Of fate and maman joon
This is very mo-hem, midoony?
October 12, 1999
Today, maybe, a new poem I shall write
a new poem, which will help me
in my quest to self-aggrandize
with lots of big words
pompous big words, a "plethora" of them
which will force all readers
including those with English PhD's
to rush dizzily to dictionaries.
Besides those, it will have stuff
stuff that kind of look big
no meaning - just big.
Stuff that will make me look pensive
very concerned, very mo-hem, midoony?
Some of those words, repeat I will.
Some of those words, repeat I will,
kind of like what I just did.
Repeating should score some points
'cause important people repeat, you see.
A new poem... yes... maybe.
No I shan't.
A poem is too, chizeh, boring, you know, no fun
and it takes work, dastam khasteh misheh.
As it is, I see too many shers
too much Rumi, too much Roodaki
too many words, yawn, snooze.
maybe, perhaps, baby...
Today, a piece of prose I'll write
yeah, a good one too
a piece of prose, okay then
with punctuation this time
but only this once.
Five paragraphs, seven, ten max.
In it I'll slam everyone else
Iranians mostly, and some Hendis
and Arabs too, surely, 'cause they eat malakh.
Everyone's butt slam I will, ha ha! Mirth,
so that I'll look good, better, best, supreme
an Iranian who can pass for a Yankee
not an Irankee Doodle Dandy, but a Yankee
'cause I'll use lots of cliches
cliches that natives use, yeah, cliches
avoid them like the plague, those ones.
About myself nice stuff I'll write
how mistakes I never made
pious, holy, perfect how I was.
How on water I once walked with feet tied
upon my birth how Eastern stars shined.
Maman joon, mageh na? Didi goftam?
If I can't rise above folks
push'em down I will, which physically
is kind of like elevating myself;
what a nice tactic, oh yeah, diabolical.
Or maybe an essay I'll be writing
a lofty title, and a long subtitle
and a few extra words for no good reason.
A title (and condiments) befitting something evermore
a book, movie, play or lecture.
An ess-ay ay about stuff (second ay is silent, you know, why not)
don't know what kind of stuff yet
but stuff it will have lots of.
Think of a title first, I must
"Of Fate and Maman Joon," yeah, that tastes good
Right after my breakfast, today, this morning
right after bagels, cream cheese, and coffee
Or maybe after noon o panir o chaa-ee
gholop gholop, yeh chaa-ee digeh Mommy joon...
Chaa-ee ekh kon biad, toolesh nadeh zood baash.
After noon o panir in the afternoon
some lines I'll write
some lines about the sad state of affairs in the homeland
or minorities and old customs, new fads
about pets and dogs (minorities are not pets)
about which Iranians don't much care.
Or about how racists are mostly in North Tehran
I'm not one, of course, but you are
see, me good bah bah, you bad, ah ah.
how I care about Iran more than you think
though up to recently people thought I was Greek.
In real life I much don't do for ee-ran
but in my writings I'll sound like I do.
Yes, today, something I'll write.
In free hand first
which will look really awful.
But then, scramble it I will
which will hide the junky parts
though like Yoda it will sound,
that cute dodo from the war of stars,
but hey, heck what the.
It may even score me some fans
who will flock to my mailbox
to tell me how good I write
excuse me, how well.
Though I don't know what the shishkabob
I blabber about
I'll just write.
Though petless, I'll be an animal rights advo
or an ultra-feminist superman
a pro-choicer, and for gay rights too
and I'll condemn
Sa'di, Hafez and Iraj Mirza, all
Ferdosi on trial, for his thoughts three zeros ago\
I'll be a film critic, hey did you see gAv?
Reporting from the Oscars, "I'd like to thank the academy"
And a sports writer too, instantly, Goaaaalllll!!!!
Right after my book review, I'll be
a historian, sociologist, philosopher and thinker
I'll just write
blah blah a word here a word there blah blah.
What a stud I'll be, ooh king of studs
Iranian-dot-com's main dude, oh yeah
It needs one too, very badly I might add...
Even though my writing is like Yoda
everyone will take me for Han Solo
before he got old and his hair-line receded.
Hey, what do you call a row of bunnies dancing backwards?
a receding hare-line, ha ha, joke goftam bekhandin ...
Creative juices flowing, I must write at once.
Hey, where is my keyboard? Looloo bordesh.
Damn that cat, he also my mouse-pad khordesh.
What is my password? Ghagha lili, no? I forget.
Where is my laptop, sold in a garage sale.
The Webster and my thesaurus too all gone
oh mighty thesaurus how I once loved thee.
Alas then, no big words for today, thank you.
Where is my pencil, the one I stoled from Safeway
when the cute cashier was flirting with that no-good Faramarz.
Where are my tools now, so that I can bask
hearing me talk, blah blah yatta yatta
Eh, Maman, what did you do with the napkin
upon which I wrote the gist of my thoughts
the stuff with big words and punctuation
freedom, future, issues and answers
concepts, prognosis, and cerebral stuff
you know, my solution for all of Iran?
What, you did what with the napkin, Mom, discard?
Oh, Mommy joon why o why?
You just sent my dreams up in smoke.
Dreams of grandeur and fame
though only 15 minutes thereof.
Khoda hafez studhood, adios, bye bye.
Iranian-dot-com, later, studless you shall be.
Today, fate and Maman joon were not cooperating.
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