Octopus Dreams (from a novel-in-progress)

My body is not a body. My body is a boat. There are no passengers. Only this engine roaring inside of me. This life I must make sure never stops. It trusts me. But I have to trust it back. I have to let myself understand why I am on this sea at all. I open the tiny door beneath me. Take a look inside. The engine is shiny and new, not the dirty overused thing excepted from a boat that has worked as much as I have, that has had its parts inspected and searched, broken down into a thousand little pieces, put back together again. Slowly, piece by piece. The will to live is not difficult to find when you can control your heart beat, when you can remember that there is more than just you in this world, that you are a boat yes, but this thing moving beneath you is the sea. It does not end. I open the tiny door. Take a look inside. The engine moves with a rhythm so sweet it almost makes me cry. I rock the engine gently back and forth, encouraging its movements with my own. Or maybe it is the sea holding its hands out, cradling us in its prayers, letting us understand how fluid we must be if we are to survive at all. And deep inside the waters I see that black thing. Perhaps it is a boat that sank long ago, skeletons and chipped golden teeth, the silver and gold bangles, the jewels and rubies of a better life, stuck inside its engines. People change their minds. People do not listen to you. The impossible thing is that someone will learn how to stay away from what is yours. The sea is black now and something wraps itself around me, sucks everything out from me. I open that tiny door. Take a look inside. There are tentacles wrapped tightly around my engine. It is a black thing now. It struggles, my engine. And then it no longer moves. I am no longer a boat, but a sunken treasure. I do not know how to save such things. I am tired of trying. I let her devour me, those black octopus legs. I will not ask for any more saviors. She does not dare look me in the eyes.

A Reading.

Mantra of the Week

Say it with me now...

"I trust my own power and energy, I am dynamic & strong as I move forward with Love."‏

Haven't Written A Poem In A While...

But here's one from the novel I'm working on.           

         *

Before time- I am.

Before silence and the thought of sound- I am.

First there was the word, but before that there was love.

God fell in love with creation- and so he made us.

He created spring and trees

And crumpling leaves and a place to lay your head and love

the earth, and to love someone else, because love is not something

you keep for yourself.

The blossoms will walk in my shadow

And still tomorrow

Her face will look more and more like mine

And she will have my eyes and my hair

He will look at her and see me

And that is enough to let me

Rest my soul down and bear this burden no longer.

After everything dies

And everyone leaves this land

And everyone will try to remember

But will inevitably forget

And everything becomes backwards

Still, these two full moon eyes of mine- this love

Like how I imagine God felt when he birthed us into being-

Still after all this- I am.

