IRAN
~The following piece has been added as an image. It is a visual piece that does not translate well unto a web page. To read it, click on the image.
~Explanation of symbolism, in case of questions, in comments.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
twisted thoughts of you
with a bit of blue beneath me,
I reach out to you and
I feel the magic of our meeting ground.
I am a dog facing the sky,
eating from the earth
with a bit of blue beneath me.
a toe floating before my eyes
and breath my driving force,
I feel the magic of our meeting ground
for I am a warrior defying heaven’s wrath
by watching angels fall.
with a bit of blue beneath me,
I levitate on my piece of sky
in search of my holy phoenix as I cry out,
“I feel the magic of our meeting ground.”
on twisted limbs I lie
as you shine above me, the true light of my path.
with a bit of blue beneath me,
I feel the magic of our meeting ground.
~Explanation of symbolism, in case of questions, in comments.
I reach out to you and
I feel the magic of our meeting ground.
I am a dog facing the sky,
eating from the earth
with a bit of blue beneath me.
a toe floating before my eyes
and breath my driving force,
I feel the magic of our meeting ground
for I am a warrior defying heaven’s wrath
by watching angels fall.
with a bit of blue beneath me,
I levitate on my piece of sky
in search of my holy phoenix as I cry out,
“I feel the magic of our meeting ground.”
on twisted limbs I lie
as you shine above me, the true light of my path.
with a bit of blue beneath me,
I feel the magic of our meeting ground.
~Explanation of symbolism, in case of questions, in comments.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
San Francisco
I opened the terrace door to lock the outside gate. The crickets’ dark serenade transported me to childhood nights... sleepless nights spent listening to their song… an ever comforting song that shrilly whispered, this is home and in its certain embrace calmed my restless heart as I drifted off into a land of dreams, an escape from the suffocating reality that was childhood...
... but that was then...
As I fumbled with the keys, for a split moment, the night engulfed me and in its dark embrace I was atop my stoop, on Bush Street, walking down the worn-in, wooden steps of our 1900 Edwardian building... familiar with every crack, with the feel of each unique step and the maneuvering required as I entrusted it with my body’s weight whilst avoiding every potentially dangerous irregularity all as one breathes without giving the act a second thought... I stepped off the last, ever-creaking step into the fresh, crisp San Francisco night which greeted me with its habitual chilly kiss and dissipated, all too quickly, into fog...
... fog in outstretched hands yearning for home but which are now busied with the task of fitting keys in a lock meant to imprison, heart heavy and fresh off a crisp smack of mist on my hands... yet another night away from home... yet another night paralized by a song that belongs to a woman that I am no more, a woman I buried long before I knew of her demise whose life and desire once mapped out the life I currently live that is no longer my own... the shedding of skin marks my search for that tiny glimmer of hope, for that flicker of light in the ever engulfing darkness that shall show me the path back home as I stand on a photo album of weathered, aged pictures of long ago, that fade with each multicolor breath I take as I...
... technicolor me in motion atop of a yesterday that never sleeps, search for the elusive path to tomorrow, away from the sepia memory of a long-forgotten archive of my now...
... away from this sweltering heat that does nothing but melt the desperate longing for yet another chilly kiss that was once the silent song that filled my nights, safely lulling me to sleep, and that is no more in this land of transparent cricket wardens, lurking in the dark... nothing more than an ever fading promise that holds no weight as it drifts off back into a past of San Francisco nights as I...
... I weep behind my smile, weep at the duality of a recent past that is to be my tomorrow... someday... fighting to fuel sincerity into the act as I place both feet on the ground and ready myself for the long and arduous task that is to be my journey back home... thankful, at least, that home now has a name.
... but that was then...
