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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.