GANESHA

My father. Auspicious, kind, gracious. Eternally pure. He does not have an elephant’s head and yet some say we look alike; the same confidence in our stride, I think. I was made from nothing; from the absolute emptiness that comes in between words and the beating of one’s heart. My conception nothing more than an idea arising in my mother’s mind. The mother goddess. The embodiment of the total energy of the universe and yet I had to come along to make sure she was protected while she bathed. Was there no one to hire for such services? Imagine, coming into this world. So much color and beauty, yes much sadness too, but there were mangoes to eat and sweet rice that could stick to the roof of my mouth, and  there were rivers to swim in. And what do I find out is my purpose after all? What do I get to do? Guard the door while I bathe, Ganesha, make sure no one comes inside. Ganesha, you cannot fall asleep, someone will come inside while I bathe. Why can’t you just do what I ask of you? Many say I was enthusiastic about such a role, because that is what my mother insisted on telling people. But the truth is I wanted a life of my own, more of a purpose than making sure no one disturbed my mother while her fingers pruned and her naked body soaked in the tub. I wanted to swim with a mouth full of mangoes and sticky rice. Father was away at war or some battle. If you ask me though he was probably getting high and fooling around with that dark skinned woman with the long tongue I always heard my mother ranting about. Kali this and Kali that. Kali the almighty warrior. Kali who is black, who is time, who is death, who can outdance us all. How could I have known what my father looked like then, if the only thing in this life I had seen was my mother reaching for her towel and the view of the mountains from the doorway to the bathhouse? No one had even tried to disturb my mother since I had come to life, and when my father came finally and when he tried to make his way through, I felt oddly excited and protective. This was my sole duty in life and there standing face to face with my father, although unknown to me, was my greatest test of all. Let me in, let me in, he demanded. No one goes in unless she approves, I said firmly. I stretched my hand out a bit preventing him from moving any further. And I wonder, thinking now about this, when I had my old head- the one I was born with, the one that somehow also came from a part of him that was busy flying around in the universe, if he looked in my eyes then and could see himself. One swing to the throat, and my head rolled onto the ground. For a few minutes my mind still worked, and I could understand what was happening around me. Mother storming out from the bath, her towel wrapped around her naked body. Water dripping into my eyes from the edge of her towel blurred my vision. She saw my head and shrieked. What have you done! What have you done! Our son’s head is on the floor! And father, well father did not want to disappoint his goddess. I could hear him explaining himself as I watched in the blurriness the metal bracelets on my mother’s ankles make a noise like a song. No god wants to disappoint his goddess. An agreement was made. The first animal my father saw would replace my head. And what am I thinking then? That eyes would soon shut and my body would have a new head, and I wondered would it still be me? I prayed for a clean and wise animal- with much aspirations and desire in this life to be something more than a doorman. An elephant walked past us then. An elephant. A magnificent creature if I have ever seen one. Its head was cut in a flash and merged together with my body. My old eyes shut as my new ones opened. And yes, still it was me.

Two Moments and a Question

1. In my backyard there's a Hindu Temple. It's not really in my backyard but a fifteen minute drive from my parents' house through the canyons of Calabasas there's a Hindu temple. My dad and I drove up to it on Saturday and when we got out of the car it felt like we had made it to India. People bring jugs and jugs of milk, bananas, apples, to offer to Lord Shiva every Saturday. Milk is poured onto the statue of Shiva, thirty minutes worth of milk. Everyone's chanting, the only words I know are "om, shanti, shanti" so I say them loudly to make up for all the other words I don't know. I lift my hand in the air when the others do and grab the incense smoke and bring it towards my third eye. I put my dollar in the donation plate and drink the sacrificial milk they spoon into the palm of my hand. On the ride home my dad says, "That was a waste of milk, there are so many poor people in India who would love to drink that milk." Later that day my stomach hurts and I think it may have been the milk. 

2. That night sitting on the patio of a restaurant bar in Venice with friends I haven't seen in a while. A few drunk men ask if they can put their beers down on our table. "It'll cost you $5," I say as a joke. They're young in an obnoxious way and one of them who looks like he has two black eyes or maybe just hasn't slept in a while, takes out a 5 dollar bill and throws it on the table. I explain it was a joke but my friend takes the money and they decide it's OK to join us and offer us some beers so we won't say anything. My friend makes a joke about him having to pay to talk with her. He takes a dollar out and throws it on the candle burning in the middle of our table. I try and rescue the dollar from the flame and blow it out but half of it's already gone. I ask him why, and he can't seem to think of a good reason or any reason at all.

Question: Was putting my dollar in that donation tray the same as my black-eyed friend burning his?

Movie Of The Week: The Fall Will Lift You Up

I love movies. My family didn't have money to go on luxury vacations to foreign lands when I was growing up, so the theater became our escape. We'd sneak our cheap, market bought candy inside, and laugh and cry and twist and turn in our seats, and when it was all over we felt that something had happened.

That's why when a movie comes along like The Fall, I want everyone to know about it. It's a 2006 film directed by the award-winning music video, commercial and film director Tarsem Singh, the genius also behind The Cell. It's a visually stunning film that weaves reality with the fantastical world of one man's imagination. Roy (Lee Pace), an injured and bed-ridden stunt man befriends five year old fellow hospital patient Alexandria (Catinca Uncaru) and begins to improvise an "epic tale of love and revenge" with The Indian, The Ex-Slave, The Explosive Expert, Charles Darwin and The Masked Bandit and their enemy Governor Odeus as the central figures. Roy uses his story in order to persuade Alexandria to bring him the pills that will end his life. The Fall will surprise you and stun you in all the right places and will remind you what movie magic and epic storytelling are really all about.

