Monday, February 28, 2011

Florence and the Machine - My Boy builds Coffins (BBC Introducing)

When transparency is streaked by depression's suitor marching in rainwater against my petition and caged madness unfolds exacerbating my sacred precinct's cornucopia
of semi-conciousness, heightened by a kaleidoscope of mental twinges, this is what happens.

The Dog Days Are Over

"Run fast for your father. Leave all your love and your longing behind. You can't carry it with you, if you want to survive."

I wanted something from him. Poetry worked to fill the nook inbetween vessels; ducts of bloodflow, traumatized nerves that would find me destitute of calm and untouched by thermal energy. He killed my yearning with easy words formed into kisses blown across the couch. Into the aged bullet-obstructed wounds, concealment breaks the element of deaf, auditory perception granted as these spiral shaped cavities hemorrhage hearing “I love you” ensconced years within his ego. There was nothing left to look for.

Then, why am I still sitting here in vain trying desperately to find the word Poet next to the impotent and perpetual course of figurative language playing tug of war with my mind and my mouth?

Sunday, February 20, 2011


An entire world exists; it seems, with the light
off as I speak, 18 years into the narcoleptic
future. Role model, the term equaling an understatement,
was turning into a young Jewish woman, her twelfth year
welcomed by radiation, the cold loss of underdeveloped
breasts. Her mother spoke to a higher power; calming
nightfall instilled warmth upon her worried frame, stars
highlighted the situation below while parental nature
echoed, as she laid wrapped up, fear-frayed, in an electric

Her given name we shouted, effervescently, in a princess’
ballroom. An Ashkenazi vision dressed in a sparked maroon
hue, off the shoulder accessorized with scar tissue, subpoenaed
by evil doctors and bullshit cancerous malignancies. I wanted to
suffocate the tender mutilations playing that vicious game of kiss-
and-tell with her insecurities. I wanted to whisper in ears adorned by
24karats that she has escaped malpractice by doctors mirroring
Hitler. I was eight; unaware of the asset granted to the sea whose
cascades tried washing her offshore.

She stands at five feet, balancing 31 years, sheltering discolored
welts between cotton spaghetti straps while nursing an amazing marble-
blue eyed creature. Emulating her remains priceless, as
an entire world exists with the lights on as I speak, alert
through needed repose, 18 years into the present.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Brave New Voices 2010 - "Favorite Color"

Our cries are solitary, intertwined by the need of opposite, parental genders. These words inspire me to create something my father has never heard quivering from what's left of the raspy ache in my voice. I want it to reverberate like this poem, resonating clear across the Caspian Sea that my mother and her siblings must've swam in as children. Someday, my father will learn. Someday, he will know what it means to tell your child that her color illuminates your dreams, that she was not a mistake and that she holds a vital space between the left side of your chest and your rib's incarceration. Someday, my father will know. In life or death, Someday's wind must blow over, and yet I wonder what color it is and if it has ever been loved itself.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Puzzle Pieces

I wonder what in the world I am doing. These were not my dreams. I fell into this due to the overwhelming pressure and weight of divorce upon my feeble psyche. I am not cut out for this. My words will never form a tourniquet to help heal universal suffering. I want out. I want to breathe the way I was destined to, through whatever purpose has my name on it.
I wish her arms were potent enough to carry the relentless weight of despair nestled in my bruised conscience. Her eternal home so warm and welcoming, she has gone where nothing lasts but a mere second. I want to go home, back to where hopscotch and jumping rope were the trustworthy confidants I came to cherish and release childhood aches upon. If only she were here to tuck me in, the lone survivor of saturday night dreams under orphaned sheets, and leave cigarette scented kisses on my peach-fuzzed cheeks with freckles in alignment; the dots have yet to be conjured but connected in whispers of past sentiments.
You need a higher resolution to picture my story.
I have a box of broken conversation hearts; an ample metaphor for loss worn on my sleeve.


I lie in light trying to forget, I wake
in the dark trying urgently to arouse.
Wild adherence against a mental Polaroid
stirs the scent of fresh paint rolled unto
Roman pillars belonging to the house I
grew in, the words of love absently
overflowing from my patriarch’s lying
mouth, a skintight grasp hesitates in welcoming
Barbie’s slutty residence into kid-approved life
by his overbearing wife.

They are not here, my mother and the vagina-
addicted sperm bank; to pull the blinds introducing
the moon's morning self to my disheartened
perception every weekday's sunrise. Even

in dream, there are no situations
to be relived, no kindergarten cardboard
boxes of orange juice to drink again, and
no Chapter 11 documents to be filed; I never
stood remote on those marble tiles belonging to
my Israeli father, remote in emotions, and hugged
those Roman supports goodbye. The valiant cherry
brick fireplace warmed the house only once.

Two discourses hum in my Jewish ears; unorthodoxly
maimed by holes, one too many times. Their Israeli-
Iranian fusion of fucked guidance has left me whistling
unaided. Made by and addicted to unalleviated laments
daily, I am whole; a residue of once opulent,
spitting images.

Friday, February 11, 2011


This pale face in my hands, eyes angry by
tears. A tea bag should do the trick. A cul-de-sac
of mortal paradise closing in on the headstone
before me. Lungs blister through these Marlboros,
an infection bad for my health. Above this lawn,
unkempt and maltreated, routed by loss I plea
insanity. Maker of woman, entangle me in capillaries
filled with the secondary hue of her blood. Those
frail arms had full custody of the weight
that was me.

Here ashes fall with each tap, muddling
through the mechanism that coerces me to ruminate over
the russet complexion, tattooed eyebrows, and rouge-
creamed cheekbones as the apparition of a free
foreigner, greets me in wistfulness.
I exhale the tattered snapshot of her sending me
off to tap the sublime heights of indispensable
youth on a rubber seat, holding on for Crayola-obsessed
life, after each puff of the addiction she bequeathed
me in her unconscious will. The Surgeon General
allows second-hand smoke to prevail
just this once.

Thursday mornings claim frostbite on broken
granddaughters. I inhale her license of vocal
sound tapped out at the hub as the tobacco smolders on
one end filtering out my screams on the other. My pre-lunch
prescription for coping is done, unsound. Striding past
the fanning remnants of malignancy, I am forever spun
out on her lingering nicotine.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Summoning Remnants of a Dark Triangle

I try to summon the photograph sitting
upright on what was once your corkboard
dresser; my cherry wood inheritance with Dr.
Mogghadam's phone number on a post-
it inside the cracked drawer.

You escaped Ayatollah Khomeini’s rule for America
and its dream, never forgetting your roots; the table
occupied with Iranian delicacies as the scent of
Pomegranate stew carried through the room. Curlers
in your hair and my father’s kiss, imprinted on
your Toasted Almond rouged cheek. Appreciations
gleaming, you found vanity in your daughter’s Israeli
warrior. Fulsome, he has yet to visit your grave or make
cell phone love to my mother in words of condolence via
careless bloke to ex-wife. Modesty remains woven into
the fabric of mother’s vestment, as your swaying power
surges through veins facing extinction in a casket
away from home- locked and buried -preventing his
Israel from intimidating your Iran.

I summon the photograph, break the holding
cell, tear the male, uphold the female.
I take out your curlers, erase his kiss, and respire
a surplus of life into your amputated memorial:

A woman who loved notwithstanding the lack of
a son’s respect. You were more of a Man than my
father, a man for lack of a better term.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

No Mourning Period?

Really? To whomever unkind, anti-musical genius-loving, fool who posted this online, it may concern: you are so NOT cool.