For When You Need To Go – It’s OK.

For Loren B.

 

When I was
younger than today
I sat at the edge of the night
and plunged myself
into the night’s dark mouth,
and fell for three winters.
and then suddenly
I came to a halt
in the depth of
4000 meters,
from a string attached
to my waist.

I am older now,
and my eyes have learned
how to sing,
and my heart is wide
open
like the gates of heaven on the
promised day.
but there’s
a mark on my chest
that looks
like the stars
of that night.

when I wake up
tomorrow
I will walk as far
as I could,
and then when I
can’t walk further,
I will burst
open,
like the cherry blossoms
in the hands of spring.

And now
you are lost
and I see you packing your bags,
to go sit on the edge of the night
to pass through the valley of silence,
to be afloat in the space.

I will be honest with you,
the cosmic storms will cut your
beautiful skin
and you will bleed.
and the night will tremble
in pain,
silence will stare at you from every corner,
windows will be restless,
eating will be difficult,
and don’t even bother with sleeping,
or looking at yourself in the mirror.

It’s ok.
I know you must despair,
and I know you must go,
but don’t forget
that you are here.
that we are here.
and life is here.
Take my name
spin in to a string
and tie it to your waist.

I will pull you back,
when you need me to.
now go on
break your heart
so that it never closes again.

3.26.18
D.C.

Where I Live.

You are beautiful again,
time is just before the first fire,
I am chopping wood,
and we are talking about love.
you tell me
time is an unfaithful lover,
and laugh at my struggle
in splitting the wood.

I live in a house
made out of the redwoods and
purple dreams,
all my lonely days are
neatly organized by the window,
next to my books
and flowers.

You are mixing the fire
and asking me questions
like, if color gray feels sad,
& if gold gets tired of all the attention
it gets. I’m laying on back
on the turquoise rug
my parents gave me
and feeling my skin getting warmer.

Your voice is
gently caressing my head,
and I tell you I want to build a house
in your eyes,
in their chaos,
and when you stare at me,
and I see a green field
under a blue sky.

you say we should take a bath,
and wash ourselves
from all the weight we carry.
You filled the tub,
we throw away our names,
and let the time flow.

we dip our toes first,
and then slip into kindness,
you are beautiful,
& I live in your eyes.

1.25.18
Washington, D.C.

Soft rain.

Soft rain.

One gets lost pondering sometimes
When the rain falls
Softly on his head
And when he has no plans
To take shelter.

One asks these questions to himself,
“When am I going to write my poem
about a soft rainfall?”
and a voice from insides
whispers

“now “

——-“now”

—————–“n

———————o

————————-w.”

and words,
as if descending
from heavens
land on his eyes
and he cries them inward
and they fall from his fingers
ever so softly onto the pages.

 

Just like the rain
On that October morning.
P.
10.29.17
Washington, D.C.

Letter To You

Hello!
I am writing
to inquire about
your well-being
and your recent encounter
with loneliness.

You wrote to me recently:
“I am looking out of the window
and I can see
behind the curtain of rain
and fog
sensitiveness is welling up
and eerily long fingers
of sorrow
are creeping up my neck
and pushing me against
my own ideas of being.”

As I read those
words
in the heart of the
amber colored Manhattans

I thought about
what I should tell you.

Yes my dear,
Eerily
long fingers has
the loneliness.

Now,
these words that
I am writing to you
are no consolation
but
I
am unable
to do anything else
besides offering you
my unrealized tears
under the crushing
heaviness of
Historia Melancholia,
and many chapters of it
covering
all of us.

Forgive me,
but
I, too, am lonely
as a plastic bag caught in the wind
on a fall afternoon
in Tehran,
and
perhaps
you will never
witness
my
loneliness
this is why
I am writing you this.

I know
You said
you are crushed
by
this irrational sense
of loneliness
that comes often
in the mornings
and presses against your
beautiful chest
until
the night falls.

I know this,
feeling –
for I travel through the night often
and feel,
naked
in the hands of
the morning.

And
I have things to tell you
about waking up
in the vastness
of the mornings
in which everyone
seems to know what they
are doing.
This frightens me.