As I fumbled with the keys, for a split moment, the night engulfed me and in its dark embrace I was atop my stoop, on Bush Street, walking down the worn-in, wooden steps of our 1900 Edwardian building... familiar with every crack, with the feel of each unique step and the maneuvering required as I entrusted it with my body’s weight whilst avoiding every potentially dangerous irregularity all as one breathes without giving the act a second thought... I stepped off the last, ever-creaking step into the fresh, crisp San Francisco night which greeted me with its habitual chilly kiss and dissipated, all too quickly, into fog...
... fog in outstretched hands yearning for home but which are now busied with the task of fitting keys in a lock meant to imprison, heart heavy and fresh off a crisp smack of mist on my hands... yet another night away from home... yet another night paralized by a song that belongs to a woman that I am no more, a woman I buried long before I knew of her demise whose life and desire once mapped out the life I currently live that is no longer my own... the shedding of skin marks my search for that tiny glimmer of hope, for that flicker of light in the ever engulfing darkness that shall show me the path back home as I stand on a photo album of weathered, aged pictures of long ago, that fade with each multicolor breath I take as I...
... technicolor me in motion atop of a yesterday that never sleeps, search for the elusive path to tomorrow, away from the sepia memory of a long-forgotten archive of my now...
... away from this sweltering heat that does nothing but melt the desperate longing for yet another chilly kiss that was once the silent song that filled my nights, safely lulling me to sleep, and that is no more in this land of transparent cricket wardens, lurking in the dark... nothing more than an ever fading promise that holds no weight as it drifts off back into a past of San Francisco nights as I...
... I weep behind my smile, weep at the duality of a recent past that is to be my tomorrow... someday... fighting to fuel sincerity into the act as I place both feet on the ground and ready myself for the long and arduous task that is to be my journey back home... thankful, at least, that home now has a name.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
PantoumPany
Imagine.
A voice comes to one in the dark.
To one on his back in the dark.
He must acknowledge the truth of what is said. Yes,
a voice comes to one in the dark.
A small part of what is said can be verified.
He must acknowledge the truth of what is said. Yes,
But much that is said cannot be verified.
A small part of what is said can be verified,
like, you are on your back in the dark.
But much of what is said cannot be verified
Like seeing the light on such and such a day.
Like you are, on your back in the dark,
a part of a whole, linked to
“like seeing the light on such and such a day”,
a device of the one to win credence over the other.
A part of a whole, linked to
a voice that tells of a past,
a device of the one to win credence over the other,
your mind never active is now even less than ever so.
A voice that tells of a past,
it speaks that there would be a first, that
your mind never active is now even less than ever so,
for there is no sound apart from that very voice and its very breath.
It speaks that there would be a first, that
a voice comes to one on his back in the dark
for there is no sound apart from that very voice and its very breath,
in the darkness of the now and in the light of tomorrow.
A voice comes to one on his back in the dark.
He must acknowledge the truth of what is said
in the darkness of the now and in the light of tomorrow.
Just imagine.
~A pantoum based on Samuel Beckett's Company.
A voice comes to one in the dark.
To one on his back in the dark.
He must acknowledge the truth of what is said. Yes,
a voice comes to one in the dark.
A small part of what is said can be verified.
He must acknowledge the truth of what is said. Yes,
But much that is said cannot be verified.
A small part of what is said can be verified,
like, you are on your back in the dark.
But much of what is said cannot be verified
Like seeing the light on such and such a day.
Like you are, on your back in the dark,
a part of a whole, linked to
“like seeing the light on such and such a day”,
a device of the one to win credence over the other.
A part of a whole, linked to
a voice that tells of a past,
a device of the one to win credence over the other,
your mind never active is now even less than ever so.
A voice that tells of a past,
it speaks that there would be a first, that
your mind never active is now even less than ever so,
for there is no sound apart from that very voice and its very breath.
It speaks that there would be a first, that
a voice comes to one on his back in the dark
for there is no sound apart from that very voice and its very breath,
in the darkness of the now and in the light of tomorrow.
A voice comes to one on his back in the dark.
He must acknowledge the truth of what is said
in the darkness of the now and in the light of tomorrow.
Just imagine.
