248/365

how much of who we could have been
melted in the pot we were thrown into,
in those early days- new to the diaspora,
singing yankee doodle dandy, all of us
repercussions of american imperial yearning:
wide-eyed boys and girls from:
lao, vietnam, nicaragua, el salvador, haiti, iran
disappearing in the monocultural metaphor
for the heterogeneous society we witnessed
on the great eraser of selves-
leaving it to beaver and dreaming of genie,
ensuring otherness and denigration.
the only way to survive
disappearing into the white.

everywhere we went
we were together
marginalised and othered.
picnicking with our strange foods,
living blindly, unaware of the rules.

sometimes even the disappeared
can hear the echos of their ancestors’
voices, whispering in strange accents.
what they’re saying too foreign to be understood.
we are americans now with our tongues
coerced to recite the pledge of allegiance
and the merits of capitalism and melting pots.

234/365

i awoke from a fever dream
with my mother tongue
running rampant in my skull.

there are sounds i can make
that you cannot even imagine,
i’ve still somehow retained
the power of persian phonology,

complete with guttural stops
in the throat like a set of bareknuckle jabs
Gher- is a form of hip swaying
while dancing, it can include veshkan-
a form of finger snapping like a fire cracker
 gherdadan- this act of dance can include the eyes
and a bobbing of the neck-
it’s a full bodied seduction.

but it can also be light and done in jest.
famlies gather in circles, each member
dances in the middle, lost in their own
reverie and ability to rouse the viewers.

as a boy i found these scenes difficult
and embarrassing in company,
the roots of homophobia setting roots.
me paranoid to be myself,
except when i was alone and channeling
robert smith, admiring almond eye and olive skin.

these identities are infinite nesting dolls
we carry with us and never unpack.

152/365

the sperry top-sider
is the show of
white supremacy.
particularly the
genuine handcrafted
chocolate moccasin
with turmeric coloured
rawhide laces,
luxurious materials and finishes
and rich lambskin linings.
with elevated craftsmanship
and premium materials
this was the footwear
of assimilation,
at least in nineteen eighty six
at division middle school
in marin county, california.

the sperry top-sider was
the shoe of
the cool kid.
the rich kid.
the accepted kid.
the white kid.
glenwood
peacock gap
country club
yatch clubs
and golf clubs
sailing clubs
and tennis clubs.

the sperry top-sider
was what you wore
to sit with the right group
at lunch with the expensive
sparkling juice:
passion fruit kola
not capri sun,
kudos bars and sushi
not whatever leftovers
the foreign kid,
they sometimes called
the sand nigger,
brought to school
in tupperware
that looked like diarrhoea
but was actually stew
made from walnuts and
pomamgrante syrup.
the kids who wore
the sperry top-sider
never brought rice to school.

the sperry top-sider was
the shoe of kids
with inheritances
and accumulated wealth,
parents who owned homes
and investment portfolios,
they saved in retirement accounts,
and took trips to tahoe,
they ate dinners at scoma’s
in sausalito and owned two cars.

the sperry top-sider
is the show of
white supremacy.
and in seventh grade
there was nothing
i wouldn’t do to get a pair.

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.