Herein lies another jungle library,
this one carved from midnight and monsoon,
where the air itself is a slow-turning page
and every breath smells of wet parchment and overripe stars.
A single ape, older than rain,
sits cross-legged on a throne of strangler fig,
his fur the color of burnt cinnamon,
eyes two slow-burning coals
that have read every extinction
and still refuse to blink.
He holds the Book of All Things
as though it were a sleeping pangolin,
scales rustling with forgotten alphabets.
His thumbs, thick as prophets,
turn pages that bleed indigo ink
and smell faintly of gunpowder
and the first lie ever told beneath a baobab.
First canto: The Cinnamon Elder
He is dusk made primate,
a silhouette stitched from eclipse and velvet.
The book opens like a wound that heals into light;
inside, galaxies drip upward
the way sap climbs a wounded tree.
He reads with the patience of tectonic plates,
knowing every verse is a continent
that will one day drift apart
and still remember his name.
Second canto: The Verdigris Dreamer
A younger one arrives,
green as new grief,
fur tipped with the exact shade
of copper roofs after centuries of rain.
He reads upside-down,
because truth, he insists,
tastes better when inverted.
His tail keeps time
with the heartbeat of unborn thunderstorms.
When he laughs, small orchids
open their mouths in his armpits
and sing in forgotten Yoruba.
Third canto: The Obsidian Scribe
The third is blacker than the pause
between lightning and thunder.
His fur absorbs light
the way confession absorbs sin.
He writes in the margins
with a quill plucked from his own shadow.
Every word he adds
becomes a new constellation
that only bats and madmen can read.
Between his toes,
fireflies practice calligraphy
in the language of departing souls.
They share one book,
yet each tastes a different fruit:
One chews on the bitterness of genesis,
another licks the sweet rot of revelation,
the third swallows the seeds
and waits for new universes
to sprout beneath his tongue.
The Litany of the Leaves
The pages are thinner than forgiveness,
printed in the ink of extinct parrots.
Some verses are written in harmattan dust,
some in the sweat of first kisses,
some in the silent scream
of a moon that watched Cain
invent murder with a rock.
The Sacred Postures
The Elder sits like a mountain
that has forgotten it was once lava.
The Dreamer lounges in a hammock
woven from his own discarded questions.
The Scribe kneels,
forehead pressed to the earth,
listening for the footnote
where God admits He was joking.
The Forest as Chorus
Lightning writes marginalia across the sky.
A parrot recites Leviticus
in the voice of Fela Kuti.
Termites eat the word “forever”
and build a cathedral from the crumbs.
Every raindrop is a comma
pausing the sentence of existence
just long enough for a monkey
to change his mind.
The Moral of the Primate (revised)
Thus the jungle whispers at 3 a.m.:
All truth is overripe,
all ripe things fall,
yet the falling is sacred.
Even the smallest ape
may swing from vine to vine
carrying the whole library
in the pocket of his cheek,
spitting out seeds
that grow into tomorrow’s questions.
So let us return,
barefoot through the humid dark,
until our fur turns silver with moonlight,
until the book outlives the forest,
until the last page dissolves
into the first rain of a new world,
and the oldest monkey
closes his eyes,
smiles with the certainty
of someone who has read the ending
and still chooses
to live the beginning
again
and again
and again—
a tail chasing its own hallelujah
through the wet, laughing,
never-ending green.
this one carved from midnight and monsoon,
where the air itself is a slow-turning page
and every breath smells of wet parchment and overripe stars.
A single ape, older than rain,
sits cross-legged on a throne of strangler fig,
his fur the color of burnt cinnamon,
eyes two slow-burning coals
that have read every extinction
and still refuse to blink.
He holds the Book of All Things
as though it were a sleeping pangolin,
scales rustling with forgotten alphabets.
His thumbs, thick as prophets,
turn pages that bleed indigo ink
and smell faintly of gunpowder
and the first lie ever told beneath a baobab.
First canto: The Cinnamon Elder
He is dusk made primate,
a silhouette stitched from eclipse and velvet.
The book opens like a wound that heals into light;
inside, galaxies drip upward
the way sap climbs a wounded tree.
He reads with the patience of tectonic plates,
knowing every verse is a continent
that will one day drift apart
and still remember his name.
