Poetry

Doesn't belong to poetry Why write the already written? You add nothing to it The hunger is irreconcilable Take the last bite Focus on the premise The irritation You are only half dead Narrow the issue even further The problem of the mind The solution is unethical Through the peephole The incumbent shadow is seen Sitting at the table cutting out cloth For a pair of trousers Its Monday best But now comes the cleft chin And teacup jitters

After the hillbound chase The lungs rest Filled with puddles Difficult to smell these blooms in the dark Or to hear the surf With the shell against my head This is the snake's time To be unhooked from the nest And walk to the sea In search of a star The last light of winter A cloud ceases to exist, wrung out The kidney filters the poison Even if the eggs do not hatch The birds shed no tears They peck and sing The long forgotten taboos die At the edge of spring Raindrops bounce Preparing the sauce for the first day Caterpillars pierce their own bodies So festive! I wriggle under my comforter Listening to the splash To my breath My pulse

Stop reading for a moment and let the name sink in: the most popular name in the world. But here it is not winning popularity contests, unless you are that certain man who walks and talks uncertainly He used to bob and weave and punch and duck. I never asked for it. They gave it to me. Now I own it like the color of my eyes, the calluses on my knuckles. Some people might say hey, change your name. I did that. For a while I was known as Anthony, a nice Italian boy. But soon the guilt swirled around me like a cloud of gnats. Mohammad was a responsibility, not a title. Being the only son in a Shiite Muslim family, I was referred to as a golden penis, a boy who one day as a man would lead a family and a community. I would never be Moe, one of the Stooges, none of that nosepinching-eyepoking stuff How do I feel about nine eleven? Ask me another one. All I know is that there were no concerts or telethons for the million dead (1980-1988) Iranis and Iraqis. It would be anti-patriotic to sing and call for them. You worry about your playgrounds and make theirs disappear. I am still Mohammad, Tall and handsome, Your would-be building-crumbler, Who has no point of origin, Who battles the desire to be caressed by violets, Whose own image gnarls his heart. Believe me, this is a love poem. Everyone deserves one. And when time comes for my better parts to lift off With knapsack and nosegay tucked under my wings, That pigeon will continue to tap Till someone opens a window and lets him in.

A balance sheet with no numbers Birth written under the word profit Death under loss I misplaced my pop gun Everything seems to reoccur In the land of loam clouds I found it again I shot teddy bear in the balls I shot him a hundred times Damn Teddy He wouldn't budge So I hung him from a tree A classic execution An example to all toys Not to sit and be silent Frightened, the pop gun has spoken Do not ask to be squeezed Ask to be dismantled Melted down into a medallion To wear around my neck Its cold touch on my chest forever I did it I resuscitated Teddy and let him go Sin no more You have three wishes Mohammad, I wish to be resuffocated To be put into a pillow case To be under your head at night It is for my own good Teddy, I will imagine you are my friend I know you want to play a part To export honey from Tajikistan Or just to make cubs In my dreams and their characters

When I attend my own roast in New York I will request your audience I love Irish whiskey We could share a flask Maybe go for a stroll Through the eastside everglades There are chimps there Veterans of the last great war A little like you and me Silly but with more facial hair I know I'm being presumptive As to the nature of your character But it's okay, these are only improvisations Running the changes of my middle-eastern blues