The Fall is available on DVD.

Holy Holi

Holi is the festival of color celebrated in India, Nepal and Sri Lanka on the last full moon in March. Winter's gone and spring means color, lots of it. In some cities women beat men up with sticks as those in the crowd sing Holi songs and shout Krishna, the ultimate prankster's name, in others the festival lasts for sixteen days, but for the most part this time is considered to be the happiest and colorful day of the year. When else can the elite, shop owners, and beggars come together for some hard core dye-throwing action? It reminds me a little of New Year in Thailand- everyone excited to dunk each other in water. There's a sense of playfulness and revelry that's rare, and when we let our inhibitions go for just a moment we realize how connected we really are to each other. Even though you want to get mad because some stranger has just dunked a bucket of ice cold water on your head while you were walking to the pharmacy because of the fever you've caught from being wet for two days straight, you just can't. I imagine it's the same with Holi; it's not the most comfortable feeling, but it's a risk everyone's willing to take for such a moment of pure beauty and joy. Maybe all of life should be this full of color.

Photos taken from:
http://www.theatlantic.com/infocus/2011/03/holi-the-festival-of-colors-2011/100032/

Persian Food At Its Best (and it's not in LA?)

I come from a land where the scent of kabob fills the air- Los Angeles. It’s the mecca of Persian food outside of Iran and with so many places to choose from, including my mother’s house, it’s difficult for things to go wrong. When I moved to San Francisco, seeing that my cooking skills were not as up to par as my mother’s, I was on a mission to find the best place to eat Persian food. Sadly, it’s been a difficult journey filled with stuck-up waiters, bland and overpriced food, and a lack of that homey feeling I so much associate with Persian food. With every journey though, there are moments of pure triumph and this moment happened for me when I stepped into Lavash, a Persian restaurant in the Inner-Sunset.

The space is quite small, but the décor and lighting and genuine hospitality of the owner and wait staff made me feel right at home. Lavash isn’t trying too hard, allowing customers to have a comfortable fine-dining experience. I went with a large group of people and the wait staff was quite accommodating. My group, knowing my expertise in such matters, allowed me to order for everyone. Start your night off right with their Yogurt Salad- a mix of yogurt, cucumber, and spices- it sounds simple but it will blow you away. The Kashk-eh-Bademjan is also a great starter- seasoned roasted eggplant topped with roasted garlic, mint flakes and saffron. Moving on to the main course the kabob is a must, a Soltani combination will allow you to experience both the koobideh (ground beef) kabob as well as the barg (sliced beef fillet). Also, Lavash had my favorite dish at its best- Zereshk Polo. It’s a rice dish with barberries, raisins and sauteed onions served with chicken spiced with cumin, turmeric, and saffron. Each spoonful sent me right into my mother’s kitchen. Wash everything down with a glass of aromatic Persian tea and you’ll be raving for weeks about one of the greatest dining experiences in San Francisco.

