Poetry
Poetry
Iranian Revolution 2026
In the old bazaars of Shiraz—where once the merchants weighed saffron by the gram—the fires now illuminate not spice, but anger. A boy, barely sixteen, lights a rag in a glass bottle. He’s not a thug, he’s a student who hasn’t seen meat in months. He’s not burning the bank for fun—he’s burning it for
Keep Moving
Just keep moving, across the open field and into the woods. Don’t look back until you reach the sea. Run until your lungs are ready to burst and every nerve shoots red-hot fire through your lost body, the soft sand under your feet, the salty air welcoming you home to the only place you understand,
A Poem on the Wind
A poem on the wind lands wherever it’s taken, whether in your thoughts or mine, or on the dry red soil, glittering in the summer heat. I can see the last of the species scribbling away in a fevered dream as the sun burns the ground, furnace in the lungs, vivid colors flooding the mind,
Looking for Real
The world I have come to know is just an artificial display of holographic shapes gliding across my line of sight and disappearing into nothingness, tedious reflections in a dull mirror. But every so often, someone comes along who is dramatically different, a living, breathing person, warm, radiant, true, and connected to my inner experience.
Get the Message
A poem is an equation written on the wind, riding on memory from one seer to the next, ancient as the spoken word. I can see the last of the species scribbling away in a feverish dream as the sun burns the ground, furnace in the lungs, every color flooding the mind, recalled in silence.
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Novels and Collected Works
Iranian Revolution 2026
In the old bazaars of Shiraz—where once the merchants weighed saffron by the gram—the fires now illuminate not spice, but anger. A boy, barely sixteen, lights a rag in a glass bottle. He’s not a thug, he’s a student who hasn’t seen meat in months. He’s not burning the bank for fun—he’s burning it for
Keep Moving
Just keep moving, across the open field and into the woods. Don’t look back until you reach the sea. Run until your lungs are ready to burst and every nerve shoots red-hot fire through your lost body, the soft sand under your feet, the salty air welcoming you home to the only place you understand,
A Poem on the Wind
A poem on the wind lands wherever it’s taken, whether in your thoughts or mine, or on the dry red soil, glittering in the summer heat. I can see the last of the species scribbling away in a fevered dream as the sun burns the ground, furnace in the lungs, vivid colors flooding the mind,
Looking for Real
The world I have come to know is just an artificial display of holographic shapes gliding across my line of sight and disappearing into nothingness, tedious reflections in a dull mirror. But every so often, someone comes along who is dramatically different, a living, breathing person, warm, radiant, true, and connected to my inner experience.
Get the Message
A poem is an equation written on the wind, riding on memory from one seer to the next, ancient as the spoken word. I can see the last of the species scribbling away in a feverish dream as the sun burns the ground, furnace in the lungs, every color flooding the mind, recalled in silence.