a different kind of death

at times over the past year, i’d thought about writing a blog called khod koshi. and since the topic just came up, i thought i’d at least post this poem i wrote on the subject. the majority of suicides fail. you have to really know what you’re doing. i very rarely do, and i have observed that generally speaking neither do most people. there is a moment when you experience what we usually mean by death, but afterwards there is a different kind of death. i will dedicate this to two people here. one of them i want to say, thanks for the clam chowder. we’ll do it again one day. the way up is the way down (the fragments of heraklitus of ephesos).





the bloodline of the roses has pledged me unto life

–forough, translation mine**





and the white bathroom walls

were burgundy and crimson

red red red  

the white bathroom walls

I never dreamed

it would splatter like a geyser

like the martyrs’ fountain

of mashad

i saw once

in a book of photos

red red red

the waters of mashad



and then in the hospital

calm as a womb

they were white white white

the hospital walls

so I never thought

about those red bathroom walls


I did crossword puzzles



it is good to exercise the mind in the hospital

it is best not to think at all



and I never dreamed

walls could be so white

and I never dreamed

life could be so death

every day

rolling into the next

like an endless stream without stones


and I never dreamed

one could live without time

empty and still

as a zen master


timeless and empty as time




and the empty food

and the white walls empty

and the doctors empty

 and the bandages empty 

and me too empty

white as a japanese funeral



and then somehow suddenly 

I’d have to rush to the bathroom

and close the white door

that had no knobs

and whack myself silly

imagining you

the you you’d never shown me

the you I’d never known

opening places in me

where I’d never gone



and I never dreamed

how blue imagination

and crimson desire

could become so enflamed

within four white walls

of nothingness




and then I’d return to my crossword puzzles. 





She was only thirty two

when she crashed into the wall

it was burgundy and red

on the car and the wall


she was crimson and vermillion

like a briiliant bird


she was not black like the crow of najaf



there were only thirty birds

but they all made one large bird

and then the large bird’s reflection

so that makes thirty two

and jesus too they say

was about thirty three

(so that’s close enough)

when he was burgundy wine on the cross


what is it about that number




well I’m no martyr

although I tried

I’m no mashad

and I’m no jesus either



but I think one day

if I try

I just may find  the simorgh

the vermillion heart of simorgh



(I think I am in love with that number)






it had been calm as a white womb

within the hospital walls

white as a japanese funeral

timeless and empty as time 



and I never dreamed

that when I emerged

into the first kiss of  wind

iand all the cars honking

and all the people hurrying

and all the traffic lights


there would be colors

colors everywhere


streams filled with multicolored stones



bright bright blue

oh waters of life



it is the bloodline of the roses

that shall render me crimson

it is fire and flame

that shall pledge me unto life




life life life









** http://iranian.com/main/2007/forough-and-me





Meet Iranian Singles

Iranian Singles

Recipient Of The Serena Shim Award

Serena Shim Award
Meet your Persian Love Today!
Meet your Persian Love Today!