Lavash

511 Irving Street, San Francisco, CA 94122-2513

(415) 664-5555 
http://www.lavashsf.com/

Seven Eleven

It was a strange day. Ninety two degrees and June in San Francisco. You had a seven year old’s craving for a Slurpee even though your were twenty five,  and I had a roll of quarters in my pocket to do laundry later. Yours and mine. We stopped at Seven Eleven, remember you kept opening the door and closing it just so you could hear the bell? You did things like that back then, things I found amusing for only a little while, and remembering those same things now I realize it’s what I hated most about you. You pulled the lever on the Slurpee machine while I looked through magazines. Sometimes it was nice to take a break from all that contemplation your twenties brought, all that thinking of what your purpose is in life, why you’re dating such a loser, and just flip through pages and pages of meaningless gossip. Other people’s problems. A hand reached over me for an issue of French Vogue. Yes, Seven Eleven carried French Vogue if you can believe it. “Excuse me,” the man said with an accent. I looked up and he was wearing an oversized grey hooded sweater. The hood slipped for a second and there he was, His Holiness The 14^th Dalai Lama. I wanted to get down on my knees on that dirty Seven Eleven floor under those neon lights and bow. And pray. For what? This holy man, dressed like a thug even, radiated something. A glow in his eyes, perhaps the same glow the monks who came searching for him saw too. A glow that said all is well. All is well. He looked so happy and proud reading that magazine and I just stared, I mean stared so hard he noticed. “This issue I edited,” he said. His face was on the cover with a rainbow behind him. I wanted to take his hand and put it on my forehead, to make him bless me. He smiled and headed towards the register. I followed him ghost-like. I wanted to keep him away from you. I wanted everything holy and unreal about this moment to be mine. I wanted all the blessings for myself. He paid for the magazine and the Indian cashier looked irritated by the Dalai Lama’s slowness. He handed the cashier a dollar and asked for change. Quarters. “No change,” the cashier said, “none.” I couldn’t see his face then with his back to me but I think even the Dalai Lama would’ve been dissappointed. I tapped him on the back. He turned and I handed him my roll of quarters. Placed them gently on the palm of his hand as if I was the one blessing him. He smiled and he knew that I knew. He bowed slightly and I bowed back, and that was enough.  Just as the bell on the door rang and he left me I heard you slurping in my ear. I never did see you after that.

Dear Write Her

Dear Write Her-

It’s Sunday. Which means I’m slightly hungover. The sun is suprisingly out today in San Francisco, and even though the wind is knocking everything in disorder, the outside world looks so inviting. The last thing I want to do right now is write. Last night I seemed so motivated, so passionate about writing, so dedicated to the process when I was telling the handsome German PhD student about my MFA program and that I was writing a novel. “Most people spend so much time talking about writing, and not enough people actually do it. You have to just do it,” I told him. And as the third filthy martini I was drinking began to sink into my brain, I thought of the five or six pages I’d written last week. And I wondered- would it ever be enough?

I’m not going to waste this space complaining to you. I’m blessed to have the chance to even get to do this. How many people can say they really get to follow their dreams? I can. And it feels fucking fantastic. I’m grateful, really I am. But days like today when I’d rather be watching trashy television or doing some other activity that requires no usage of my brain, days when I don’t feel so focused and inspired, which happens often, even when I’m not hungover, days where I will find any excuse, whether it be scrubbing the toilet or getting that well overdue bikini wax, if it means I don’t have to sit in front of the blank page, how do I sit down and just fucking do it? How do I push those thoughts out of my head that this is all a waste of time, a selfish act, that I will never be one of Oprah’s Book Club selections and will never be able to pay my student loans back, that I’m doing all of this for nothing? How do I find patience when I’ve been brought up in a world of immediate gratification and quick fixes? I have a story and I feel it breathing and moving inside of me, but I’m 25 years old and I’m not sure if I have what it takes to get this thing on paper. And sometimes I’m immersed in my work and feel energized and like I’m on the right track, and then I step back and think it could quite possibly be the worst thing I’ve ever written. It no longer makes sense and I just want to go back to writing poems. I’m afraid I won’t be patient and thoughtful enough, that I’ll grow tired of investing so much in this story and want to move on to something that is real and makes more sense to commit to. Something noble like being a doctor or moving to Africa and making sure everyone has clean water to drink. Do I really have it inside of me, or have I become one of those awful posers who talks the talk but barely walks the walk? Am I crawling here? Help me Write Her. Help me.

Sincerely,

S.

Dear S.,

After three filthy martinis I wouldn’t want to write either, except maybe if it was to write someone’s number down. We all deserve a break sometimes. And perhaps instead of getting mad at yourself for not feeling inspired while hungover, just let it go. Give yourself a break. I can tell you’re not a slacker and you deserve it. I just hope you got that handsome German guys number.

