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week of February 11 - 17, 2002


Dr. Hooman Shahkar and Andy Baron



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Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
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Dr. Hooman Shahkar
hooman13@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Dr. Hooman Shahkar lives in Shiraz, Iran. He believes all good things in Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, Judaism, Zoroastrianism & Islam. He is a medical doctor who graduated in 1999 from University of Szeged, Hungary. His favorite poets are Rumi, Omar Khayyam & Hafez (3 Persian poets). He started to write poetry seriously in 2001. A few of his works have been published on various poetry web sites. Visit Dr. Shahkar's website: http://poem.iscute.com

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Dr. Hooman Shahkar and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

.

The Enigma

Worm said God is apple.
Canary said God is the hand full of seeds.
Goldfish called God
the water in aquarium.
Lion said God is jungle.
Human was quiet
with eyes wet.


The Gift

They gave you steel to love.
The cry of horns
for nightingales' symphony
and sewage
to water your plants.
Your jungle is iron beams
and your best friend
is your PC.


Crows


Crows are alike.
They sew light to darkness.
Crows are plaguy.
They blacken the horizon
but crows don’t know
that the life will go on
with them or without.


Love

You light the fire.
The fire evaporates my heart.
The cloud rains.
The rain mixes with my blood
goes to my eyes
falls on soil.
Soil gives it to sun.
Sun puts it in clouds.
My lips taste the rain.
The rain travels through my veins
to my heart
putting off the fire for a while.


The Wings

When silkworm must die
a pair of wings
is given to her.
She flies toward a flame
and burns.


Andy Baron
nklunch@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Hello, my name is Andy Baron. I live in Houston, Texas. I have never seen a movie on DVD. The sounds of crying babies and noses being blown bother me. This is my third time to be the Featured Poet of the Week at PSH. I was also published in Read Magazine when I was fourteen for a very terribly written short story. Fortunately.. they misspelt my name. I am not nearly as silly as I used to be. I am 24.

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Andy Baron and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


Mural

"You Will Never Be Here"

the title predicted so many years ago
in unspeakable letters beneath the grown-up canvas
that hung in the air. It was once an untouchable mural
of impossible colors: such serious red, such sad blue,
such flawless green.

Unnoticed, the spin of the earth, a thinner
bled the red and turned the blue neurotic,
ripping a smirk across itself. The green revealed
splotches of lime, forest, and olive drab as they
cuddled together against the floor.

From behind that bleeding landscape surfaced a
mirror cut in the perfect circle and focused sharper
than an eye. It shot back flashes of money and love,
work and sex, bills and death, regret and freedom until
the whole reflected film wound itself
into one still print with possible colors
for new eyes.

Some wept and some winced and some could
only negotiate silence with the permanent face
freezing back. So they sank quietly against the
floor and smeared the paint skin with their fingers:
one circle, two circles, above an arch of blood,
all inside a larger circle. And they slid letters
into the non-primary puddle until the title saw itself
in unspeakable words, in such serious red:

"You Are Here."
"You Are Here."


Flight

The angel's breasts ripple
when she dives from the
highest black cliff and her
nipples cut through cloud
as she swoops down to pluck
a rotting harp with the tips
of her tits.

Bird, in disconnect from Sky
she slices her path back
up through the thick vibration
of strings- erect
and proud.


You Died On My Birthday

You died on my birthday (dope) and chances are
you;ll die on my birthday every year- drunk and
passed out on your back. Had you collapsed in any
other position your mother would not have demanded
to speak with the coroner and I would not have heard
those words, "Happy Birthday, Michael's dead."

I will fall out of love (loveable), shuffle some papers,
say some things I'll later regret, lose my car keys, and
throw up thinking of you- future stepbrother with the quick
sweaty smile. This morning, the fifth morning after
your death, I am reminded of the filling in my molar as I
bite deliberately into a piece of aluminum foil and shiver
with the thought of my own awkward smile decaying.

You died on my birthday (klutz) and chances are
you'll die on my birthday every year. In any other position
we would not be frozen at twenty-three aware of our last
encounter as I slammed the side door not knowing you were
passed out on the living room couch. You flinched awake-
still dreamy, so sweaty, smiling in embarrassment as if sleep
were a sin. "Whoops- sorry," I whispered, "go back
to bed."

Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
| Lizard King of the Laundromat
| I Am My Own Orange County | Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway
Rick's Bookmarks |
Cobalt Poets | E-mail Rick | Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick