A Life, Objectively
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: December 1, 2006

it began with dethroned roses
soft pink petals that removed themselves over three days
on the fourth, the stem stood naked
limping crudely towards the left
his object no longer carried affection
it was wilt and vulnerable
but complimented her ignorance

in order to propose marriage
he found an object of permanence –
the pear diamond covered the flesh bulge
on her left middle finger –
he frequently thought about it being lodged
in the digestive track of an alligator, or possibly
poisoning a rat
and decided not to be bitter
after being flushed out of her life

during the war
employed at the Boeing Aircraft Company
the talent in his worn hands
would tame harsh metal
into perfect square sheets
six of which joined a B-29 Bomber
that dropped an object
filled with evil and atomic energy

his supervisor was impressed
six flawless, brilliant objects
that dented the future

in the fifties
he lived in his shop
sculpting wooden objects that were shaped
like choo-choo trains, rodeo horses, frowning clowns
he was once commissioned a metallic piece
but refused

and
53 trains, 47 horses, 94 clowns later
they buried him
without mourners
remembered
only by his most treasured object:
a bull pin hammer
that marked the dirt where
he remained

unfortunately
we have misplaced his name
he’s just an object
(as are you)
so there is nothing
to feel sorry for

Story 2 Hannah
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: October 28, 2006

i’m not sure what my story is today. i knew what it was yesterday. yesterday it was about fear. and since there really wasn’t anyone there who understood the fear, it was about being alone.
but today it isn’t that people don’t understood – rather, it is that they don’t understand enough. but this leaves room from improvement.
strangely, today, it isn’t about whom i am that is in question, as I’ve started to see how fluid we all can be, rather, what do i want to be? it feels like a choice to me (even though my good friend alex tries to convince me otherwise – that we are all ultimately determined). during the time in the story where the protagonistic doubts where the time goes, his illness, where his friends are, the narrative line is curved downward. during the times he goes to sleep, silent, is not fully aware and yet is fully aware, it pushes foward, fiercely.

By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: June 24, 2006

This story begins with an ending. An ending because it is only of what I can be sure. This is a story about me disguised as a story about you. The words came from somewhere in what I call myself, although I’m not sure were – it seems it always disappears once you examine it, like there is no self at all. They were then somehow formed in little pools of blood at the ends of my fingertips, which made me write them out. And now they are here. Until I decide they aren’t good enough, “that’s not something I would write”, and erase them.

Start again:

The seagulls looks suspicious and diseased. I am waiting for something bad to happen. It’s easier, I think. There is a woman staring the six lines of water rushing upward at College Park. Surronding massive building, running water, seems out of place. The foundation seems displaced in the scene, as if, in your mind, you edited in the six lines of water rushing upward to block out the what is real there.
The green wires that make up these chairs are hard, dividing the woman’s large, malleable ass into a 90/85 pattern of littles squares. If her husband wants to have children again tonight, he will feel ridges and be confused but won’t say anything.

As you walked next to the buildings, you can see a distortion of your face in the window. Funny how inside it always looked better. Inside is where you belong.

I am going to go for a walk now, hoping to meet someone along the way, if I don’t, however, I have told myself everything will remain, there is nothing to worry about.

POEM FOR WHAT YOU HAVEN’T LET ME HEAR

Poem In The Hospital
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: April 14, 2006

If you tell me that I don’t exist
I’ll believe you
As long as you tell me gently

Patterns in night sky
Are visible only when I look away

I am cold

There is something more important
Than my illness

There words have been here before

Let’s go home

Illness
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: January 28, 2006

Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.

Susan Sontag
–Illness as metaphor and AIDS and Its Metaphors

but i believe it can be read more 
than one way. you can see illness as something terrible: infecting 
us, taking us away, removing us from all that we that is dear. but i 
prefer to see illness another way: something that binds us, brings 
us together in a common de-humanity, that holds all of us close, 
and some a bit closer. it equals us. makes us the animals we are. 
makes us humble. and most of all, it brings great value to those 
things which we have neglect, and adds immense value to those 
things which we hold dear.
the woman who wrote this quote beat cancer 2 times, and on the 
third, she was terribly afraid of it; afraid of illness, but mostly 
afraid of death. 
and yet she wrote it. and i think that’s what counts.

Tea Time at the Cement Factory
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: January 15, 2006

As he looked up, Benjamin noticed Tiffany was still scratching her head. Nicky was under the table looking for something. This was before the event occurred. After the event occurred, Anna brought everyone tea, a celebration of sorts. But exercise some patience, because we’re not there just yet.
Benjamin went back to writing his story. So far he had decided on a title and confirmed that the last line would be a question. Now came the job of cementing the space in between.

“I found it!” exclaimed Nicky.
“Found what?” asked Benjamin.
“Found what I was looking for, silly, weren’t you wondering what I was doing under the table?”
“Yes, but that isn’t…”
Benjamin cut himself off.

This is before the event, but just after the thing that occurred, which was erased and replaced with something else which did happen. Nothing happened for approximately an hour when Benjamin looked at Tiffany again. There was a big black hole in her head where she had been scratching. He wasn’t getting anywhere.
Benjamin decided to break for tea. That’s when it happened. “Ah ha!” he cried, “I’ve got it.”

Welcome to the end. If they’re dirty, please remove you shoes. The cement’s fresh and we’re trying to avoid tracks. Would you like some tea?

I wish
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: January 14, 2006

Elvis never died
Indulging in deep fried
Peanut butter and bacon
Sandwiches
And
Prescription pills

I too
Wish to have
A false celebrity passing
A cholesterol confused death
comfortably wedge myself
Into the past
Wonderfully stoned
Oblivious to reality
And the world
I have corrupted?

I wish to expire an Elvis
Buried in a blanket of blondes
Fighting my cheeseburger addiction

Suicide Bomber
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: November 13, 2005

Everyone on the bus is quite
Not doing anything, really
Everyone is so fail
And inside
They secretly wish for a giant hurricane
for a terrorist attack
so they become a part of something
greater than themselves
it’s religious dogma that needn’t be studied
but finds you

on the bus there is a man who coat looks much like mine
drinking a bottle of jack daniels
it’s 2:30 in the afternoon

and the Indian woman across from me looks
like she’s really lost
I could imagine what she’s thinking
Perhaps of her country
Perhaps of her family left behind
But I won’t
I have no right to

And yet
When I look at the man with the blistered nose
Concealing his bottle of booze
Why is it that I can imagine him a victim?

Maybe he’s got it figure out.
Maybe he is free