Second canto: The Verdigris Dreamer
A younger one arrives,
green as new grief,
fur tipped with the exact shade
of copper roofs after centuries of rain.
He reads upside-down,
because truth, he insists,
tastes better when inverted.
His tail keeps time
with the heartbeat of unborn thunderstorms.
When he laughs, small orchids
open their mouths in his armpits
and sing in forgotten Yoruba.
Third canto: The Obsidian Scribe
The third is blacker than the pause
between lightning and thunder.
His fur absorbs light
the way confession absorbs sin.
He writes in the margins
with a quill plucked from his own shadow.
Every word he adds
becomes a new constellation
that only bats and madmen can read.
Between his toes,
fireflies practice calligraphy
in the language of departing souls.
They share one book,
yet each tastes a different fruit:
One chews on the bitterness of genesis,
another licks the sweet rot of revelation,
the third swallows the seeds
and waits for new universes
to sprout beneath his tongue.
The Litany of the Leaves
The pages are thinner than forgiveness,
printed in the ink of extinct parrots.
Some verses are written in harmattan dust,
some in the sweat of first kisses,
some in the silent scream
of a moon that watched Cain
invent murder with a rock.
The Sacred Postures
The Elder sits like a mountain
that has forgotten it was once lava.
The Dreamer lounges in a hammock
woven from his own discarded questions.
The Scribe kneels,
forehead pressed to the earth,
listening for the footnote
where God admits He was joking.
The Forest as Chorus
Lightning writes marginalia across the sky.
A parrot recites Leviticus
in the voice of Fela Kuti.
Termites eat the word “forever”
and build a cathedral from the crumbs.
Every raindrop is a comma
pausing the sentence of existence
just long enough for a monkey
to change his mind.
The Moral of the Primate (revised)
Thus the jungle whispers at 3 a.m.:
All truth is overripe,
all ripe things fall,
yet the falling is sacred.
Even the smallest ape
may swing from vine to vine
carrying the whole library
in the pocket of his cheek,
spitting out seeds
that grow into tomorrow’s questions.
So let us return,
barefoot through the humid dark,
until our fur turns silver with moonlight,
until the book outlives the forest,
until the last page dissolves
into the first rain of a new world,
and the oldest monkey
closes his eyes,
smiles with the certainty
of someone who has read the ending
and still chooses
to live the beginning
again
and again
and again—
a tail chasing its own hallelujah
through the wet, laughing,
never-ending green.
Herein lies a jungle library,
a green cathedral of leaf and light,
where one wise ape, our primal sage,
sits enthroned on moss and root,
reading the Book of All Things.
Behold the scholar of the canopy,
fur like midnight velvet, eyes twin embers,
brows knit in the ancient furrow of thought.
He turns the pages with deliberate thumbs,
as though each leaf were scripture
and every letter a banana of truth.
First canto: The Grey Patriarch
He is charcoal smoke made flesh,
a storm cloud crouched in contemplation.
The book is open like a split fruit;
inside, the Word drips golden.
His gaze is fierce, yet tender,
the look of one who has seen Eden
and still chooses to study the lease agreement.
Second canto: The Emerald Novice
Now greener than new leaves after rain,
a younger brother of the forest,
hair tipped with sunrise chlorophyll.
He reads with mouth half-open,
as if the verses might fly in
and build a nest behind his teeth.
Wonder pools in his amber eyes;
he has just discovered footnotes.
Third canto: The Azure Archivist
A third arrives, dyed in twilight teal,
the color of deep rivers at dusk.
His fur shimmers like spilled petrol on water,
holy and slightly guilty.
He cradles the tome like a sleeping infant,
afraid to wake the metaphors.
Between his toes, small orchids grow,
fertilized by concentrated awe.
They read the same book, yet differently:
One seeks the Law carved in thunder,
another hunts for jokes hidden in Leviticus,
the third is hunting for his own name
written in the margin by a careless God.
The Litany of the Pages
The pages are old parchment,
thin as cicada wings,
printed in the original fire.
Some verses are in Aramaic,
some in banana,
some in the dialect of falling leaves.
Every margin holds a doodle
of a monkey drawing a monkey
drawing a monkey,
infinite regression in graphite.
The Sacred Postures
One sits upright, regal as a bishop,
back straight like the Tree of Knowledge
before the incident with the apple.