Moving on though, I want to talk about those days, I’m hoping there are many of them, when you’re not hungover. Those days that are wide and free and carry a potential for creativity, and yet you are dreading the moment you finally, after the toilet has been cleaned and your vagina is looking spick and span, sit your ass down to write. A writer is a human being, and like any human being is merely a collection of all the smart and inspiring things other human being have told her. Plus some semi-smart things she’s managed to come up with on her own. Here I will try to pass on my collection to you, with bits and pieces I’ve added on myself.

The thing that really helps me get going is to leave the house to do my work. Writing is your job, and it’s important that your brain is aware of this. The great thing about this job though is that you get to pick your own hours. Perhaps your characters are morning people, or you like working after lunch, or late into the night. My peak time, the most inspired I tend to feel, is between noon and 5pm. I highly recommend this time slot, and if you choose it I’d say get out of your sweats, gather everything you will need, and pick a coffee shop or a library if you don’t like too much noise, and go there with the intention of getting a certain amount of work done. Page limits work best I believe. The point is, make it a habit to go to a specific place with a specific goal, and thus set yourself up for the writing to happen.

Recently I spent a good amount of money to attend a seminar on publishing where accomplished writers passed on the depressing news that this was in fact harder than it seemed. And as I tried to scheme up a way to get a refund, and then as I hoarded a stack of expensive cheese onto my plate because I realized that I couldn’t get a refund, one of the writer’s actually said something useful. Something that has stuck with me ever since. First off, make sure your expectations are realistic. You’re twenty five and could possibly be the next Zadie Smith, but also you’re twenty five and probably have your head far up your ass. Meaning, your first book will more than likely not be your best book, and that getting a book deal may not happen. If you’re aware of this and honest with yourself and can somehow find a way in your lovely heart to accept this, then I believe you’ve taken the first step on the path to being a good writer. It doesn’t mean you have failed. On those days where you weren’t recovering from a night of mayhem you tried your hardest, and you will probably write something great, but just in case it doesn’t happen, it’s not the end of the world. You will still breathe and be healthy and find people to love who will love you back. You will have a bed to sleep on and food to eat and at the end of the day you will know that you have tried. And there will always be another way to make money. Selling your eggs for example.

He also said something along the lines of - writing occurs in mountains, and that it’s best to write from peak to peak. Meaning start at a high point and end at a high point. Don’t leave off at a low point, when you’ve run out of ideas and there is nothing left to give. It’s best to walk away on a good note, knowing that there is something to come back to the next day. This way you’ll actually be excited to return.

My grandfather, may he rest in peace, till the day he died was always telling me what a great lawyer I’d make. Every one on one talk we ever had eventually lead to this. And the truth is that I’d probably be a bad ass lawyer. I even thought of going to law school before I got my own MFA. But I would probably die of boredom in law school and hate the rest of my life because I was doing something that to me is uninspiring and too structured and realistic. I love creating complex worlds and characters, bringing forth the poetry of life onto paper. And yes, there have been moments where I’ve been beyond jealous of friends who were in law school while I was getting my MFA. They were buried in books and had to take seven hour exams, but at the end of the day they knew that with their degrees they could be lawyers. Getting an MFA doesn’t make you a writer. Writing makes you a writer. Nevertheless, there’s something alluring about a stable path,  about knowing there’s a light at the end of the dark tunnel. But you and I, Shideh, both know that we are not the kind of people who get off on this. We get off on sentences that make us want to be better human beings, better writers. It’s the period after that sentence we beg for, that moment of relief when we are beyond certain that everything in fact happens for a reason. It’s a character doing something we would have never expected, our stories surprising us, taking on a life of its own, that we moan about. So when you ask me what if you’re doing all of this for nothing. I say to you following your dream is not nothing. The experience of putting love and care and patience and thought into something is not nothing. You’re taking a risk in something you believe, but the trick is to believe it everyday, to never lose sight of the beating, breathing center of why you even do this at all. Because, goddamnit, there is something inside of you, and if you let it, it’s dying to come out. 

