Morning Feels Slippery
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: October 4, 2005

morning feels slippery
you imagine it’s raining outside
oceans forming in the cracks of the sidewalk
cars like strange, mechanical whales
the sun is waiting to come up

your tea cup
is a womb that you sip from
while you watch the the mound of flesh wife’s body
blend into the bed sheets
none of your neighbours
would think of the bedroom
as a crime scene

you

she’s breathing
repetitive but not mechanic
an organic radio wave you tune into

how she held your pain
like a subway bomb
the more people in danger
the more you felt free

In the dark dust
I imagined you
As a mountain
On which pilgrims climb
They followed blindly
And so did I

By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: October 2, 2005

there is a naked woman in the middle of the highway
blocking the left lane

a procession of angry motorists
creating that wind that whips at her body
she is a prophet for the new century
face covered with pale, white rust

No one stops to inquire about her motives
Everyone whispers
“Bloody whore.”
Or a silent
“*uck you”.
They continue their journey,
Driven by ignorance
Creating the wind
That whips and lashes at her body
From above come the frozen tears
Of the sky
Her face is tarnished beauty.
A pale
White
Rust
Eyes that reveal mystery,
Are sealed with frost
For once,
She thinks,
“I can see true beauty”.

Above her,
The sky is weeping

And so I am:
Facing the off ramp,
Unaware of my condition
Waiting for liberation
From a
Black Chevy pickup
Whose power beam headlights
Melt the crystallized tears
Falling on my exposed skin
I loved her
And
Am waiting
For my mistake
To remember
What it means to
Be free.

Poem During The Night
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: October 2, 2005

Wake up
Remember dreaming
About waking up during the night
Strange and heavy
Stumbling to your desk
To write this poem
And then hid underneath
Once you’ve read what you’re written

When I wake up
I remember dreaming
That I had woken during the night
I feel strange and heavy
I feel an incredible urge to run to my desk
And write poetry
But once I read what I have written
I then feel an incredible urge to hid underneath it

Why am I writing this poem?
Because my wife told me too
It is a form of therapy and avoidance
I feel suddenly that I am privileged
And everyone whispers
Gee, that was a banal thing to say

When I wake up
I perform logic puzzles until I get tired out
And then I pretend to be saving young princesses from ivory towers
Who really I have been watching with binoculars
All of my life

I take baths
In water that I collected from the rain
And saliva of small birds who make their home just outside mine

This poem is no longer going to save anyone
Poetry doesn’t save
But camouflage
We aren’t anyone
But all
This is a song about me trying to find my way
To bed
Without crying like last time
Why don’t you just watch me
In my cage
Until you too are tired
And then you might realize what’s really happening
And take your place
Right beside me

Light 2
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: September 30, 2005

If all the lamps in the house
Were turned out
You could dress this wound
By what shines from it
– Anne Carson

her lungs exhale light
breaking into the dark
womb of the bedroom
stopping at the black hole in your chest

she used the light
radiating from her organs
to grow buttercups in the kitchen
taught you to see
the cracks in everything
how the light slips through

she said the light comes from the wound of her heart
you sent her for an x-ray

she woke
while you were cutting below her breast
trying to find the source
she didn’t scream
bled into your hands
finally
it was dark
thought you’d get a nights sleep
until the warmth from the blood
became light

decided to
have her bleed
into a jar
to save
on flashlight batteries

if only you could see
how the light arranges these words
you would be able to understand them

you’ve been sleeping better –
the light from her lungs
touches your skin
and slowly
as if deciding
fades away

Details
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: September 25, 2005

For my grandfather in the hospital, who I imagine was a good man, who cannot understand the majority of who I am or what I do, except that which pleases him: earning money, academic success, keeping with tradition.

What else is there to write. He will die. Just like I will die. In the same way they will cry at his funeral they will cry at mine. I imagine there is so much he keeps to himself.

Does the measure of happiness change according to the value systems we create?
So if I too believe that hamburgers, good deals on cars and electronic merchandise and ensuring the future is like the past are all intrinsically valuable, would I be happier?
Something he has that I do not.

What are you like when you regard your grandparents in the same matter you regard products in the grocery store?
Why is this filled with so many questions.

For my grandfather in the hospital, who would not understand any of these words, and likely be confused at the gesture.
For the unless fights he had with my grandmother who is manic depressive when she was hopped up like a crack addict reciting top-notch profanity that high school gangs of my youth never attempted.
I have few pleasant memories. I have no memories at all. And my life is busy, productive, important, so that I have no time to make them. He will die and I never will have known.

He cried on the phone what I was in the hospital and, brave, wise, I did not know what to do except try to explain it was “ok”, but it wasn’t ok. And I suppose he knew. I hung up the phone before him, and carried on. It was almost instinctual. What else is there to do? How much inbred masculinity, communication problems, and 60 years of age different that really didn’t exist prevented us from acknowledging that both of us were going to break down. But no, like severly damaged robots we continue, toddling around, him with his limp, me and my IV, together crippled by the same forces – decaying bodies, external pressure and the absense of what we believe might be love.