I cry out
into mornings
out of an “unbearable”
agony
dipped in a syrupy
“lightness of being”
and all this
is as absurd
as my own thoughts &
existence in the
mornings.
I cry
cry
cry
into the silhouette of
empty men
and women in
business casual clothing
who move briskly
through streets of this and
all the “great” cities
who gaze at the day
with a purpose
no other than
the mechanic
form of existence
of being useful.

Men and women
whom are envious
of my schedule
who despise my drinking
who mock my inexhaustible energy
at nights
who envy the stories I gather from nights
yet never ever even
for once
want to take part in them
without knowing
how lonely they make me.

Oh my dear,
everyone &
every atom of ever living thing
that has lost
its gratitude
for solitude
and preciousness of living
makes me lonely
even myself.

I know
letters should be
without
confusing points
and insane demands
and requests for pity,
so I’ll write again;

Hello there!
I am well,
It’s Monday,
Manhattans are dark in color
sharp in taste,
and I am tending my garden,
my mushrooms of loneliness are
growing healthy,
awaiting you
to harvest them.

Peyman
Washington, D.C.
4.24.17

No. 19 Cloud

No. 19 Cloud

Like the music

               that was never made

like the road
               that was never taken
like the cloud
               that never rained.
I live my life feverishly
in a desire to remember
who
      I
        truly was
                            before
my parents gave me
this name
            that I carry in my mouth.
Peyman
10.19.17
Washington, D.C.

No. 17 Graceful

No. 17 Graceful

For Isabelle No. 1
Everything you do,
you do it with that natural style
of a flower blossoming
or a cat leaping from the table
                                                  to the couch.
Everything you do,
you do it with that natural style.
From making the strings
of your cello quiver
between your legs,
(The legs that I have found gardens of desire,
and laid between them in fever and in bliss)
to getting ready in the morning
(to go to work
after we have drank so much
that I can smell the whiskey in the room)
Everything you do is
mischievous
and graceful at the same time,
like the angels
presenting their
final art project to gods.

 

Peyman
10.19.17
Washington D.C.

No. 16 Fat

No. 16 Fat
Every time I pass by
a donut shop
smell of coffee
and the frying oil
and all the pink boxes
straight out a bad cop movie
made in the late 90s
I want to scream,
don’t do it,
that fat is not good for you,
then I step in
and when I leave
there’s that powdered sugar
on my face,
and the high you get
from sugar and carb
and I forget all about the trouble
and when I wake up
there are hungry people outside the shop.
America
how did you fail,
America what went wrong
and how did you forget
about Detroit?
why isn’t she getting the
pink box
and the coffee holder
delivered to her no more?
Peyman
10.19.17
Washington, D.C.

Prayer

My dear,

I have asked the sun to give you a kiss when you wanted a kiss next time.  And the moon sitting in the sky ever so lazily, I have asked her to watch over you, when you are walking home alone at night. The wind shall carry lavender smell that you like so much to you, and may the light posts hum a little tune to you when the silent of the loneliness starts to hurt your beautiful ears. The trees, I have asked them to give you their bodies to lean on, and their roots shall remind you of the heavenly connections that we are.

Oranges, I told them to peel easily for you, and taste not too sweet nor too tart, just right. Avocados, they owed me one, so I have told them to repay by staying a little longer on your breakfast table, they said “sure” and gave me a nod. Flowers, I have asked them to lean forward, when you want to smell them, and if you ever wander off the beaten path you shall find an earth wearing a skin same color as mine wearing a coat made of soft moss who shall be waiting for you to show you secrets that only birds know of.  My dear, I have asked the hand that draws the figures in the sky to always remind you to be whimsical. And please never forget a broken heart is better than a heart that is hard and has never been broken, for what is broken can be fixed, but what is dead cannot love. And above all, I have asked this life and the ones you have yet to live to always give you chances to love and to let go and to love again! This is my only prayer for you and i.

Peyman

Washington, D.C.
10.11.17

6 – Sword

Who is calling my name

so relentlessly
Standing
on the edge of the night?
their
voice,
sharp as the damascus sword,
is slicing my dreams.
why are they not letting me sleep?
Don’t they know,
sleep is the only country
that I am allowed to love you.
So here I am,
awake as light post,
with a sleepy mouth
chanting your name
against my own.
10.6.17
Washington, D.C.
Peyman