364/365

feels so right in the moment
clutching the mic stand like an anchor:
a jump, a headbang, a thrust
total freedom like in your room
at eight, ten, twelve, eighteen, twenty four
and so on and so on. a bottle of wine
at your feet and enough songs in your throat
to warrant applause. the little voice, gone
from your head, under the lights: the one
asking the obvious questions: am i good enough?
will they like me? is this cool or pathetic: us
up here, missing fifty, playing rock stars.

there are moments- eyes closed, spinning,
riding the bassline, drum beat pounding, searing
quitar solo, when you let go and quiet the voice,
there is no play acting, there is no doubt. only
a fierce freedom too hot not to trust. there is no
choice but to let yourself burn and sing. a voice
committed to rock and roll in a small room to a small
crowd will always be a beautiful thing.

354/365

look at all these bodies:
tanned and taught
white and burned, flabby
and loose. young and old
fresh and faded- carrying
us in and out of the sea.
stuffed with food and drink
only to shit it out to start again.
flexing, sucking in, and pushing out.

having washed the salt from his hair
a quiet one sings a familiar song at home,
whispering over inaudible chords:
flyin' mother nature's silver seed
to a new home in the sun.

satisfaction was never
meant to be so byzantine.
folding ourselves inside out  
hoping that maybe the inside
feels more comfortable
on the outside. and these
rest ready husks rejuvenate
closer to the heart
and other vital organs.

352/365

we are driving a few miles
out of our way to see the bridge
that was in natural born killers.
somewhere in new mexico
on the way to taos with laura
and her friends from mills
playing korn and discussing
second wave feminism while
i drink beers in the back,
blowing smoke out the window-
something takes a part of me
something lost and never seen-
on our way to a rainbow gathering.

her septum: pierced.
my hair: monthold bleach job.
hair on their legs and pits.
is that bobby mcgee on the radio?
you know feelin' good
was good enough for me.

we’ll spend
a few days
sharing a tent
in the foothills
holding hands in large circles,
campfires like ewok villages,
naked folk on horseback,
drums and guitars,
flowers and patchouli.  

can’t remember—
how
where
when
why
i was asked
to tag along,

laying there
under the stars
absolutely certain
that dropping my classes
at the college of marin
was the single best decision
of my life up to that point.

can't they chill
and let me be free?
freedom's just another word
for nothin' left to lose:

all songs blur into one
on a constant loop
echoing through time.

audible
even now.
in the quiet.

322/365

there is not enough music
on the hamster wheel.
sure there are the twenty minutes a day:
fumbling through chords,
climbing up and down incoherent scales,
and yes there are the three hours a week
bashing out hits with the band,

but where are the ear goggles?
the full album play on vinyl?

the parties where we just sat
in the darkness near a fire
getting lost together in that verse
this chorus, the bridge, a solo.

everything is off kilter
when music is relegated
to the background.

the songs swallow us whole
sonic osmosis keeping us sane.

303/365

maybe we’re in the car
just you and me driving you
to a friend’s house to celebrate
halloween and spend the night.
maybe i feel pretty hopeful
for the first time in weeks
noticing the density of the clouds
and how the sun makes the hood
shimmer and maybe you say that
one of the reasons you want a car and
to learn how to drive is to listen to loud
music and maybe i say that is definitely a top
five reason and maybe we listen to sublime,
bob marley, nirvana and pearl jam and maybe
i hold back tears while singing along,
one day the symptoms fade. think i’ll throw
these pills away and if hope could grow
from dirt like me. it can be done and maybe
i don’t want the drive to end and maybe i
want to say more, but i pretend like the lyrics
are enough and maybe i need to tell my parents
i love them when i speak to them and find ways
to make them happy and maybe it’s enough
to write this all down, wrap it in a book
and give it to you when i’m gone.

