1,000,000 Times

I am not an academic writer . I am not interested in figuring things from Hiedegger's perspective or a Saussurian platform. I am not interested in schools of poetry.

I am not interested in Facsicle, Popsicles, or Siliman's blog. *

I don't think much of outcries of a scantily clad woman on the cover of Fence.

I don't care about publication from some reputable poetry magazine or publisher. I don't think much about winning.

I do think about money. I do notice my bank account. I do think about people who are hungry. I do think about my family and friends. I do love creating.

I would like to create financial stability for myself. I'd like to make money for the art I create. Particularly, the novels.

I cannot make this happen any faster then it is. Different ideas on different days. Different days on different ideas.

In my off time, one of my favorite things is reading Heartspeak. Art that doesn't care about schools of thought, because it is its own thought. It is its own school. A farmhouse. A city block. A community. A planet. A world. This is the art I love. That no critique can desecrate. That only those who enter understand. That is real and magical. That honors itself by existing. That honors us by saying hello. This is the art I live for.

I catch glimpses of it here and there. From myself. From others.

When I see the academic poetry world bicker over magazines and publication and who's who, I see so much art disappear. I see Heartspeak flicker. I see so many people who have forgotten why they create in the first place. Why did you start being an artist?

That beginning. That passion. I have forgotten it myself. At times.

Yes, Pirooz. Yes, sometimes you have forgotten. Like our politicians have forgotten. Like some creators have forgotten. Then the reflection turns on itself, and the only sense of refuge is to ask the question:

"Why did you enter politics?" I ask the Landlord.
"What made you want to do this?" I ask the Mayor.
"Why did you want to be a judge?" I ask Justice.

Then I turn to the poets--

"Why did you start writing?" I ask.
"What made you want to do this?"

Then I turn to me--

"Why do you want to be a judge?"

I raise my hand. I smack myself 1,000,000 times. This is no exaggeration. My identity topples like a rain forest. Words scatter in confusion. An 'H' there. An 'R' there! Until slowly I piece together one heart.

There are more letters. Entire sentences. Paragraphs. Whole novels even. Strewn about in large semi-circles on the forest floor. The ones who escaped the blow. Those creators. The politicians. My own heart. Work together to rebuild the city. Tall arching conifers. Pine and oak. Cypress and Redwood. Until Shikow blooms once more. Until one heart thumps a syncopated percision, and draws itself back together again.

*Glowing Popsicles are another story.**