Space

HERE:
sits a young woman trying to master an education in
Poetry through art created fighting masculine requirements
inattentive by the now disincentive; the subject deficient in dispersing
muse-worthy thoughts. Questioning why the minutes pass in juxtaposition
closer than the moments spent sitting in vain trying desperately
to find the word POET next to the impotent and perpetual
enjambment of figurative language that plays tug of war with
her mind against her mouth.

ELSEWHERE:
stagnant in his property, depreciated yet south of the boulevard,
he lays in habitual movement of corked energy sucked into
Spanish novellas to which not one word is understood, but makes
his cock’s counterpart happy; this bitch’s happiness is key, not mine.
His Israeli jet dares never to attack, viciously, Guatemala and her vagina.
His Israeli jet dared never to attack, viciously, this poet’s Iranian
mother, his cock’s first counterpart, neither.

HERE:
so, what gives?

Insensible Recessions

In discomfort, my pleasure is offered two minds, people make love in my childhood bedroom during these tough times. The master bedroom was sanitized of mother’s
custody and rented for currency; the mortgage is his daughter, she must be taken
care of properly.
The papier-mâché flowers have bred every secret belonging
to offcuts of yesterday’s diary, spanning branches tacked onto cheap
wallpaper since I was thirteen. Employed unknowingly to watch over
the labor of un-regal sex, their leaves wilt with my dead wishes every
time a cheerful execution of my earlier nature
visits in absence.
Eagerly, while mingling free in flowing secretions, these people unravel carnal favors. Cupping breasts, sucking cock; helping one another touch enigmatic heights. These glow in the dark stars have yet to retire; they were meant to clear a path for this child’s end-stopped reach finding sanction in the ripples of divorce
not to shed light on spousal infidelity defined in action.

To do so, one must humbly

see Coward.

"Just Get Over It"

Headaches come and go. Heartbreak lasts until the next good thing comes along, an impending heartbreak you are once again blinded by. Divorced parents think they know; their capacity of fathoming your pain is less than the debt they've incurred mapped by the number of scars embedded in your childhood skin. People you know now and knew then come and go, still judging, and you wonder why it is that you are the only lost cause; living with the vibrancy of heaviness lurking beneath your former potency, strangely yet positively irrepressible beyond any measure. God, I know you only give me things I can handle but I pray that these abundant hand outs stop. There are people less fortunate in the world who can benefit more than I can.

Joanna Kramer: Cinema's Truest Divorcee

These tears will always remain an Oscar winner. I believe more so than I have experienced residing in another's whirlwind of marital loss, that this is what it feels like to be divorced. Acting, yes, but a realistically perpetuated ache nonetheless.

Home is Where The Heart is Kept

There are country roads now that are empty yet
open to havoc fluid in the spectacle of Iranian regime.
These roads clasp on to former day
lights, summer eras where eight children frolicked with minerals
in mind-blowing tides belonging to the Caspian Sea.
A simple mind entranced by future plans; a prince’s paramour with children
to match; this lover-less mother was dealt the shortest stick, her own sorrow’s
harvester. The Beautiful visited her in reveries. Its hooks sunk into
dreams; collapsing her foreign aptitude, as its surname
rested alphabetically after her given
birthplace. Tehran, America is
still Unattainable.


Hurried away from a captive revolutionary, circa 1975.
Augusta, Georgia. Green Card granted. Citizenship tested.
September hit, 2001. The sex disappeared, 2002.
The Pacific Ocean dwellers frightened Caspian’s child, “Go
back to your country!” 2003 – Current Events.
Tehran.
This documented former immigrant, with a right to construct
her cultural address on any soil, rests detoured with road
blocks tranquil in unattainability.

America, where is your heart kept?

Despair's Unwanted Exhaustion

What I hate is the feeling of happiness. Salt,
water vessels dried out, unresponsive to
incidental music; my brain’s twirling from major
to minor gave way to paramount rations for prior
miseries. I dislike the boyfriend who dictates the phrase
another never would, who keeps yearning at bay
associating the dead child in this adult body with
his worn peacoat and wool scarf.

What drives me to happiness is walking in on
him and the other man in my life speaking of
bad plumbing and neglected wall suspensions; finally,
his occupation sparks an interest and a future son-in-law
to gush over. He loves me in the short time they’ve been
acquainted.
It breaks my heart to go to bed every night in this space immune
from prior susceptibility
to silent yells,
childhood ire,
painful missing,
familiar regret and
prior susceptibility.

It breaks my heart to go to bed every night in this adult body,
having spread the ashes of that dead child beneath the
sheets of exclusive, new warmth.

Thicker Blood Resides In Daughters

The only worry I ever had. Watching blood
thinner injected into your tummy; I cringed along with
your quivering lip and the rippling folds of your skin
on first contact. You are not the sole tenant facing
eviction with each implanted stent. I am at a crossway
of discomfort, facing doom due to your heart’s dis-ease.
Stretched out and labored into a white room, an IV
pauses for the kill. Angiograms leave purple welts on
your inner thigh…etherizing, narcolepsy arrests you
while kidney-shaped sick salvers wait to find you well.

Heart palpitations react to each medicinal dose fallen
habitually to desertion, grateful are those debtors awaiting
the collection of your unrestrained life’s ricochet, its
outstanding rent. This third strike, another bursting aortic
valve, had mercy on me. I had no fight left to battle but to
dress you, thin blood, in warm clothes and take you home,
never again turning our backs on this game of potential expiry.