Cheryl’s Cup

By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: February 12, 2002

Delicoius –
The bitter murk of me.
A warm projection, bold, strong, and…
True?
Truly, hopeless.
Overly creamed, watered,
Flat, flushed –
Free! samples on Saturdays.
Sweetly
Secretly bitter.
A secretive blend of…
Of.
Mmm…
Delicious me.

Jehangir Saleh

This Is A Good Poem
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: February 8, 2002

He wraps himself
Draped in warm comfort of
Orange velvet
In the evening he finds
Sunshine
Sleeping as the collection plate passes
As the holy words of Jesus
Bless the air

Make it a mosque
– velvet becomes a sari

He is the most blessed of all followers

The Shrink And Serial Killer
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: December 31, 2001

Elves and dwarfs and midget’s,
In pink, black and blue
Have square pockets that house tiny little keys
Which unlock of large dorms
Gaining access to the deepest furrows
Of my mind
Through the trillions of tiny but detailed staircases
Being painted on by Dali, and Rousseau
Among the invisible bullets
And the multiple stab wounds
Which have not yet made their mark
He searches for reason
Reason which is chained up and gagged
In the deepest and darkest corner

The keys he uses to open the chains
Are all the wrong ones
Their sizes too big, too small
And only I know the perfect dimensions
Piles of keys, stacks of questions
Like a chipmunk at a nutshell
He attempts to pry me open
Thinking he knows something
That I don’t

A Tree In The Winter
For Julia
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: December 20, 2001

Dark has finally killed light,
warmth has surrendered to bitter cold.
A cannibalistic wind prepares for a feast,
all light is now revelatory.

Enlightenment pours down,
raining on outstretched wooden fingers.
Branches are pointed towards the heavens,
leaves have been desolated in sacrifice.

The piercing feeling of frost nipping at naked bark,
the unbearable teeth of the wind.
I am courageous enough to endure such pain,
I am strong enough to persist.

Patiently waiting for light to over take dark,
and cold to submit to the wishes of warmth.
Waiting for the wind to satisfy its hunger,
and the light to interpret its own relations.

Jehangir Saleh

An Ode To The Job An Ode
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: November 21, 2001

Worms are soldiers
Carbonation is philosophical dilemma
God remains God
Orgasmic interest is aroused
In crayons, hyphens and peanut butter
Royalty is raised and punished
Slaves are beaten and awarded
The lifetimes of losers
Plummet to new heights

The moral of my ode is this:
All the classical Greek poetry in the
Universe can’t liberate road kill

My ode can.

Ode To A Box Of Crayons
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: November 7, 2001

My sister Jasmine brought me
A box
Of sticky crayons
Which she melted herself
With her tiny hands of innocence
Eight crayons of adhesive,
A child’s crazy glue
I let them drop to the floor
As if being caught
For narcotics possession
The evidence staining
My hands
Destructive crayons,
Defecating on the
Carpet
Tarnishing its white
Purity
An oil slick
In a perfect sea
Dogmatic crayons,
Spilling out my
Murky existence
The colors are sharp
Truthful
Prophetic
They whisper to me
Revelations of deep
Red hate

I stare
They stare back
The moral
Of my ode is this:
Evil lurks within
Colors
When it is a matter
Of a box of crayons
Melting
Innocence is stained
In Red

The Job Of A Doorknob
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: October 16, 2001

The job of a Doorknob is to be rounded,
To be curved, to be firm, to be copper,
Silver, brass. The job of a doorknob is to be dormant,
To be content, to be simple.
The job of a doorknob is to be broken, and fixed,
To be unnoticed, taken for granted,
neglected.
The job of a doorknob is to shake hands,
To get infected, to pass the infection, be to replaced,
To be innocent, to act innocent, only to jam during
A large crisis.
The job of a doorknob is to lockup and trap humans,
To be unsuspecting, to be guilty. The job of a doorknob is
To be old, young, polished and tarnished. The job
Of a doorknob is packaged, shipped, and imported from a
Factory of underpaid metal workers in the South-East Asia.
The job of a doorknob is simply to just be. Dull. Uninteresting.
To dent when beaten with a bat. To be grasped by royalty. To
Change hands, to change hands, to change hands.
The job of an doorknob is to be an unconsidered, eighth wonder of the
Universe. The job of a doorknob is to be a mystery.

Ode To My Socks
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: October 9, 2001

Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as soft
as rabbits.
I slipped my feet
into them
as though into
two
cases
knitted
with threads of
twilight
and goatskin.
Violent socks,
my feet were
two fish made
of wool,
two long sharks
sea-blue, shot
through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet
were honored
in this way
by
these
heavenly
socks.
They were
so handsome
for the first time
my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two decrepit
fireman, fireman
unworthy
of that woven
fire,
of those glowing
socks.

Nevertheless
I resisted
the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere
as schoolboys
keep
fireflies,
as learned men,
collect
sacred texts,
I resisted
the mad impulse
to put them
in a golden
cage
and each day give them
birdseed
and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers
in the jungle who hand
over the very rare
green deer
to the spit
and eat it
with remorse,
I stretched out
my feet
and pulled on
the magnificent
socks
and then my shoes.

The moral
of my ode is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool
in winter.

By: Pablo Neruda
Translated By: Robert Bly

By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: April 20, 2001

Reality leaks
Drips, bit by bit
It leaves me

Are soft, golden wheat
And my biology text book
My source of constant arousal
Becomes a brunette named Lisa

Wheat woven into a sea of golden grass

On the sidewalk
Inside our soapy bubble
Being kissed by a little girl
Now carried by the wind

A sea of number
Begins to drown
My life saver
Is my fantasy

Big Black Shoes
For Tiffany
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written:  February 16,  2001

Moving down long mysterious legs
We enter depth in the top of a shoe

Pitch black we lose ourselves in eternal darkness
Circling and trying to figure out the meaning

Inching toward the sole,
Soul is what is kept secret

The mystery of glorious perfection
The impeccable sense of style

Only one can achieve such credentials
Only one can understand the meaning

The meaning of Big Black Shoes

Jehangir Saleh