Letter To My First Born
Inspired by the 2pac song by the same name — a letter to you my son, Massimo. Love, baba.
Please Phở Give Me
Scrolling through my Twitter feed, I came across the latest accusation of racism. I must admit that there’s something of an alluring quality that subconsciously attracts my lizard brain when I see the word racist/racism. I bet the same neurons light up when I’m watching the postmodern American 2020 elections or the train wreck that is the “Tiger King” series on Netflix.
An Ode To My White Friends
I used to think that a rise in nationalism in the west was the reason why things have become so polarized. So tense. Talking politics at the dinner table was never good, but has it always been this bad? The truth is that it’s not the fear of foreigners that defines today’s zeitgeist, but rather a seemingly inconsolable disdain for our own compatriots within our own borders. In that spirit, here’s an ode written by my inner Putin. Or was it Khomeini? Don’t remember. Doesn’t matter. Whatever.
The Same Way
I wanted to see how micro-dosing psybicilin would affect my writing. A neighbour I met here in Maui offered a concoction of five different mushrooms to send me on my journey. Golden Teacher being the psybicilin, and the rest with other benefits I can’t remember now. Here’s where it took me. Or rather, how.
Eroded Crutches: Ethnic Pride and Its Discontents
In 1988, my family fled Iran to seek political asylum in Canada. I was 5 years old. When we arrived, we did what all desperate immigrants from war-torn countries do: we found our ethnic enclave and surrounded ourselves in it as much as possible to help ease the transition.
i promise ill betray u
i promise i’ll betray you
the more you hold on your to assumptions and emotions
the more i’ll play with you
i got a lotta things i want to say
i got a lotta things i want to say
so when you got nothing better
than to hear me mumble
the usual suspects,
the whole ensemble
Coffee & Bread
I’ve been waiting for this rain for days now…
It came down,
Like electricity overhead, the city
Felt magnetic, wet to the stem.
A Poet’s Last Wish
Imagine this,
Imagine the windows that I have made
The souls that I have traced
For I wouldn’t exist
If you don’t…
See the world that I have faced