Three Poems

Salted Cucumber with Radishes  

There is a metaphor in that tree, and suddenly everything is tree. Like
a talebi in the middle of the ocean. Or a space station that demands
to be seen. When we say kheyar, what we're really thinking about is
the whirlwind at the door. The condition of reality that we gaghvei to
understand. I speak to you in Armenian. It's the only way I know how
to be real. The squiggly lines are not squished, but they are round. They
are so sphere.

Chairs on Astroturf Landscape

This green light behind my computer screen shines when everyone is
asleep. The blue notebook on the desk. The camera in the corridor.
These are the ways you feel alive. These are the ways foozool is real.
Like cool mint on a summer's day. Like triangle on a winter's night.
Look at these piles of books on the vintage malafe. Look how they
zangand chasp. I want to compose songs under the fluorescent sky.
Dance many sonatas. The yellow book on the desk, written in Persian,
is something I don't understand. It's yellow like fall leaves on a rainy
day. A place where things matter, but only because they matter.

The Keyboard Is Green like a Tangerine

There's a square in the sky, and it's larger than it was yesterday. Like a
basket of happiness disguised as golden turnips. Like mage on a foggy
day. When you dance, do you imagine yourself as a pioneer? Dancing
through hatta with a backpack full of books? Or do you feel like a
mountain goat. Finding peace through the storm. When I think of
geometry, I think of you. The shape of your existence is cute. You are a
chelokebab that is so many things. When I think of veleshkone, I think
of lavender and treetops. Take me to the moon with you. There is so
much moon to see there.