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Solidarity as Utility

Can we unanimously agree on something?

Without qualifiers or determiners

Without prefaces or modals

Without which, but, if, why, how

Hold on

Let’s stop at the how.

How can we unanimously agree on something,

if we can only feel it?

If a word is uttered

And climbs into another’s mouth,

Does it become food for the spirit?

If a thought flutters by the ear,

Is it music to the mind?

If a feeling is shared in an opiatic moment,

Does the body remember?

How can we unanimously agree

If we are all missing our key utility?

When emigre  finds other diasporas creating esprit de corps.

When harmonious cohesion acknowledges both Fernweh and Hiraeth.

When Merak allows for lefargen.

How can we unanimously agree

When we are exhausted by the senseless violence?

Infuriated with the non-believers

Betrayed by our supposed allies

Trapped in a continued state of malneirophrenia.

This is our only viable option.

Solidarity as utility.

Performing several functions

Advancing our viabilities

Connecting our consensus

Through camaraderie

Materializing our mutual loyalty

Surviving the unscrupulous spectators

Witnessing and jeering at our pains and struggles

So my question for you

Is no longer how

Nor why, which, where, what,



When solidarity is our unanimous utility,

How can we ever not avail?

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“Violent Green Synthesis,” Velvet Pipe Tobacco,” & “Vehemently Voracious”
Picture Show Press: V: An Anthology of Poetry (2019)

Velvet, vixen, villain, vinyl, veil … This powerful anthology contains poems that primarily explore naming, love, #metoo, wordplay, and nostalgia.

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Is This What Bravery Feels Like?

Is this what bravery feels like?

Crying in the middle stall of the Schönefeld  airport

Missing you dearly and not regretting a moment, decision, or choice.

Is this what bravery feels like?

Life in two suitcases

One abused violin

and objects left behind never to be reclaimed.

Is this what bravery feels like?

Denying the handouts

Living in an abandoned warehouse

Sleeping on pallets

because your parents said,

“You chose to be that way.”

Is this what bravery feels like?

Ending a marriage of 20 years

To live in a one room apartment

Racking up debt from never having worked a day in your life

Children visiting every other weekend

Loving you, hating you, never understanding you.

Is this what bravery feels like?

Shaving your head to hide in a basement bar

With foreign tongues lapping your ear for language

As you drink piss tasting piña coladas.

Is this what bravery feels like?

Period sex and discarded tampons

Clots clambering down your leg

Wondering where all the bleeding was truly coming from.

Is this what bravery feels like?

Loving this

Hating this

Living this

Licking this

Just a little taste

And wondering

Is this what bravery feels like?

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Time Touched Lover

Lulled shivers

of post-coitus sighs

from fur quake

exhaling soft rings.

Cellulite stretches and

a mole marked majora

wrinkled smiles

of a stretched perineum

and receding scrotum

curling behind terse

grey hairs.

My time touched lover,

we are orgasms in stillness.

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Why Hello There

It seems that you have stumbled upon this site, for which I have no answer as to why you are here. All I have for you are more questions. Questions upon questions upon questions. So, if you don’t want to think, or you expect some kind of answer, then run little one. Run very quickly away. For this is not the place for you, and you have stumbled into an ever expanding mind with no foreseeable exit.

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“5:33AM 1987”

It was never going to happen. It was never supposed to happen, but his eyes opened. The heart monitor flatlined as he unplugged himself. Legs weak from dystrophy, they bowed beneath the weight of him. He toppled into a wheelchair reacclimating himself to being alive again.

Where was it coming from? The window was left open and the song was falling from the sky.

The hospital was hollow and the note drops echoed loudly on the roof. He climbed steps his muscles having forgotten how to do so. Forwards and upwards. Pushing the emergency bar to the roof, he was greeted by the the coarse morning air, and there she was, almost translucent. Hospital gown blowing in the moonlight, pale and thin, the waning moon radiated through her.

Stumbling forward behind his words, “I’ve been asleep.”

She turned around, eyes pressed deep into her skull, hollow cheeks, and skin wrapped tight over degenerating muscles. She looked into his eyes, “I refuse to die from this disease.”

She turned around, looked over her shoulder, “Welcome to this world,” and jumped.

Post-Punk T-Mec

Madeline’s coffeehouse was wrecked. Just like the community center had been, only this was much worse because we knew Steve, Mike, Joe, okay whatever his name was, well we used to know him. But he knew us and, he had no idea what we are going to do. We were bored. We were pissed. And we took it out on Madeline’s. The guitar feedback rippled the windows, and the drums vibrated the hubcap display in the automotive shop next-door. Word spread by mouth and with 12 homemade flyers letters taped like a ransom note, “Come or else.” Jacked on Monster energy drinks and the adrenaline of being out past curfew, we gave it our all, and took everything Madeline’s had. Banisters broken into batons, chairs splintered, and tables were crowd surfed right out of the building. The cowards in the parking lot hovered by their cars. 100 stood in a place for 45 pulsating and pumping as the bassist fingered the fret. Even our clothes rejected the compressed heat sloughing off our bodies. 27 minutes later, the cops showed up, we fled, leaving the tragedy of Madeline’s one punk stand behind us.

Concrete Reign

The rain on concrete smells like Iran.

A memory so faint

that while I hear the words and understand the melody

I cannot speak them.

For you see,

I have been assimilated.

Told as a child that foreign words

and voracious tongues

eagerly lapping up every sound was a deficit,


how could you succeed in this society with such a deficit?

They took my mother tongue and

left me lisping English.

They took my internal conversation

and made it an eternally misspoken monologue.


have been successfully assimilated.

Olive scrubbed white

linguistically castrated

socially isolated

sitting between my families chatting away in Farsi

realizing that I am not a part of the critical conversation.

realizing that the family stories and memories die with me

because I cannot understand them

and thus,

they cannot live in me

and I cannot spread this genealogy.

They die with me

first-generation assimilated.

In the U.S., they did this with the native children.

Took them from their tribes,

cut their hair,

and educated them.

Force-feeding a foreign tongue

until they were regurgitating legal adults

deemed useless

and sent back to a place they didn’t recognize

to a family eager to embrace them

but their world would die in their tribe

and they would forever be an inland outsider.

And that, you see, is what it means to be

an assimilated American.

Shivering in Malfunction

The frustration of living in constant pain to the point of temporary paralysis (oh trust me! Old lefty has crapped out on me quite a few times) while your entire buddy is spasming and cramping as you are desperately on the internet looking for any masseuse or physical therapist that is open or SHIT! even taking appointments in the next 48 hours realizing that there is no one available for you and you have to succumb to creating a Rude Goldberg machine of tennis balls, pool noodle tubes, foam rollers, contorting your body on them in such a way as to stop the spasm, loosen the muscle, and regain feeling back in your numb limbs.


But this time
there is no
or regaining
as I lay there for over an hour
on this bed of therapeutic nails
muscles refusing to contort
shivering in their malfunction
hesitating just above their muscular reset.

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