Che Voui?
When asked, you replied with a dismissive shrug of the shoulders. I noticed a ray of light
perpendicular to your temple, but as to the source of the tape, I was in the dark, the gloomy
Sunday. Your tongue comes forth as the emissary to the face, and to the amalgam of flesh, cells,
and molecules behind it. The debate takes place behind closed mouths, with cameras gathered at
the pupils to take a peek inside—but what must one do about the blinds? While you exercise
your charisma and absorb the attention emanating from the subjects around you, I forms a
question mark, soon to undulate to that familiar subtle wave of the hand, but I’ve grown numb to
the sting of the fangs, and the venom now manifests as a mere frown. The bouquet of
microphones in front of you are symbolic of every propaganda agent’s pandering in the world to
capture a bold word, one whose ability to thwart and distort far surpasses that of a Shakespearean
quote. You bestow on them empty phrases, weightless sentences, and a handful of common
idiomatic expressions. You know that to be better than X, y, and King, you need never utter the
procession of letters expected of you. The trick lies in the maintenance of the expectation, in the
keeping of them behind closed doors. The sun has a way of slanting possibility forward. When at
last they’re gone and it’s only us, will you indulge me with a silence pregnant with what they
really, really, really want?
Everyone Chickens Out
Why does the smallest disruption destroy me? I had considered myself a non-innocent child
when I went through the whole ritual. I saw the blades, ran around the house while my parents
stood watching, then succumbed to the pincers in my father’s right[eous] hand. He said everyone
chickens out when it comes to plucking feathers, thinking it would put me at ease, or so I
thought, or so it is benevolently retained in my memory. Maman stood aside, a passive
witness—was that a look of worry?—without ever weeping. If only I knew what I knew today I
would have wept shamelessly, as one last rebellious stance against destruction. Why are you
doing this? It never struck me to ask. I simply knew there were stages to this: 1. Intuiting 2.
Anticipating 3. Running 4. Succumbing 5. Becoming a fucking earthling. In elementary school
kids swore to seal a promise but here we swear to vent the spleen, instead of shouting: THIS
WORLD IS FUCKING CRAZY, AND I WANT OUT.
When the deed is done, and the drama plays on TV, we’re one close-knit, happy family, sitting
around the living room, basking in the sunshine of adulthood.
Mahdi Meshkatee is a UK-born, Iranian poet, author, and artist who has struggled with deciphering the human condition for as long as he can remember. His poetry, creative nonfiction, and visual art has appeared or is forthcoming in Ink in Thirds, GAS, The Ekphrastic Review, Nude Bruce Review, Carolina Muse, and elsewhere.