Friday, November 11, 2005



fingers like claws

my legs my knees gripping

this is what we call

Midas Touch

grasping breath

or clutching shadows

at best an indifferent language

like abandonment

the brazen stranger in the mirror

nevertheless creative

I’m just furniture for your house

the knotty problem in the grain

drawing straws

Military and War DVDs

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Fog At Dawn


The gazals I memorized in school are ancient poems, somewhere between a fairy tale and a story of eternal longing. In the poems I read from Nizami, I could never imagine a young maiden trotting about on ordinary, mortal legs. Beautiful young maidens float inches above the ground. Either that, or they dance. Their arms and hands tell a story. Their eyes are mirrors. Their dance is pure metamorphosis - from flesh and blood into light, memory, and song.

Fog At Dawn

somewhere between fairy tale

and a story of eternal longing

an ordinary mortal

floating inches above the ground

your eyes spelling flesh and magic

you are relentlessly absorbing;

frost on ornamental gourds

hollow, precious, rattling ceremonial

the precious kiss

a river where history bends its knees

and my heart submerges

dark and violent

links to cool travel books