I wonder how much he has given up.
I wonder how many times he found himself crying and could not understand why anymore.
I too have done the same.

So what’s the difference?
I suppose it is that I have time to change, to ressurect, to believe, to try – or at least pretend – that I am free.
For him, I hope there is a kind of freedom in watching his youngest grandchildren grow up until he can’t identify with them anymore. I hope there is a kind of freedom he gets from prayer and tradition.

Blood is not thicker than water. Both wash upon the sand. He believes that we a bound as family – the blood in our veins creates certain obligations. I believe that we must prove our worth to each other.

End
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: September 24, 2005

I was frightened
Of your completeness
Quivering, gently
Against sharp corners
That lingered soft
With your scent

We slept with the moon
Buried under my bed
You before I
I was unaware
Of your un-existence
Your essence
Creamed into the sheets
I crumbled with a
Soda cracker

In the dark dust
I imagined you
As a mountain
On which pilgrims climb
They followed blindly
And so did I

Through a single
Sparkle of light
I peered
Beyond the broken window –
Beyond the scar-less
Fields of children,
I felt them weeping
From inside

Outside, it rained glitter
The ashes of angels
Fallings from the sky
Victimless kites flew
Poking the deep blue
Of heaven
Fastened with ribbons
Of hope

I clutched my blue blanket
Twirled the dusty ribbon in my hair
Closed my eyes
Felt the bubbles and tears
Tickling my darkness
I stained myself
With your memory
Bravely stood on your mountain
And jumped

End (2)

I was frightened
Of your completeness
Quivering, gently
Against sharp corners
That lingered soft
With your scent

I imagined you
As a mountain
On which pilgrims climb
They followed blindly
And so did I

I imagine you
As a single fragment
Of revelatory light

I imagine you as something
That holds something else together

I imagine that the something else is me

Bravely stood on your mountain
And jumped

By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: September 21, 2005

Sitting on the floor
I imagine you to be a injury mammal
Hearing your cries inside, high pitch communication that only you can hear
And it think it’s true that the universe could not be true
Unless both of us lived and breathing

You start crying
Silently
As a repeat lines from being and nothingness
Finally believe that Sartre has some use

We are friends I say
We are friends because I could break you
And you break me

And yet
Each time I see you
I give you something
I give you what is me
For you to play with
Knowing you could break it
But – hoping – I still give it to you

You begin to “play” with you tarot cards
And I type this poem
Thinking how far I am
From everything
From you
From these words

But not in a sad or tragic way
But in the way that great heroes
Believed their bullshit and believed it to be

The words come out only with the teasrs of another
There is no one crying right now
So I have nothing else to say.

I felt parental with her, but also as I reflect I felt held and taken care of. And the satisfaction of this utterly universal need was something I’m glad I received. While sitting on the train back home, I must admit I miss her presence. And I feel this is genuine, not just a sort of “need love”. Being with her was like being with a gentle, shy large mammal. There were times when It was like creating something, like baking a cake, moments where you are trying to be free.

Fragments
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: September 14, 2005

1. When I wake up
I remember dreaming
That I had woken during the night
I feel strange and heavy
I feel an incredible urge to run to my desk
And write poetry
But once I read what I have written
I then feel an incredible urge to hid underneath it

2. And everyone whispers
Gee, that was a banal

3. This is a song about me trying to find my way
To bed
Without crying like last time
Why don’t you just watch me
In my cage
Until you too are tired
And then you might realize what’s really happening
And take your place
Right beside me

Poem For The Way Things Ought To Be
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: September 12, 2005

Free
And then some
In a single moment we can only capture
This idea
Which is that things should be different
But, sadly
We cannot hold on to this for more than one fleeting moment
Reverting to other activities
Such as trying to beat down one another
Working a part
Instead of together

I imagine that some drug addict somewhere
Is imagining that someone, somewhere like him
is imaging that he too
believes

for all those who will never read this
I’m sorry to say
You haven’t really missed out

For those who do
And continue to strive for perfection
Let’s just accept what we have
And once we can really see each other
Lift ourselves out of these self inflicted diseases
Turning around
And wondering what was it yesterday that was true?

That last stanza won’t make sense to anyone
Who tries to understand it rationally

For everyone else
I’ve just found the answer
To the question they have been looking for
Now
And until the rest of their lives

By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: August 28, 2005

Tonight you cried, and I tried to be the man I wanted to be when I was seven years old.
There was no one to kill.
So when that didn’t work, I started to imagine us on a mountain somewhere, following each other like pilgrims, both each others prophets.

And suddenly I knew: there was nothing I could give you except everything that was already inside.

The drugs are kicking in, so soon I will forget.
But I send this to you, my love, a poem that will never purse my lips, so you remember that when this is all over, both of us won and neither of us were right.