,
I,
Ibrahim Adhan,
I am here telling you this
And you are here hearing this from me,
Me telling you that what I am telling you never was
And that there is no possible way I could be telling you what it is
And yet,
As surely as you could hear my speech,
I am telling it to you as clearly as I see it
And at this sight,
What it’s seeing is what is there.
But how could we see if there is not there?
Or if there is here
Since that’s what possibilities recommend
They are recommendations of the activities of Master’s Hand
Who runs the archives of the historical findings.
But who found?
And what needed finding?
And what was lost?
Since losing implies decimation of the sultanate
And since there is no such thing as decimation of the sultanate,
Then who lost and who found?
And when it was found,
How did the finding see to seek to find?
But all this is what a sultanate prescribed
And all this is what the unmentionalby quality revived
At the moment when the desire arose in the
I am a hidden treasure,
That longs to be know.
I created the creation
That I might be known
In my hiddenness of the treasure,
I hugged you in my womb
In the unpreparedness of my uncreativeness
Adn in my desire to uphold you,
I brought you forth as a loveable thing
So that I might be known through you of my treasures
Hidden within my bosom.
This is what the throne of the sultanate proclaimed
At the houre of provlemation and
In the being of our lives
When the rising that rose said,
Am I not your lord?
And the culminated respond said
Yes indeed, you are.
This binding servitude is the pronouncement of the name of the sultanate
In the realm of rulership
And here,
Ibrahim Adhan
Looked at the family that have received him into their home
With kind eyes
Full of hope and openness,
Tears streaming down his cheeks
As blessed waters
As the hearth heath
He said,
Bismillah ar-Rahman ir-Rahim.
After that,
He was directed to his bedchamber for a goodnight sleep.
Taqwacore Journal 