The Persian

Happy New Year

(I wrote this in the first few hours of 2015. For some reason I’m only publishing it now.)

Happy new year!
Year, tear, steer, fear
Far – near
There! That’s all the useless rhymes
Out of way – now maybe I can write
The irregular details and discordant –
Facts, the things that don’t rhyme
But are – most important
I wished we could bike together on the eve –
Of the new year, and with stereos strapped to our bikes, sing:
“Happy new year, you assholes!” –
sing until our hearts bleed a little;
the spittle from our mouths would tell me maybe,
maybe we’re singing loud enough –
baby, I don’t –
I don’t breathe anymore until
My lungs stutter asking after you –
asking my brain if you’re okay at that moment – but even better:
my brain sends back down a letter
signed off and wax-stamped, in which my brain cells utter:
“It’s alright, breathe, take in another,
She’s alive – she dances –
Like a beautiful feather!”

Back to normal now, back to, back to:

I Iove her at length; a length:
like the width of the world, or the approximate distance from
From the hot-blooded South –
to the Nether!
I love her – but to another,
I bet I seem insane; then again, since when do rich stomachs feel those that suffer –
that eat themselves
Because fois gras fucking isn’t on offer?

What does anyone but me know of loving – without measure?
My endeavor is long!
Scars crawl into my skin and slither
Snake-paths into my flesh, and whether –
I carry the map of my battleground on my chest,
or on the walls – of my heart – drawn blood pictograms
and tissue fissure; I don’t forget:
My endeavor is long, sir,
But my end is treasure!

I’ll give you my two-cents – I swear,
it makes sense that she’s – a perfectionist,
because the tide may leave the shore and abandon its home –
but it always comes back to where its roots were sown.
It makes sense –
that she’s a perfectionist – because she – like the tide –
probably just misses her own kind.


Strawberry and Mint

Mr. K was a lovely man – and gay
Soon my love returns from holiday
We’ll spend our time together – alone
And walk about – on Saturday

A suicide note on his lowly bed
Says: “I have chosen Death instead”
I took it home and showed my love
We promised we’d never say what he had said

Now Mr. K’s heart was fire and coals
But life’s too hard for gentle souls
They’ll deny it but they killed him, yes
Turned his white angels to wicked trolls

I love her now and she has known
Since turned my lips from lime & stone
To strawberry jam and minty zest
Told her I loved her to the bone

Everyone says our love is wrong
Like Mr. K’s thin red ruffled thong
My love told me: “Be careful too!”
I said I had been all along

Now Mr. K’s chances didn’t long stay
He bet his life just yesterday
My love wonders: should we bet like him too?
That love like this don’t fly away?

I don’t know what to say to her
Don’t want us ending like Mr. K
Guess only the man himself would know
So, Mr. K, what do you say?

Carpets and Anarchy

It hung around us like the smell of newly – washed carpet
And we know a lot about those – don’t we?
Is there a bigger fool than me?
For thinking maybe – maybe she didn’t feel the same way –
as I did, when I saw her distantly clutching
Her purse – subtly showcasing
The slender artist’s fingers –
forgive me, and forgive – my insanity
I am like a wary pigeon now saying,
To itself: “Hopefully, it’s her there,
Or here” – looking cautiously
Is she around me? I see –
passers-by and lesser souls and
Hearts never so soft and velvety
She’s not around me, but when she was
It hung around us like the breath of God – this newborn baby love
Kicking loudly – like the soul of the world screaming anarchy,
saying: “Notice me!”
I am, I am, I am –
I am constantly!
But I ignored it because I was – afraid
afraid that we weren’t
In parity, equality, balance – I thought –
only I could love so dearly; and I wonder:
Is there a bigger fool than me?

But does it matter?
Fools are the luckiest folk anyway.
The fruit of heaven’s tree lay
In my way – maybe the Devil is just
Heartbroken, and once
Was like me: in love – and madly still
And jealous of Adam and Eve and
the trill of the first wedding bell – in history
Maybe the Devil’s revenge on the world of lovers –
is Hell.

Thank God it Was, Thank God it Wasn’t

Thank God – you know,
I didn’t thank god so much as when
I thanked him for the first time – when I thought:
“God is beautiful and loves beauty”;
well then: that explains it.
Thank God it was you who dresses to kill – and not me
I couldn’t pull off a leather jacket
half as well as you; see –
when I wear one, I get compliments –
but you do it and the planet forgets its own… gravity –
does that mean things start floating about uncontrollably?
Not necessarily – it just means you are opium,
and the world wants to get high – on beauty.
It upsets me – to have to share a joint with the world because yes,
I’ll say it – I act selfishly!
Because He – sent you, and He
Doesn’t play with dice and doesn’t –
Act randomly – Will you excuse me?
If I paint your name on the insides of my veins;
like shop signs in vulgar gold lettering saying proudly:
“Welcome!” and admitting – quite openly – who the shop owner is.
Thank God the names
Of the prince of Arab poets, and the prince of Persian verse –
rhyme comfortably: Al Mutanabbi makes poetic love –
to Ferdawsi.

—side note: the first one means
“One Who Claims to be a Prophet”
and the second means:
“Arising from paradise”—

Thank God, honestly – because I get to claim prophethood and you
as my own miracle – from Divinity!
In school they told me: God sent the Arabs his word
because they were people of poetry;
Then I must be the people of love, Lovely;
they believed instantly – Those people
Of pen and word and book
My God is in your eyes, darling
And like them –
One look was all it took.

Mother, I’m a Thief

I needed a wooden box to store all
my leftover love; so I
stole one from my mother’s cabinets
which, incidentally, store her dresses from back when
her hair met her thighs
on every Cairo street
And fought with her shoulders
in cursed bedroom heat
My mother was the kind of pretty on the faces of assassins –
growing to life,
I stole her complexion;
and growing to walk,
I stole her black polka dot heels,
which extended me higher, up to her chest,
but never to her dreams –
because the second she first saw me,
I was already there:
I have “My Mother’s Greatest Dream” written
on my forehead
in the eyes of God.

This wooden box here I stole from my mother
is not the first thing I steal
a quick peak at my record would reveal –
a litany of crimes; I should be hanged.
But up there, hanging by the split skin of my neck,
I would not be able
To wipe my mother’s tears
should I have to, from her eyes
(which are mine – I have her eyes too)
And I know Death is an hardheaded fellow
who cares nothing for pleas; but please
not today, Death, not tonight
while her breaths still increase –

A mother from Egypt is a queen bee
who still does all the building work;
that’s why her cabinets are full
of kitchen utensils,
and clothes she bought – for my sisters and me;
That they will never use,
and neither will he!
But a mother worries, believes – and yet
Cares nothing for thieves; how else
Have I stolen so much from her
– from all the different cabinets of her life –
And never been punished?

And this, my last offense, a wooden box to steal;
And hide in all the greatest
I’ve ever owned to feel
I have a lot of love that needs to live longer
Than my loves have ever lived! – stowed away,
preserved whole, until the day
I unpack it; the only prayer I make
is that our life – ours, you and me –
is only starting;
timing is a bitch, darling
I know that better now –
and now isn’t the when my love needs
That, I’ll allow – but hey
I’m going for checkmate anyway
And my back never to bow
Today, with this wooden box with all my love-things inside
I figured out – how.