~A pantoum based on Samuel Beckett's Company.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
The Last Flip
“Stress to get sick,” said the people on my television. What were they talking about now? Every day the news mentioned something crazier and more outrageous than the day before. It was all a conspiracy and the journalists were in on it too.
He wanted me to die.
Stress to get sick.
Was that why he did it to me? Release his load, his burdens, his sorrows within me? Every teary confession, every whispered accusation, every fucking criticism carried with it the weight of my death sentence.
I had to move on. The news was too much to bear. I refuse to make the headlines and I will be safe when no longer under their watchful eyes.
“My father has Parkinson’s.” No thank you!
“Watching torpedoes….” Pass.
“Did anyone ever consider that this is maybe just a sick kid?” What did that man on Lifetime know? Was it he who was plagued by the demons that kept her awake? The demons…. Yes, the face that looked back at me in the mirror— such a delicate face, so sweet— hid a dark hideousness that was consuming her very being. No, I had to avoid her eyes, crystal balls of his throb—throb, throb, throbbing—vicious thrusting memories of my stolen womb.
Stupid girl, shut those eyes! Don’t let me see him, feel him inside.
That cruel, familiar face in the mirror held the power and the knowledge of one who knew how to harm and harm well. Stop it! I don’t want to see him anymore. Stop! Please…. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you both! Bad, bad man! Sinful, spiteful girl! “Perfectionism may be hazardous to one’s health. Don’t try it at home,” I screamed at her, controlling her, moving her. She was a slave to my will.
As I looked, I lost interest. No longer recognizing her, I turned away from the distraction of her ridiculous contortions. I must stay focused.
I don’t like lifetime.
“I would go to hell for you and I would let the devil scrape out my soul with his fingernails.” Such a dark phrase for such a light-skinned man. Listen! Whisper those words! I would go to hell for you and I would let the devil scrape out my soul with his fingernails. Now shout, shout them out baby! I WOULD GO TO HELL FOR YOU AND I WOULD LET THE DEVIL SCRAPE OUT MY SOUL WITH HIS FINGERNAILS.
How do you scrape out a soul? Is that what you tried to do? Damn fool! Poor bastard! Once you plant, there’s no going back! Didn’t you know? Didn’t anybody ever teach you that, you fuck? Yet ghastly gash is now the path to the opening that feeds my belly... baby belly... baby in the belly. Belly, belly, belly… button. Belly, belly, belly… button. Sing it loud! BELLY, BELLY, BELLY… BUTTON. Plug it up. Plug that belly, belly, belly button lest my soul slip away into infinity, into eternity, in pursuit of the stygian angel, lost, forever floating on the breath of death, a product of your clumsy carving of my once smooth b-e-l-l-y. The little baby gone bye-bye. Oh, God!
Plug. Flip. Escape.
“That’s quite big for me,” said Gwyneth. What is that Gwyneth? Huh? Can you tell me? Can you? What do you consider quite big for you, you virginal bitch? I once muttered those words hoping to be encountered with a sympathetic soul, a mere victim of momentary insanity. That’s what they called me, or was it him? That’s quite big for me. Wake up! WAKE UP! One victim of momentary insanity. That’s quite big for me… and yet the only memory that now lives on me is the very real remnant that is the gash of the access procured to the dead waste your entrance left behind. The only memory that now lives in me is the mangled, rotten ghost of what was once my active womb and now lies there rotting... rotten, rotten b-e-l-l-y. Rotten belly of insanity in one moment.
“He said you have to, you don’t have a choice.” I was being watched. What else would account for the voices that plagued me? These voices sang my song. They knew my soul. I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t. Did I? Does a soul exist if there’s no one there to love it? Is its presence real if there’s no one there to see it? Can its voice be heard if there’s no one there to listen? Tell me, can a soul be saved if there’s no one there to need it? Did I have much choice when my mouth could not scream out in protest, when my body could not move under your weight? You said I had to, I didn’t have a choice.
