1 —
a message from your dept. store manager:
“imagine staying as one person after all this fiction”
cultural diversity a standard ritual
clap twice then take off your clothes
the media already created a gap
to enable you to meet your abstract other
devouring a cab seat in the suburbs
where we have it all: the theory, its
supporting documents, and a gentle freak show
bringing democracy to them
one dead arab at a time
why should i give up my benign neurosis?
you stick to the legal definition of innocence
& leave me the task of creating memories
internet volleyball a quick cause
if you believe in pacifism
the next show involves silence
and self stripping utterance
but all they had is one air-hockey table
which turned our lives into a background
for the traffic conditions
the suede jacket will eventually play an important role
as we’re suddenly asleep on the dance floor
meanwhile the immense dream of lust that surrounded us had no power
this is not the same as being free
from theory’s nagging despair
we owe our hunger to the map’s persistence
(which didn’t prevent us from participating
in new terminologies)
this was where rigor met cuteness
& told bedtime stories all morning
basically, we were overwhelmed with symbols
so we escaped from the city’s downtown
where i bought my first dictionary
& looked up half the words in fear
of never knowing the other half
the neon of the same city carried me —
like a lame prophet — to its outstanding coffee shops
yes, mine is a standard story of time spent the
worst way, although theory books
gave me a reason to be happy
later i grew a beard & wept for
all the surplus value generated over history
how old was this sadness i rescued
& held onto despite my formal hallucinations
the poet’s business is to be surrounded by death
instead of local politicians
new year’s resolutions: to have a coherent story
and spend time with gym rats
who posses the gentleness of statisticians
then reevaluate this excellent status quo
with well-rested imagination: expect the report
on recycled paper: form was our obvious truth
as we navigated the tight schedule
to learn about sinbad’s obsessive journey
in order to get back the severed head of the prophet
we didn’t leave the town before mastering its rhythm
yesterday the wall buried us swimming
between two violent streams of jelly beans
i was hoping to see you tonight
in one of these marginalized coffee shops
but the ocean wave took the night shift
& participated in the music sales
trains of hands and shoulders
the body easily dismantled
so there was little we can do about our desires
we were influenced by a collage
of weeping space travelers
take your skull out of the equation
as you’re growing your nails
to defend the campus’ policemen
2 —
the phonemes we used to leave voice
messages showed up first in childhood
before we burned our limited body language
in a copy of the apocalypse
(the pure version that follows each death)
all the symptoms of mysticism
were lost under the city’s delightful rain
& in the terrific tragedy of realizing (or not)
that the love that looms like l=o=v=e
looms only in my software mission
and the cute emergencies
of a stranger extrapolating
his jealousy of the natives
and prompting himself to save his secular freedom
with vodka martinis
tormented with his elaborate blog
the space creatures orbit
his busted metaphysical quest:
taking de Sade for a lunatic saint
& Zizek for an animation character
rationally placed in a Japanese movie.
in the right frame of mind
i would be falling on your little feet
but my worst fear is heaven:
its laminated layers
and the isolation of the dreams the lead to it
looking from these irregular windows lead to my voyeurism
yet, i saved the dress code for the future engineers
who paid for hope in cash (and sometimes in songs)
but would it help if they revoked your driving privilege?
it’s still a long shot to find love
while playing a secondary role in the script
3 —
roaming in a body bag of Cartesian illusions
what a strange choice of vacation spots
i rubbed the moon with my forehead
then threw charcoal at the town’s kids
i did it twice
this was at one end of the moment
in the squash court: Canadians and Pakistanis
transforming their lust for their loved ones
into backhand shots
thinking of an indie movie
with good wall carpets
i had carpal tunnel
to worry about
so, asked for a grand story,
i replied: “expat lyrics on foam”
i am the keeper of all good starts
& my neighbor’s colloquial diaspora
promoting his urban dream of missed prayers
Seattle fleece jacket bohemia town
i dream. my dream is full of khakis
& yes, i did it for love
i did it unexpectedly out of love
sending my letters using liquid stamps
the middleman is trapped
in his consistency of thought
the task was harder than sexier
so, i’m still operating in ideas
the space won’t swallow
the concrete pages of the neighborhood
they blew the opposition leader in the morning
meanwhile the vendors tracked the honest conspiracy
(a sudden poem for Henry Michaux)
given the same gestures we arrived at different conclusions you kissed my girl twice you bastard
but even when you frighten me
we still break bread in the European Union’s halls
& ask poets to love unconditionally
& use words as sex toys, so the pressure
of bodies on other bodies seems appropriate
but Henry, fuck it man, all the barbarians
are on coffee breaks
meanwhile, the wave is holding its trendy shirt
and the unbuttoned button of the ant farm future
the sea re-structured its public image
and left me with an orange to peel
a desperate bottom line of reason
exercising my semantic rights, i know
something will eventually never happen
yet be careful buddy, we stayed in the thick traffic
waiting for a new future with its in-depth manual
on the merits of describing sanity
without the silliness of memories creeping up
i can prove that there is a correlation between
the shape of winter and our massive hopelessness
so i keep playing it safe & disregard the traffic
in order to keep the pictures of my loved ones near
in my backup plan the body disintegrates
the great memo maker notebook:
— minimize contact with your environment
— pick an alliance with the night; the morning is safe by definition
— prepare for the urban scene: a body is a pre-condition for lust
the robots mark the street as if we aren’t going anywhere and all the kissing business is not just a façade
our designated driver took notes while alive
but the narrator is the one who was given immunity for keeping a precise offset from reality
while building a prayer from to-do lists
now that we satisfied the god of statistics
we promise we will protect your privacy, yet give you back your exact change
Maged Zaher
Maged Zaher was born and raised in Cairo, Egypt and came to the U.S. to pursue a graduate degree in Engineering. His English poems have appeared in magazines such as Columbia Poetry Review, Exquisite Corpse, Tinfish, and others. He has two chapbooks, ‘speculations on a second weather’, and ‘the wholesale approach’, and has taught poetry workshops in the Seattle area. Some of his translations of contemporary Egyptian poetry are forthcoming in Talisman and Banipal.