298/365

everyone is out.
to classes or working:
mary lane is empty
but for gabe and me.
the san diego sun
drowns our living room
in a lattice of beams.
i’ve chosen to cut class today
to listen to mellon collie
and the infinite sadness.
it will become the soundtrack
to the end of nineteen ninety five
and much of nineteen ninety six.
twenty six years ago:
we’re twenty one years old:
unencumbered and impetuous.
the introductory piano lines
an open door to twenty eight songs
running the gamut between
the sacred and profane.
jason will hate most of it and complained
loudly and often about corgan’s whiny voice
and the rat in a cage line.
never one to champion victimhood,
one assumes he felt the band
lacked integrity or grit.
knowing the job like obstacles
he had cleared even then,
i can see why he might
not respect a pasty bald narcissist.  
but not me- i crawled into those songs
and hid behind the wall of sound
treating each tune like a nest
in which to find shelter,
from which to jump.

gabe and i spent the whole
day with the songs:
in the yard, on the floor,
in his car, on walks to the taco place,
it was dark and night
when we finally powered off:

the sun shines but i don't
a silver rain will wash away
and you can't tell, it's just as well
goodnight, my love, to every hour in every day
goodnight, always, to all that's pure that's in your heart.

the songs
remain embedded
in the ventricles.
held in place
by the loose
tapestry of memory.

271/365

do you see us
up near the barrier?
got here early to
manifest our devotion-
hear how loud we sing.
we know every word.
notice us absorbed,
admire our knowledge
of the catalogue.
soon we will loose
our boots, feet in the air
moshing. surfing. wanting
to be adored and passed around
knocked down and picked up.
we want to be loved as
we are beautiful
alone and together.
a ripped shirt,
scratched with bruises,
our shared sweat
the conductor keeping
us together. connected.
look at us
reveling in this youth,
nothing to lose but these
worthless possessions.
how could we know
this won’t last forever
when we don’t trust
anything we are told?
how could we know
how fragile life will become?
when tonight in this smoke,
under these lights
between the waves of
bass, drums and guitar
we are indestructible pure bliss-
flammable and threatening inferno.   

we want to be loved as
we are beautiful.
look at us.
we need you to notice.

221/365

they’re running.
the light casting shadows
the color of honey.
a flimsy blonde breeze
cuts the tropical heat,
making the evening bearable.

they’re running.
father and daughter
four point nine eight
kilometers tonight
through the park
on a national holiday.
they dodge babies
in strollers, runners,
and toddlers on bikes.

they’re running.
she begrudgingly at fifteen
he sanguine at middle age.
it’s getting easier.
she walks less.
less defiant.
gives him control
of the music
more often.

they’re running.
passed the flags
the ocean beyond,
littered with wind surfers
and tanker ships.
songs from his youth
and his current band’s set list
push them forward.

they’re running.
some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
leavin' on a southern train
only yesterday
you lied
promises
of what i seemed to be

they’re running.
almost home.
point two kilometres left.
let’s run this as fast as we can,
he pleads. she starts
to pick up speed.
is this a race? will he catch her?
they awkwardly high five
in the end. something has changed.

they’re
running.
togther.

215/365

there’s only so long you
can burn trauma as fuel
before even the smoke and ash
have long since blown away
and new seedlings litter
the scars with a carpet
of optimistic foliage  

walking the street
in your nondescript neighborhood
to a friend’s house for beer, wine and darts,
the sun setting and the music
tugging at all the right chords.

i almost started crying.
not sure from joy or sadness
or from knowing that i’ll never
get this poem just right.

nostalgia is a gut punch
soothed by hope and gratitude
that we are somehow still alive
and full of every idealistic promise
we ever made in the darkness when alone.

187/365

most of us have issues
with miracles
or maybe it’s just me,
but all we really need
is a healthy dose
of live music.

even in pandemic times.
especially in pandemic times.

watch the stage:
notice the bass player making those faces
listen for the drum fills
wow, her voice is just what we needed
what’s he doing with his pinky on the third fret
of that d chord?

feet tapping,  
community,
applause,
a journey to that place
we all belong.

familiar songs
sung in shared
consciousness.  

most of us have issues
with miracles
when we really shouldn’t
in the presence
of stages
and bands
and friends
and the phenomenon
of vibrating strings
rhythm
and the manipulation
of a few simple notes,
made a new
every time
someone chooses
to sing
and we choose to listen.

