157/365

he was a bit
of a shepherd
to the weird
and lonely—
my dad was,

such is the way
of the elders
in a diaspora,
but he was only
thirty seven
and a bit too distracted
to tend to his own flock,

but they gravitated
to our house
like errant space debris
pulled into his orbit,
on friday nights,
they emptied
bottles of vodka
with mast-o khiar,
red wine,
maybe a few tightly
rolled joints,
maybe more
after i slept.
 
they stayed up late
these young lost persians,
debating the virtues
of communism,
or the role of the cia
in sabotaging iran
and dispelling us all
into this heartless
capitalist pit.
on any given night
pink floyd might be
the soundtrack of choice,
or revolutionary john lennon,
but the night inevitably  
became mired in  
dariush eghbali:
        i am of the plagued eastern tribe
        you are of the glass clear city in the west
        my skin is the material of night,
        your skin is red velvet.
        my body is full of blisters,
        your skin is of tiger skin.

how many years
could they avoid
their self-pity?
to what solution(s)
might they be headed?

one year, one
of them
disappeared
for awhile
and returned
hairless.

i was told
the stress
was too much
for him to cope with
and all of his hair
had fallen out:
scalp, arms, eyebrows, lashes,
beard, whiskers, all of it.

i dared not ask
what kind of stress
would do that to a man,
but from that day
forward i knew
that i would
not be a sheep
in need of a shepherd.
i would never be the
kind of immigrant
that would
let america
do that to me.

in farsi
zendan means prison
and zende means alive,
zendegi means life
and zendooni means prisoner.
what chance do any of us have?

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.

26/365

in his dark blue metallic mercedes benz
that glittered like a velvet jewel—
with its light coffee creme interior
and the top down
and the tape deck
and the automatic windows
in 1983
i was american.

in our shiny lime volkswagen bug
that grumbled like a broken neon sign—
with its walnut faux leather interior
and the sputtering exhaust
and the staticky speakers
and the hand cranked windows
in 1983
i was foreign.

he was hi fi
we were lo fi
he was guess and reebok
we were no name and no brand
he was steaks and restaurants
we were fesenjoon and picnics
he was american gigalo and blonde
we were bob dylan and john lennon
he was white carpets and girlfriends
we were shag and family
he owned
we rented
he was american
we were foreign.

perhaps we only feel
the post traumatic stress disorder
of assimilation
miles after childhood.

One More Game

I was pretty gross today and by “pretty gross” I mean totally gross, and unfortunately my repulsive behavior felt pretty great.


I never showered and on days when I don’t shower, I always feel a certain film of yesterday that has no place on today. Woke up late, around ten again, and we were off to the park for some coffee and a croissant. (I have four more days of Vegan cheating and then 2017 will be a year of staunch militancy.)


From there I took our car to the shop to fix the AC and cabbed back home. Mairin stayed at the park with the kids for longer than we all expected, so I was home alone for much of the afternoon. I finished The One and Only Ivan and started the latest Zadie Smith book. This was the highlight of my day and the most productive I would be.


The rest of the day was all sloth and gluttony. At one point I popped a giant zit, twice, and was shocked by its contents. Too much information? Sorry about that, but you can’t tell me that you have never been grossed out by the contents of your body. Life ain’t always instagram filters- sometimes you are disgusting.


Made the kids a late lunch and we all lazed around the house for a while, before I went back and picked up the car. A lower than we expect cost had us all pretty happy.


Then Mairin took the kids to a friend’s house and I was alone again. The sun was setting and it felt fine to re-enter the world of The Division on X-box.


As a new adult gamer, I can see the lure and addiction these games have for our middle school kids. If I didn’t feel guilty or know any better, I could easily spend hours in the narratives of these games. After an hour of trying to secure the police precinct in Brooklyn, I gave up. I couldn’t seem to secure the parking lot from those four rioter, looter, zombie types.


Then I did what I have been wanting to do since 1992- I bought Madden 2017. Yup, I am a teenager again, and oh boy have the graphics changed. I went through the training camp and practice and then got killed by the Chiefs. Of course I am Derek Carr and the Raiders. Then I had a pretty resounding win against the Broncos.


So for people keeping score, my day:

• woke up
• ate
• dropped off car
• read
• slept
• picked up car
• played The Division
• played two games of Madden

Then the kids came home. Got their eyes on Madden and Kaia made some good play calls and Skye actually threw a TD to Crabtree.


Since the kids ate out, I ordered one of my final McDonald meals. The four day window is closing fast. There will be zero McDonalds in 2017, not even fries.


Playing video games and eating fast food- if this is not the American Dream, I don’t know what is. It felt great and lazy and full of sloth. But it is not something I would want to maintain, but I can see how people become obsessed and entranced by it. A steady diet of sugar and salt and a dopamine enduced escape from reality- that is a scary combination.


I’ve got big plans for 2017 in terms of productivity, so I need to come up with a structured plan for how I will contain my X-Box habit. This will have a profound effect on how the kids interact with it as well.


At the moment, it is new and shiny and exciting so we are all gorging a bit, but I am sure I will need to set some pretty strong boundaries for anyone who picks up a controller. As an educator, it has been eye-opening to jump into this world. I can’t believe I was able to stay away for so long.


For you gamers out there, how do you set boundaries? When and how often do you play?


And if you are gamer or a sports fan in Singapore when are you coming over for a Madden game?


It is 10:22pm…one more game won’t kill anyone right?