They say it will rain tomorrow. Will those salty drops wash it all away? I will be safe when no longer under their watchful eyes. I don’t like lifetime… life.
Plug. Flip. Escape.
Insanity in one moment. I didn’t have a choice.
Flip.
Shhhhh....
He wanted me to die.
Stress to get sick.
Was that why he did it to me? Release his load, his burdens, his sorrows within me? Every teary confession, every whispered accusation, every fucking criticism carried with it the weight of my death sentence.
I had to move on. The news was too much to bear. I refuse to make the headlines and I will be safe when no longer under their watchful eyes.
“My father has Parkinson’s.” No thank you!
“Watching torpedoes….” Pass.
“Did anyone ever consider that this is maybe just a sick kid?” What did that man on Lifetime know? Was it he who was plagued by the demons that kept her awake? The demons…. Yes, the face that looked back at me in the mirror— such a delicate face, so sweet— hid a dark hideousness that was consuming her very being. No, I had to avoid her eyes, crystal balls of his throb—throb, throb, throbbing—vicious thrusting memories of my stolen womb.
Stupid girl, shut those eyes! Don’t let me see him, feel him inside.
That cruel, familiar face in the mirror held the power and the knowledge of one who knew how to harm and harm well. Stop it! I don’t want to see him anymore. Stop! Please…. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you both! Bad, bad man! Sinful, spiteful girl! “Perfectionism may be hazardous to one’s health. Don’t try it at home,” I screamed at her, controlling her, moving her. She was a slave to my will.
As I looked, I lost interest. No longer recognizing her, I turned away from the distraction of her ridiculous contortions. I must stay focused.
I don’t like lifetime.
“I would go to hell for you and I would let the devil scrape out my soul with his fingernails.” Such a dark phrase for such a light-skinned man. Listen! Whisper those words! I would go to hell for you and I would let the devil scrape out my soul with his fingernails. Now shout, shout them out baby! I WOULD GO TO HELL FOR YOU AND I WOULD LET THE DEVIL SCRAPE OUT MY SOUL WITH HIS FINGERNAILS.
How do you scrape out a soul? Is that what you tried to do? Damn fool! Poor bastard! Once you plant, there’s no going back! Didn’t you know? Didn’t anybody ever teach you that, you fuck? Yet ghastly gash is now the path to the opening that feeds my belly... baby belly... baby in the belly. Belly, belly, belly… button. Belly, belly, belly… button. Sing it loud! BELLY, BELLY, BELLY… BUTTON. Plug it up. Plug that belly, belly, belly button lest my soul slip away into infinity, into eternity, in pursuit of the stygian angel, lost, forever floating on the breath of death, a product of your clumsy carving of my once smooth b-e-l-l-y. The little baby gone bye-bye. Oh, God!
Plug. Flip. Escape.
“That’s quite big for me,” said Gwyneth. What is that Gwyneth? Huh? Can you tell me? Can you? What do you consider quite big for you, you virginal bitch? I once muttered those words hoping to be encountered with a sympathetic soul, a mere victim of momentary insanity. That’s what they called me, or was it him? That’s quite big for me. Wake up! WAKE UP! One victim of momentary insanity. That’s quite big for me… and yet the only memory that now lives on me is the very real remnant that is the gash of the access procured to the dead waste your entrance left behind. The only memory that now lives in me is the mangled, rotten ghost of what was once my active womb and now lies there rotting... rotten, rotten b-e-l-l-y. Rotten belly of insanity in one moment.
“He said you have to, you don’t have a choice.” I was being watched. What else would account for the voices that plagued me? These voices sang my song. They knew my soul. I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t. Did I? Does a soul exist if there’s no one there to love it? Is its presence real if there’s no one there to see it? Can its voice be heard if there’s no one there to listen? Tell me, can a soul be saved if there’s no one there to need it? Did I have much choice when my mouth could not scream out in protest, when my body could not move under your weight? You said I had to, I didn’t have a choice.