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?

140/365

my daughters find

new music on tik tok

for which i am grateful,

although they consume

music song-by-song,

like careless partygoers

sampling hors d'oeuvres.

there’s a method

to being consumed by

an infectious sound:

start with a band’s

first or last album,

and listen to every song

through in order,

hard choices were made

in the sequence,

then do it again and again

and again

at least three times.

do not skip the songs

you didn’t love,

let them stew and steep.

if you started with their latest

go back to their first,

if you started with their first

now listen to their latest,

you will work toward the middle

depending on the depth

of the catalogue.

(play your favourite songs

ten fifteen times in a row)

find the lyrics and study them.

watch a few videos

and live clips

find acoustic versions of electric songs

and electric version of acoustic version.

see if they have a tiny desk show.

read their wikipedia page

and explore the website,

find and name their influences

pinpoint their place in music history

follow them on social media.

tell everyone you know

how great they are and

promote your favorite songs.

look up the tabs and strum

the intro to your favourite song.

fan is short for fanatic.

don’t cut corners.

singles are for rookies.

music is a lifestyle

not a hobby.

134/365

we played music
tonight,
rock and roll.
complying with the laws,
keeping everyone safe.
bass. drums. guitars. me.
not sure how to be the front man,
when everyone is finally staring at me,
jump around. bang the tambourine.
stare off into the lights.
belt out the chorus.
ignore the looks.
don’t make eye contact.
make eye contact,
you’ve seen how it’s done
your whole life,
grab that microphone
and let out everything
that’s inside you.
we played music
tonight,
rock and roll.

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.

108/365

he will leave them an old
beard comb saturated
with oils that smell of
wood and bergamot,
like something out of
moby dick
made ancient
in moderns times
through shear will
and nostalgia.

he will leave them
a life time of books
diagnosed with mold
and pregnant with
highlighted passages:
hope and clues
and all the anchors
he thought could
tie him down.
or were they wings
to be used for other reasons?

he will leave them his guitars
practised and well-worn,
short of accomplishment
or mastery, but brimming
with desire and expectations.

he will leave them a
box of photos
and old journals,
useless momentos
and keepsakes
of memories he cherished:
pictures of him in childhood.
and reckless youth.
a few of their grandparents
sepia memories of iran
a universe away.

he will leave them
.docs and .jpgs
and .movs
and half baked poems
which they can use
like fungal filaments
singular hyphae branches
strung together into
a mycelial network
to make sense of the
space he left behind.

he will leave them.

84/365

famous blue raincoat
is the past, present and future
all in one go:

sitting by a fire
a bottle of wine in hand
staring at the crackling frenzy
dying down to a murmuring
bed of exothermic repose.
he can’t see me
curled up on the couch
pretending
to be a sleep.

a childhood
built on
perpetually
spinning
records.

here.
now.
tired.

i hope you’re keeping
some kind of record.

someday
we’ll even look back
on these uneventful nights
with youthful nostalgia.

the body older
and the song
a witness to a life
beyond time.

68/365

hey dad, “look what i learned.”
she strums a ukulele and sings a folk song.
the other one hones a riff she’s caught
like a melodic disease
on the lost guitar
i restrung over the weekend,
which is now her’s and lives in her room.

that’s six guitars and a ukulele in the house.

back to the first one,
playing an arpeggio on the keyboard.
we might need a mandolin or
an old french music box.
hard to imagine the sounds
one can make
without the instruments at hand
to make them.

“time for bed.”
“one more song please.”
“i want the lights off in five minutes.”
the last song takes the tiny stage of her bed.
i let her play it a few times,
because i do not underestimate
the weight of a quiet song
sang softly to oneself.

in the living room,
the day’s been long
tending to other people’s children.
i tend the ledger of my own parenting
hoping i’m in the black.

