Parisa Zarringhalam
writes poetry with a pencil*
The Clothing You Donate to Charity
Crocodile,
Single file, in the
Tight neck of a turtle
Ova Drest,
An overexcited spectator
Annoying to the rest of us
In lacy asbestos
We wear it for the best of us
Yet waste it at festivals
Unisex stretch,
A spandex space saver
Cosmetic pace maker,
A disclaimer
Toe-rag dragging
The standard under nylon
Manually, with silky ties
Cotton cataclysms annually
Algae blooms in aerial views
Uniform desperation,
Poly-blending, rule bending
Natural fibers!
Said a lively mastodon
Mashing with his molars
Mouthwatering galore,
The slippery spit
Of a tasty and tactical challenge
Cosmically rewarding,
A karmic recording
Too squeaky and new
Your body, betraying you
Like a carbonated ear infection
Like female underwear
And the hype it surrounds, sweaty & mysterious
Insurmountably not precious
And your ability to love someone
You’re not related to
Deranged and dirigible
Satellite frogs in clingy skin
In gold lamé and folded legs
The richest fish, a red herring
Encompassing a true bashing
Encamped and encumbered,
Always a favored flavor
In a lovely shade of blush,
Accidentally, he ate her
And you say, spectaculator
And you plan to watch it later
A perforated performance,
Crunchily distressed us
The anticipator
Belated and bewaited
Insta Gator – the alligator
Truth with Hurtful Rumor
Left in the lurch of a driving hurtle
So, I say
Listen
Offhandedly and awesome
Twirling with a hula-hoop,
A raging hooligan
A foolish drift, drawn to this
A flawless rift between us
I look with hurtful glee
Affirming a prophecy,
The words I heard,
Shooting down a hallway
A highway
A truth canal,
Like a root canal
The byways, like flyaways
A tangle, always mangled beyond recognition
And payment, a fee of admission
Of loser confidence and loose extravagance
That I’m expected to extract?
Terrible and laughable
And incompatible
And thinking black and bitter
That no one thought of me
With deep breaths and a quick shift,
A distant epiphany
Gave birth to a litany
Inside of me
Yes, this is about me
It’s only ever been about me
I say with a posed look
And the dignity my foes took
My lips are loose and they do babble
Bubbling with things to say and recover
See, lover and seek cover, I beleaguer
With fatigue, sir, crowd pleaser
And Boy teaser, that I am her
I feel too revealed here,
And very mere,
I see a leer
And I peer
With growing apprehension,
A heavy-handed tension
I drag past strangers and slap on a table,
My body weight, my heat, my tapping feet
And drumming thumbs,
My long nails, and unibrow
And ominously changing mole,
I will carefully extoll
The riches and the soul
That I uncover all alone
I’ll leave it here
For you to snack on
Ruminate some more
Like golf balls growing in a womb
The places I have been
Are only changing more
And I doubt you and your hairdo
Of Fair hues and mulish views
Foolish, I think, your faults
Omitted in your eyes
Faced across by gaping insults
With surprise, I’m disillusioned
Grounded in my gender
Offender of good graces
And that is why I’m not close by.
When I am touched I feel my toes being gently sawn off,
With a slinky silvery blade
Whiskery and sure
Defined by fallopian tubes, untied, and insecure
Your Ultimate Creator
As a woman I can be an ultimate creator
I put it all together with experience and pain
And inside of me the raw materials slowly start to change
I know it will be beautiful, and lovely to name,
A constantly evolving art
Revolving on a different plane,
Alternate and same
The pieces come together with masterful attraction
There are no mistakes ever, only fated gains
Internally demanding, externally contained
Ghost of a Hitman
The ghost of a hitman haunts his foiled assignment
And year after year, he is filled with resentment
He’s not the only unsuccessful one
But he is the only unrestful phantom
And his spirit remains, critiquing
Attempts that are still not succeeding
So he bottles the emotion up tightly
And finger-writes in condensation on a mirror
Your arterial vein will be slit w/ razor (today),
Turn off the water while you're shaving
But his finger-writing is atrocious and the guy
Who is alive, somehow remains unbothered by
Ruby has fulfillment services,
Only to be had on Thursdays
Instant Love On the Dance Floor
It’s been thirty seconds
But feels like more
You smile when our eyes catch
Do I imagine our children –?
I scrutinize, and decide,
Without your eyes,
And I am satisfied.
My sequined skirt straps my thighs tight together
Meaning, I’m not really dancing,
But melded in place, metallically
And tragically
You, leaning in,
“You’re such a good dancer!”
I know this, so I say
“I feel the same way,”
And you shout, “thanks!”
Unreasonably flattered.
Wrong, I think
As I shake my head to the beat
I know I’m a good dancer, but he
Could be better.
I watch him pulling my body closer,
And I analytically consider,
Should I not insult the possible future father of my imaginary children?
Where is this line between real life and fantasy?
He impinges with leisure
While I’m hindered by fashion,
So my hand at his collar bone,
And my locked elbow,
Preserve what’s between us.
Distance.
I’m bra-less and flawless,
And I dance with abandon,
Struggling with my sparkly skirt
Shimmy with me, I try to flirt
Down to my knees,
Mermaid style,
Made for less than two legs, but a great ass
Maybe veterans of a fashion war
Maybe women who wanted more
Are these columns Roman?
No, they are stationary.
They were stolen
They are stone and may have roamed
But not by choice, exactly
It’s almost like because we think
Dinosaurs will not wake up
And reclaim their bones and teeth
Poverty and oppression
Are the same as mass extinction
In the eyes of a museum
And something else is taken too,
Shipped along to someplace new
Identity