Another reclines in a hammock of vines,
legs crossed, one foot twitching
to the rhythm of unspoken psalms.
The third lies on his belly,
chin on folded arms,
tail curled like a question mark
after the last sentence of Revelation.
The Forest as Commentary
Sunlight writes footnotes through the leaves,
dappling exegesis across their shoulders.
A butterfly, drunk on fermented light,
lands on the page and becomes punctuation.
Ants march in serif font across Genesis 1:3,
carrying crumbs of previous verses
to feed their queen, who is writing her own gospel.
The Moral of the Primate
Thus the jungle teaches:
All scripture is banana,
all bananas are temporary,
yet the reading is eternal.
Even the lowliest monkey
may sit beneath the boughs
and, by diligent study,
become slightly less confused
about why he exists
between the vine and the void.
So let us join them,
barefoot in the humid hush,
and read until our fur turns silver,
until the book outlives the tree,
until the last page yellows
and the first monkey
closes it gently,
smiles with prehistoric certainty,
and begins again
at “In the beginning…”
For that is the holiest verse of all:
the one that loops forever,
a tail chasing its own revelation
through the green scriptures
of the endless, laughing jungle.
a green cathedral of leaf and light,
where one wise ape, our primal sage,
sits enthroned on moss and root,
reading the Book of All Things.
Behold the scholar of the canopy,
fur like midnight velvet, eyes twin embers,
brows knit in the ancient furrow of thought.
He turns the pages with deliberate thumbs,
as though each leaf were scripture
and every letter a banana of truth.
First canto: The Grey Patriarch
He is charcoal smoke made flesh,
a storm cloud crouched in contemplation.
The book is open like a split fruit;
inside, the Word drips golden.
His gaze is fierce, yet tender,
the look of one who has seen Eden
and still chooses to study the lease agreement.
Second canto: The Emerald Novice
Now greener than new leaves after rain,
a younger brother of the forest,
hair tipped with sunrise chlorophyll.
He reads with mouth half-open,
as if the verses might fly in
and build a nest behind his teeth.
Wonder pools in his amber eyes;
he has just discovered footnotes.
Third canto: The Azure Archivist
A third arrives, dyed in twilight teal,
the color of deep rivers at dusk.
His fur shimmers like spilled petrol on water,
holy and slightly guilty.
He cradles the tome like a sleeping infant,
afraid to wake the metaphors.
Between his toes, small orchids grow,
fertilized by concentrated awe.
They read the same book, yet differently:
One seeks the Law carved in thunder,
another hunts for jokes hidden in Leviticus,
the third is hunting for his own name
written in the margin by a careless God.
The Litany of the Pages
The pages are old parchment,
thin as cicada wings,
printed in the original fire.
Some verses are in Aramaic,
some in banana,
some in the dialect of falling leaves.
Every margin holds a doodle
of a monkey drawing a monkey
drawing a monkey,
infinite regression in graphite.
The Sacred Postures
One sits upright, regal as a bishop,
back straight like the Tree of Knowledge
before the incident with the apple.
Another reclines in a hammock of vines,
legs crossed, one foot twitching
to the rhythm of unspoken psalms.
The third lies on his belly,
chin on folded arms,
tail curled like a question mark
after the last sentence of Revelation.
The Forest as Commentary
Sunlight writes footnotes through the leaves,
dappling exegesis across their shoulders.
A butterfly, drunk on fermented light,
lands on the page and becomes punctuation.
Ants march in serif font across Genesis 1:3,
carrying crumbs of previous verses
to feed their queen, who is writing her own gospel.
The Moral of the Primate
Thus the jungle teaches:
All scripture is banana,
all bananas are temporary,
yet the reading is eternal.
Even the lowliest monkey
may sit beneath the boughs
and, by diligent study,
become slightly less confused
about why he exists
between the vine and the void.
So let us join them,
barefoot in the humid hush,
and read until our fur turns silver,
until the book outlives the tree,
until the last page yellows
and the first monkey
closes it gently,
smiles with prehistoric certainty,
and begins again
at “In the beginning…”
For that is the holiest verse of all:
the one that loops forever,
a tail chasing its own revelation
through the green scriptures
of the endless, laughing jungle.
1/10
The Sunday Circle