so, I sat on my stool thinking about poetic things
themes analogies metaphors
a stream
of wandering turning eddying
slowing down pooling
breaking the edges  falling like water does
following
the easy path
I started typing
here now
just flowing trying to be the water
crystal clear and my god ****** mind
is more like  the mud the water stirs off the banks the bottom
brown red blood of earthen liquid koolaid for
the fishes
mixed tiny animals swirling to an end
food for the sole
the cod the bluegills in that hole
laughing about
us humans complicating
it all

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.

Abadan was small those days
Maybe my mother doesn't remember
Dolls dream too
In her flower designed skirt
She doesn't like the war
The sky of Isfahan is not blue
Doesn't know any dolls with
blossomed eyes
I wanted my red shoes
Mom
You take the weapon this time
Since it's not the war of Jasmine's eyes
It doesn't smell as Eglantines do
Demanding heads
A shining star in his open eyes
The sky of Isfahan is not blue
The city of turquoise domes
and livid mosques
The resonance of the song of
Azan at noon through those high skies
That doesn't know my mother
You just saw them as stars
Their skies are so high for wishes to reach
The city of the livid dames is said to be beautiful...
Your laughs were beautiful those days
This city
Doesn't know my mother
Her Abadan was so small


آبادان آن موقع کوچک بود
شاید مادرم یادش نمی آمد
عروسک ها هم خواب می بینند
دامنش طرحی گل دار را دارد
جنگ را دوست ندارد
اصفهان آسمانش آبی نیست
عروسکی نمی شناسد
... که چشمانش تازه شکوفه کرده
من کفش های قرمزام را می خواستم
مامان
این بار تو سلاح دستت بگیر
که جنگ
چشمان یاسمن نیست
بوی نسترن ها را نمی دهد
باز
سر می خواهند
چشم هایش باز
ستاره ای در گوشه ی چشمش بدرخشد
اصفهان آسمانش آبی نیست
شهر گنبدهای فیروزه ای
مسجدهای کبود
پیچش اذان های ظهر در آن آسمان های بلند
مادرم را نمی شناسد
که تو آن ها را ستاره می دیدی
آسمان هاشان بلند اند
آرزوها نمی رسند
شهر گنبدهای فیروزه ای
...که می گویند زیباست
خنده های تو در آن موقع زیبا بود
این شهر
مادرم را نمی شناسد
آبادانش
خیلی کوچک بود

my successes came when
I said please and thank you
tipped my hat
looked her straight in the eyes
without blinking and said
you are so interesting
care to get a cup of coffee sometime
just simply sincere
and she would smile
most of the times
then say sure would
coffee would often lead to
a beer later
a goodnight kiss
a late embrace
another date
not innocent
at all ever
we stood our ground just
a little Gentlemanliness
still
in this day and age
can make a man wealthy
healthy
and smile

last night
as I soaked my feet
       in hot water and fragrant oils
           put on some
              Bollywood tunes
           and let my hips
         start to sway
my head began
to swoon
and the binding
threads holding me so tight
inside myself
      began to fray
          my chest opening in
             rips and starts
                 to reveal its valves
             in engorged release
       of dark magenta shadows
of teasing, gnashing inner beasts
while this was going on
the moon lit up
around me
      in its eight different phases
its halves and crescents
        shimmering    
in incense-scented cadence
my fingers reached out
to stroke each one,
          unique in its own heated glow              
                          as I realized that
               they will never cease,
these sequined
streams of joy
in embroidered flow
as long as we are connected
            to the root point of self
the love pumps quiet fire
                         in our veins
           even when trapped    
in slamming undertow
     pressed tornado slab
                              of pain
and I have had my face
pressed under watery surfaces
for such a long time
that suffocation
almost feels like
        breathing
so it's time to
move these hips and thighs
                and get this soulspark
                                                 reeling

Spring clothes the Earth in silk of green
And parades her in a rare sheen
Summer gifts the plants with bloom
And causes the bees to hum and zoom
Autumn makes the leaves yellow
And blesses the season with fruits mellow
Winter brings hail and snow
With icy winds that blow and blow