321/365

he gave me two notebooks
before he left when i turned eighteen:
one blue. one yellow.
both three subject, mead, spiral bound
150 sheets/college ruled
9 1/2 x 6/24.1 x 15.2 cm
price tag from thrifty’s drugs $2.55.

they smell of mildew, dead letters
and faded recollections.
spirals warped and hinting
with the grit of rust.
teal lines in various stages of
pale decline. the words dark black
english. farsi. spiritual.
quotes from jesus to rumi in neat script.

intermittent drawings begging to be tattoos.
psychedelic lines wanting to carve skin and
embed themselves like topographical
transcendental lines on a map.

pages exposing this seeker on a hunt
for escape or meaning
something other, beyond:
the edge of the edge.

he read carlos castaneda books on the toilet
training in shamanism that he received
under the tutelage of a yaqui.
those trips imprinted in the drawings.

care of the soul is more than hunger for bread.
there is a pumpkin bread recipe in there
and a daily schedule that has him rising
at four am and in bed at nine:
mediating, painting, working, gardening.

fatherhood for him was leaving clues.
maybe somewhere beyond this world
we will finally meet and i can stitch them
back together for him and share a few of my own.

296/365

there was so much light at the house on the water
pouring in through the giant bay window, reflecting
off the yellow table. yoko was absorbed by heat
and delivered her kittens in my parents underwear drawer
one day after school when i was home alone. wolfie died
their. the chronology in a knotted mess. kaveh cried
throughout the night, but it was okay, i was finally not alone.
there were smiles and sunday boat parades. they bought
me a boat from marin surplus that could take me to the sea.
i manoeuvred it in between the yatchs and sailboats through
the canal. one night i took my dad to the mouth off the bay.
it was dark. he sipped his wine. the waves were strong.
i was only twelve maybe thirteen. i had kissed a girl and drunk
until i puked already, but he didn’t know about either.
he trusted me to steer the boat. i felt like a man. this was
the house where i knew i didn’t need them anymore.
the sunshine and the boats brought smiles and freedom.
i learned about led zeppelin and bob dylan there. i learned
about the power of turpentine to dilute stiffened dried paint
and release it unto a canvas. i learned the beauty of being alone.
sitting on the roof at night watching the stars, leaving the window
open, a cool breeze on my naked chest, as i fell asleep.
there was so much light at the house on the water
pouring in through the giant bay window, reflecting
off the yellow table.

292/365

my father’s father

was the epitome

of sophistication:

he wore house slippers

silk pajamas, a coat and tie

when in public. an ascot

indoors, a turtle neck

beneath a blazer to relax.

i rarely remember overt affection

an isolated hug or peck

on the top of the head

allowed me close enough

to be entranced by his

leather chypre: cumin

followed by gardenia, jasmine,

amber and sandalwood.

he was a peculiar old man

with refined tastes, showing up

to our modest home every few years

suitcase full of caspian caviar

and other rarities from the orient east.

pistachios. dried fruit. scented nougat.

adults fold childhood stories

into lasting myths like dull origami animals

rough around the edges unable to stand

on their own and wish them to life.

hassan was an oil man

working for the anglo-persian oil company,

one could assume: a loyal colonial subject.

i’ve never asked enough questions

to know where his loyalists

were in nineteen fifty three.

i always assumed he was the richest

man on the planet who withheld

his fortune from us until his errant son

would see the error is his ways:

lay down his paint brushes

rock and roll and return to the private clubs

and architect path he’d abandoned

for some southside girl and their dopey

wide-eyed child.

we dig into the chaos of memory

unequipped for the blank spaces

we might find in between

ancestry and reality.

we are walking down a tree lined street

in my home town, the place i grew up in california,

picking sour plums so my grandmother

can make jam when we get home. the two of us

ignoring this shameful immigrants behaviour

for the sweet taste of some mythical home.

he walks slowly,

his checkered cap

low on his head.

i’m singing a popular song

under my breath.

only knowing the chorus-

born in the usa.

i was born in the usa.

he grabs me hard

by my frail shoulders,

surprised by his strength

i’m caught in the depth of his eyes:

that is a lie.

you were born in iran.

don’t ever forget that.

he was a few steps ahead of me

before i came to and realised

the most important lesson

my grandfather ever taught me.

243/365

sometimes the poem that needs to be written
is burrowed too deeply under someone else skin.
while you want to expose the story and this sliver
of shared reality, you know, he owns more of it
than you do and it feels selfish to expose him like that.
the raw vulnerability you so sanctimoniously flaunt
makes her uncomfortable, so you’re forced to keep the poem-
that one that is yearning to live in the world-
safe. hidden. like
a secret. or an affair. an abortion.
alcoholism. or a mental health relapse.

only when we expunge the world of shame
can all the poems be fully written

146/365

there must have always
been art books in the house
growing up
seeing that my dad
was an artist
in that he looked for
and pointed out
beauty to me,
as a child,
wherever he saw it.

photographs of
colored ink in jars,
the thick weight of
tracers in pastels,
the dining room table painted
and re-painted tangerine
beneath the stained glass
window, he had
meticulously created.

