trivia distracts the high mind fueling
ego to leap the skyscraper. blood eyes
consume this artful act but where flies


Hey Mr so-called Poet Man!

The Art of Poetry.


This is a wordy piece of prose
Jumping in and out of rhythms.
I hate to be negative of any expression
But this is of no use to anyone.

I am not advocating return to form
But it might help
If you know how it works.
The simple vocabulary

Does not stretch the reader
And the Mystery of Darkness,
Is philosophical rambling
Defunct of elegance.

A consciousness exists
Beyond our understanding,
Seek this, close your eyes
And enter the darkness…

Poetry is more than just
Writing down your thoughts.
Some material needs formality
Of poetic armoury.

And your images? Where are they?
There are all the trappings
Of abstract thought –
But I can’t see no bloody horse.

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the fabulist recited a fable. a commoner distressed,
knocked the parish door of a priest. i have killed
a man sleeping with my wife. what shall i do?
the priest grimaced. the commoner killed him too,

& on the run he went from parish to parish killing priests.
on the 99th day in the 99th parish & bloody exhausted
he cried his confessions to a priest. you are forgiven he said.
the commoner dropped dead with a smile on his face.

a stolen hour

i disembark from the hot desk,
the din of voices & ringing phones.

snatching my jacket i trot down
winding stairs secreting

from the municipal building.
the public square i speed along

not noticing the obelisk today.
making way to parsonage gardens

surrounded by terracotta houses,
i place myself at the picnic table

then expedite 20 minutes left
before arching back.


the poet said
you see recurrences

over and over
as you get older

like places colonized
seized & named

saddled with debt –

don’t be surprised
as proxies fester

or the outright brute
grabs land

grabs booty
scary long arms

weaving a dark
expansive web

the poet said
you see recurrences

over and over
as you get older.

oh man

write something nice
the old man encouraged

but that steely thing –
just imagine
feeling empowered

when you hear
a robber whisper
outside on the lawn

at midnight –
you’re angered
at a twisted world

that steely thing –
the cracking
it projectiles

built countries
never mind google –
guns don’t kill people

people kill people
but too many people
shot dead by guns.

Khwajah Piruz خواجه پيروز

The beginning of Spring coincides with Easter and the Iranian New Year of Nowruz.


Many of you don’t know me.
My name is Khwajah Piruz.
Mazdayasnian Fire Keeper,
The herald delivering Nowruz.

Cleanness rebuffs all evil.
Purge the home, paint the walls, spruce the garden.
‘Khane Tekani’ is essential –
And annual visitations common.

They nourish the growth of your sabzeh,
That slept during cold winter days.
Now lentils, barley and wheat abounding,
Your ancestors’ wishes purveyed.

It’s Khwajah Piruz, only one day a year,
Everyone knows, I know as well.
I bring good news, Nowruz is near,
Siyâhi-e to az man, zardi-e man az to.

Many of you don’t know me,
My name is Khwajah Piruz.
Khwajah is Lord, Piruz victorious,
The herald delivering Nowruz.

I probably came from Mogadishu,
Though this is not the mainstream view.
Marauding Arabs conquered the Persians,
Then changed my name to ‘Hajji Firuz.’

Don’t confuse me with Bilal al Rabah,
The Meccan, the black muzzein.
My origins…

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