The most important thing I want to say to you is that patience is ultimately the key. Writing my first book, although was one of the most torturous and exciting things I’ve ever done, was mostly a lesson in patience. Like you, I’m not the most patient human being on Earth. I’ve spent a lot of nights getting drunk myself and sleeping with the first handsome and witty boy I met because I didn’t have the patience to let love into my life. But that gets boring, and one day you wake up next to a guy whose name you don’t remember and who’s somehow less funny when the sun is out, and you realize that you’re ready to wait it out until you find the real thing. I see writing as a metaphor for any beautiful and essential experience we want in this life. Whether it be a relationship, losing weight, kicking bad habits, creating good ones, creating something bigger than ourselves- these all require a boat load of patience. But here’s the most profound part of this whole process. You can relax and take a breath because you have plenty of time. You have plenty of time to think you’re doing an amazing job, to step back and realize you’ve missed something, and to dive right back in. Grab time’s hand, and carress it, massage it and tell it you love it, and allow yourself the privilege to take this one day at a time. The fact that you are even writing this letter to me makes me certain that you’re not crawling. Maybe you haven’t got the walk quite down yet, but baby steps, Shideh, baby steps. Be kind to yourself, and most of all believe. You’re already living your dream.

Yours,

Write Her

Another Collaborative Poem With Fifth Graders And Me

Something In Somethingness

By: Ishaan, Annie, Skylar, and Shideh

Yellow surrounding me I’m drowning in my sick.

There’s nothing in a brain.

People everywhere like soft pillows.

As you know something in somethingness would

cause an overexposure to our skin.

I’ll be your telephone when I’m twenty.

People nowhere to put pencils in their pants.

Forever came and went

and still I couldn’t find you.

A Thing To Get Caught On

                                                           

I keep coming back to that day by the pool

when I was little and it seemed like an ocean to me.

And how hairspray made you look

bigger than you really were,

and your nails so red I thought if I put my tongue

to one it would taste like a cherry.

I keep coming back to when you told me so sadly,

but with much assurance-

Life without love is nothing.

It’s a memory.

But it’s also a dream.

And there’s no way of knowing

that it really happened.

Except that it did.

I’m caught on it,

on those trees that hung on our words

as if they too were listening.

I can’t get it out of my head,

but I also don’t want it to leave me alone.

And I’m sure mother will soon bring

the watermelons out for us.

After my boyfriend in high school gave me a hickey,

you asked me why he was biting me.

And we laughed, but then you got serious and told me

you never knew what sex was.

It was never a beautiful thing for you,

you said you didn’t love my grandfather.

He was your cousin, a brother really,

and there is no passion in that.

I saw in your eyes then that

all you perhaps had wanted in life

was someone to want you enough

to suck all the love out from inside you.

When you still remembered things

I wish I’d asked more questions.

But still I’m caught on that day.

I keep coming back to it as if

by the broken tiles of that pool,

near the jagged rocks that lined the edge,

somewhere in the deep end

are the answers I’ve been looking for.

A way of understanding you and what love is,

and what it means to remember,

and how easy to forget.

I close my eyes, dive inside, and

reach my hands out,

blindly touch the surface of

the things you taught me long ago.

A Collaborative Poem Written By Fifth Graders And Me

Domination Poem

By: Ishaan, Annie, Skylar, and Shideh

A brick is hard and heavy.

I will let fear rule my life.

Red is dominating the world.

People underneath a bed because they’re sad.

The word almost is not in my dictionary.

Giant machine hands are ripping

everything in half.

The young ones will soon learn

that everything is a circle.

Daylight Lover

To learn how to love is a test,

a beautiful time to not dissapear.

And back then, when I didn’t know her

and women wore skirts above their knees

and walked freely on the streets of Iran,

except for the occasional ass grabbing,

grandmother didn’t cry so much.

And she didn’t have to pop

five pills to feel at peace.

Back then she wore fur coats

and pearls that slipped on her skin

as she sat cross legged

at my mother’s wedding

in a dress that made her look

as beautiful as the bride,

while she dreamt about

kissing her dentist.