They say it will rain tomorrow. Will those salty drops wash it all away? I will be safe when no longer under their watchful eyes. I don’t like lifetime… life.
Plug. Flip. Escape.
Insanity in one moment. I didn’t have a choice.
Flip.
Shhhhh....
Thursday, July 06, 2006
desire lives in a cold grave
The spot where your hand lay still is warm.
Your words hang suspended in the air
where first they flew forth.
They resonate
but I cannot hear them.
Your wails of love and sorrow,
bittersweet intruders,
breathe forth
salty rivers and knowing smiles
on the faces of all who know your Touch,
but I cannot be reached.
A current of air whirls and twirls
around the Pillar,
incessantly carrying your song on its shoulders
just as you carried Shams in your heart,
but I cannot be moved.
your Absent Body,
Lord of White Figures
that forever dance to your song,
rules over beings imprisoned by the all-consuming whirlpool
of your departure.
But I cannot be your subject.
Concrete pillar,
Pillar of concrete,
twirling Air,
whirling Sufis,
Enlightened masses,
the very elements in motion,
all are places where you reside,
Transcendental,
throughout this curse called
Time.
But I remain empty,
feeling
Nothing but sorrow of a
Desire that now has a face
that lives in the name of
Rumi to the world,
Molana Jalaledin Mohammad Molavi Balkhi to your people.
~Explanation of symbolism, in case of questions, in comments.
Your words hang suspended in the air
where first they flew forth.
They resonate
but I cannot hear them.
Your wails of love and sorrow,
bittersweet intruders,
breathe forth
salty rivers and knowing smiles
on the faces of all who know your Touch,
but I cannot be reached.
A current of air whirls and twirls
around the Pillar,
incessantly carrying your song on its shoulders
just as you carried Shams in your heart,
but I cannot be moved.
your Absent Body,
Lord of White Figures
that forever dance to your song,
rules over beings imprisoned by the all-consuming whirlpool
of your departure.
But I cannot be your subject.
Concrete pillar,
Pillar of concrete,
twirling Air,
whirling Sufis,
Enlightened masses,
the very elements in motion,
all are places where you reside,
Transcendental,
throughout this curse called
Time.
But I remain empty,
feeling
Nothing but sorrow of a
Desire that now has a face
that lives in the name of
Rumi to the world,
Molana Jalaledin Mohammad Molavi Balkhi to your people.
~Explanation of symbolism, in case of questions, in comments.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Transcendental Chain
Glorious colors,
knee-length sleeves,
hand-made robes,
masked monks,
dancing wrathful deities
scare evil away.
China...
Masked Monks,
dancing a rainbow of prayers,
Whirl!
Twirl!
Tibet.
Burgundy prostrations.
kneel,
spread,
exude
Buddha, Dharma, Sangha,
in motion.
Listen!
Low-pitched voices
deep as the soul.
Listen!
Om. O-oooom. O-ooooooom.
Closed eyes
fly free.
Energy.
Om Mani Peme Hung.
Tibet.
Trak- Trak- Trak-
Wheel of Dharma.
Tik- Tik- Tik-
Om Mani Peme Hung...
Tik- Tik- Tik-
Om Mani Peme Hung.
Mala beads,
flowing rivers on brown hands.
Mala.
Tibet.
Exiled Monks
chanting Tears.
prostration,
meditation,
Mala beads,
Flowing rivers on brown hands,
sandalwood Mala
in Holy Hands...
Dalai Lama.
Tibet.
Lama Chönam.
my brother,
my teacher,
my friend.
Lama Chönam,
gentle soul.
Tibet.
Sandalwood Mala in Olive hands.
Dalai Lama and his Mala.
Lama Chönam and the Dalai Lama.
Me and the Sandalwood Mala.
His Holiness in my hands.
Tibet.
~Explanation of symbolism, in case of questions, in comments.
~Chönam, this is for you. We have stingy karma my friend. I miss you...