24/365

everything i learned from my dad, i learn through song lyrics
often late at night in drunken reverie, sometimes on sunday
mornings

always at high volume, coupled with a lithe jig, or maestro arms
fanning the music, throughout the house, passed the fire and into
me

i couldn’t help but remember, this morning, feeding the cats
avoiding them as they howled, and skirted beneath my
feet

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 

8/365

i didn’t want to play music.

lurking around the house:
taking down decorations,
fighting allergies or a cold.
keeping tabs on the news.

a quick run in the rain
up and down a few hills.

but I grabbed a few left over beers
and a half a bottle of wine.

I wore the fat cords I bought on
Haight street
and worked up a leading man swagger.

drums. bass, guitar.
change every mood.

by the end….screaming;

“some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses.”

felt like the truest thing in my whole life.

got lost in little india walking home
trying to find a cab.

cold pizza.
safe bed.
ringing in the ears.

Mr. Wilson Rant

Listen you little prepubescent pustule, I don’t know if you know this or not, but my overall taste and musical knowledge is cooler and more extensive than anything you and your pop music zombie friends might recognise during your current developmental stage. You might think that Charlie Puth and Shawn Mendez are the poets of your generation, while crooning their sappy pop-love songs and tallying likes on Youtube, but I got news for you: being “discovered” on youtube, does not a voice of a generation make. No amount of auto tune and computerised drum beats will make their music comparable to say…watching Rage Against The Machine open for House of Pain in the early nineties.

A little musical history lesson might be in order, because you need to understand the linage and connection every artist has to a past artist. I’m not saying that Imagine Dragons are a watered-down genre blending piece of garbage that passes for rock and roll, don’t put words in my mouth, I’m just saying that you might want to do some decade hopping to see what else is out there.
Get punched in the face by a Black Sabbath riff.  Watch some youtube clips of Jim Morrison. Dance across the keyboard of a Greg Allman jam. Rock not your thing. Lose yourself in the Sam Cooke catalogue. Take a dip into the eighties with The Cure and follow the trail from Depeche Mode to Nine Inch Nails. Research Patti Smith, Neil Young and The Clash.

Don’t roll your eyes when I play The Beastie Boys in class, while you listen to Ariana Grande, and look at me like I am some out of touch old foggie. I’ve seen Public Enemy and Wu Tang Clan live, not to mention Bob Dylan and Paul Simon. I rocked the Woodstock mosh pit when The Rollins Band made the sky empty it bowels in thunder and lightening. I’ve seen Pink Floyd on two separate tours and have seen Pearl Jam nearly ten times.

It might do you some good to trust that I might know a thing or two about music, pop culture and the state of the world beyond your basic twelve year old “appreciation” of Drake an Kendrick Lamar. I’ve probably seen more hours of live music added up than your entire lifespan.

I’m not saying that you’re taste is garbage and mine is perfect, but I am saying that your attitude of superiority is embarrassing  you. I know that it’s cool for young people to think that old people are lame. I was young once too, but once thing that they don’t tell you is that things that are old are not uncool by their very nature. What came from the passed influences everything in the present and eventually the future. The sooner you can look beyond the top 40 of your generation and start connecting the dots, the sooner you will be exposed to an entire tapestry of music and culture.
And you have the internet and youtube. You are one click away from watching a live Queen show to Nirvana in an arena or a small club. You are a generation with access to audio clips from Nina Simone to Morcheeba, you can do better than only listening to the latest Cardi B. song.

Is this rant the equivalent to Mr. Wilson yelling at the kids to get off his lawn? Probably, but I rant from love. Your taste in music can be more than what your friends deem cool. Dig, explore, follow the rabbit holes, make the connections between The Strokes and The Velvet Underground, from Elliott Smith to The Beatles.

Someday you will be at a party in university and you might remember this rant as the first time you heard many of these names, and I hope you take a moment to be grateful that there was one voice from your pre-adolescence that tried to guide you in the right direction at an early age. Or you can ignore everything I just said and follow your own path and discover your own sounds, because nothing is more powerful and important than youth.