She asks me if I have a boyfriend,

and then she asks me again.

And then she asks me a third time

because her mind is empty and

free of all things except this moment.

It’s a disease but it’s also

what some people call Zen.

She clings onto thoughts that seem new

and unspoken while her brain slowly shrinks.

It’s a folding upon itself,

a quiet collision of death drawn out.

First you leave the stove on,

and then your tongue

can’t catch the right words,

and the next thing you know

you’re not walking anymore

and your daughter has to spoon feed you

they way you did when she was little.

It’s a disease but its also a circle.

And you realize that life was

never really meant to be angular.

And when little children walk

past you giggling, you laugh too

because there is something in them so near

to where it is that you are going.

Grandmother looks at me and

asks me once more if I have a boyfriend.

No, I tell her again because I am certain of it,

but this time there are also tears in my eyes

and maybe she’s so empty she can feel it too.

So she drops it and tells me

that my breasts are getting too big,

and then breathes in the Santa Monica Friday

afternoon wet beach air (or just the air)

and smiles because the sun is beating

on her body and she can’t remember much-

good or bad- but she is a daylight lover, and

does not expect tomorrow to ever really come.

So, so close. I won't stop trying. Never. I won't.

http://lib.store.yahoo.net/lib/glimmertrain/2010-June-FO-Top-25-list.pdf

For The Birds

He sits on the bench in front of the café,

and then inside the café talking to himself.

But on his feet are clean white sneakers,

on his wrist a watch with accurate time.

His hair long, unwashed.

He sits on the bench in front of the café,

and then inside the café talking to himself.

Outside he kneels on the crowded

San Francisco sidewalk

tearing up a fluffy pastry into little pieces.

He spends twenty minutes making a pastry pile.

A dog stops his owner to watch.

He cleans his always dirty hands on his jeans,

sits on the bench lighting up a joint,

letting the birds devour his pile. 

           

Bad Date Poem

 For: Safiya Martinez

I’ve been going on bad dates lately

for the sake of poetry.

So I can write good poems.

But it hasn’t been going so well.

Maybe I should try going on good dates.

But then you’d be 

reading just

another   

bad

poem.

Residues

Kajik the fortune teller owns a Persian restaurant

where the only thing on the menu is kabob.

You have to call and make sure he’s working,

that it’s not too busy, that he has time to see you.                  

I order two skewers, on lavash bread soggy with grease,

a yogurt drink with a hint of mint.

There’s a round belly under his apron, like a story hiding.

And underneath the aged circles of his eyes,

the sweetness of a six year old sucking on a candy

as if the entire Earth rested inside his warm mouth.

He doesn’t say a word to me, but brings coffee after my meal.

The dark, Turkish kind where futures leave footprints.

I drink fast as two wrinkled men play backgammon,

take half bites out of sugar cubes, sip on their tea.

“You’ve almost died twice,” Kajik says, finally sitting,

examining the designs inside the cup.

It’s an excavation of broken bones.

One of the old men snaps to a song in his head,

does a slow shimmy as he wins, knocks knocks on wood.

 “Be careful with the drinks,” he continues,

stops then, “show me your scars.”

I show him the one on my wrist,

from when I was twelve and tried to scare

my older brother by banging hard on his window,

the end of the thin, stitched line, where my vein begins.

“Stay in control or you will find bigger scars,” he adds,

then sighs like his heart is expanding with

my wrongdoings, the thought of death.

He twirls the cup in his fingers,

smiling as he finds more fossils of my future,

“You like to hurry love,” he says, “slowly, slowly.

Love is patience and you’re not there yet.

But yes, you will write something and everyone will read it,

don’t ever stop doing that.”

He takes my hand inside his own,

 “You will be fine,” he says, “ just fine.”

And even though it’s just left over

coffee in a cup, my mouth tastes bitter,

and the flies have begun to circle

the kitchen in the back, I believe him.

When I ask him why he doesn’t do this often he tells me,

“It hurts too much, seeing everything.

And one time I looked into a cup and it was empty.”