there must have always
been art books in the house
growing up,
because where else
could i have first seen
the painting of the turbulent sea
with blood in the water
and the sharks menacing
in the foreground waves.
are those flying fish
headed toward a hurricane?
a small rudderless
dingy- dismasted,
acting as an indecent refuge
from the pending storm.
the man
enslaved?
escaped?
free, but to what end?

even as a child
i remember feeling
the horror of flipping
through that book
and landing on the gulf stream.

i knew nothing of symbols
or history
or mortality
or wars
or vulnerability
or american imperialism.
or the fragility of human life.
or the dominance of nature.

but, i’d run my fingers
over the smooth glossy page
yearning to feel
the texture of the oils
smelling the piney turpantine.
what was he looking at?
how could he be so serene
in such disorder?

my dad
was an artist
in the way that he
looked for and pointed
out beauty to me,
as a child,
by leaving art books
scattered in our house
for me to explore
in the extended
pools of solitude.

not all lessons are explicity taught:  
beauty is a making one of opposites,
and the making one of opposites
is what we are going after in ourselves.

144/354

life is the laborious
realisation that
everything plods
toward the inevitable
cliché.

how could one with
such kerouacian dreams,
and rock and roll yearning
succumb to this state
of mid-life crisis.

my dad told me
on the phone
the other day,
that although
he is turning seventy one
this year, he still sees
a young man in the mirror,
whenever he looks—
“i feel like i am still
in my forties or fifties.”

the true spirit of adventure
blooms in the ability to transform
what the average person
sees as obstacles,
into opportunities.  

you can’t rely on
the open road
or the ocean
or a raging freezing
himalayan river,
or the alleyways of
foreign streets,
or sunrise at mount kenya
or the gentle waves
of a fire in the wild,
to make you feel alive.

there is heroism
in banality,
it’s the work that
reveals the frenzy
in contentment.

128/365

my father spoke to me through song,
not ones he wrote or sung,
but the ones spinning on the record player,
he was into classic by the time cd’s
were in fashion and i was out the door
into adolescence by that point,
and i don’t have to tell you that music
doesn’t have any lyrics.

my father spoke to me through song,  
so i don’t remember too many (any)
deep meaningful conversations--
although he always felt so expressive
in his journals and on the canvas,
and he was a master in the darkroom,  
i don’t remember any birds or bees,
nothing about how to be a good boyfriend,
nothing about how not to chase popularity,
don’t get me wrong:
he was able to
verbalise i love you
and i knew he meant it so i felt it
even through the wine and the beer
and all the rest of it, but what
i remember most was that

my father spoke to me through song:
        close your eyes. have no fear.
        the monster's gone. he’s on the run
        and your daddy's here
i don’t remember the hugs
or the tucking in and kisses goodnight,
but the surrogate records were always spinning
        our house is a very, very, very fine house
        with two cats in the yard
        life used to be so hard
        now everything is easy
        cause of you.
guitars. drums. bass.
candles. empty bottles.
the endless night.              
        mr. tambourine man,
        play a song for me. i’m not sleepy
        and there is no place i’m going to.
        hey, mr. tambourine man,
        play a song for me. in the jingle jangle
        morning i’ll come following you.
the playlist is too long for any one poem
        you are young and life is long,
        and there is time to kill today.
        a working class hero is something to be.
        it's better to burn out than fade away.

the few scraps of conversations have faded now
like wisps of burnt papers snuffed
into an ashtray, but the songs remain.
each one lodged in the places where
there would have been emptiness
if he hadn’t been careful.

i try to have the meaningful conversations with my girls,
and there are hugs and kisses, tucking-in
and there’ve always been stories,
but sometimes when the sun is setting
on the highway, and we’re driving home
from a long day, i’ll crank the car radio
to fill the silence    :
        rebel girl, rebel girl, rebel girl
        you are the queen of my world
        i’m so hungry, hunger makes me a modern girl

all a father can do is plant the seeds
and hope that they bloom.

127/365

the poems come now in waves.
opening lines and verse
invading the mind
like a platoon of ants:
first thing in the morning
surrounded
by darkness and squinting eyes,
in the shower, on the drive to work.

like the obsolescent
box of slides
he hid in his drawers.  
projecting them
on the white sheet:
images of the caspian sea
rivers and horses
all of them looking so young
and me as that child
from that other place,
mother tongue
desperately hanging on.
looking at them(our)selves
in the motherland
before arriving.
year’s later,
“i never felt like home here.”
he would tell me.
an immigrant story
the american dream
more struggle
than accomplishment.

the poems come now in waves.
one after the other
like a ten dollar bill
of jukebox songs,
some familiar
others surprises.
maybe i’ll write
the rest of my story
though these shabby
indifferent poems.
listening to cat power
drinking whisky with
cherries and bitters.
no stanza breaks
just spinning the wheel
betting on the next  
fortuitous line.
an extensive list of memories,
a rustling ego shoved
into a brain and a bag of guts.

the poems come now in waves.
making it impossible
to see the world
any other way.