I love you

I love you.
Not because I keep your picture in my wallet
or on the cell phone screen
or on the silver frame besides our bed
or because the cards I give you
for different life’s occasions say so
or because this is the line we usually end our phone conversations with.
Even this poem and her older sisters
fighting hard over who becomes your favorite,
do not speak it loud enough.

The ladybug could tell you
the hours I spend talking about you,
how she gets jealous in the middle of the conversation
and suddenly leaves without an excuse.

The bronze man sitting on the metal bench
in St. George Boulevard
would acknowledge the evenings
I spend besides him painting,
how he admires the colors and tiny details
I always remember about you
the hair, the clothes, the accessories.
And every time I finish one of your portraits,
he is so impressed that he uncrosses his legs
and smiles showing me his greenish teeth.

You can also look within the crease of our relationship,
you will find a hidden routine waiting
for his chance to bite me
and to shed his venom into my veins,
how agitated he is becoming lately
for failing day after day to catch me.

And remember a few days ago,
when the birds woke-up startled
by a sharp and loud scream
shredding the night’s silence into pieces
and the lights got turned on
brightening the souls and the dark windows.
A scream was heard by folks already awake
in the other hemispheres,
its frequency made their bones gel
and had their hearts skipping beats.
Yes darling that was my scream
with the same words I shush every night into your ears
while you are asleep
I love you.

© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud

Cut and dry

Our relationship was
full
long
straight
smooth

and for a change
curly
trimmed
highlighted
reddish

and with time
short
thin
grayish
in need of conditioner

Why are you staring at me now that I am bald
and why
are you holding those scissors?

© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud

A bowl of fruit

He was asked to name fruits
with their native colors.
He did not know what to say.
He tried to deny the unexpected request
but they insisted.
He was assured many times there was nothing to fear.
It was just a regular test he had to pass to be qualified.
He hesitantly agreed.
They quickly brought a translucent bowl of fruit.
A colorless rainbow suddenly refracted over his face.
He closed his eyes.
After a few moments of silence,
he started to feel the colors.
Peacefully he called the bananas blue,
the grapes brown,
the strawberries beige,
and the oranges white.
He opened his eyes,
looked at them and smiled.
He has been confined for twenty years.
Every year he takes the test
and every time he is asked to reconsider.
He looks at them and smiles.

© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud

The ordinary

Thin and harmless
he has been that boy
eight, nine, and ten years old
nothing seems special about him
sailing in his own mind
glued to his thick dreams
slicing the blocks of imagination
racing for the identity of a grown-up
he starts his maturity in the corridor
balancing a plastic drug bottle cap
between his two bony feet
claiming he is Platini or Maradona
dribbling through imaginary bodies
showing flexibility, speed and skills fans die for
and when he gets the Ahhhhs in his ears
from the faces hanging on the wall
he makes a double-kick
elevating his wishes in the air
landing his bones on the cold tile
scoring a magic goal into the space between the two sides of the bedroom door
to add more legitimacy to the game
and justification to his legend
he switches loyalty between the two soccer teams
playing an honest defense for a few minutes
and simultaneously playing offense
he turns the old white refrigerator in the middle of the corridor
into one of his annoying adversaries
at night they make up when he visits for dessert
he is quick to get the plastic cap underneath the elevated black wooden base
squeezing his body between the bruised door and the wall
sliding in the open space falling for glory
he is also the referee
he decides when there's a goal and when there's foul play
When an offside should be called and who's guilty and who is not
and how solo games in life should be judged?
he ends the close game as the winner
unsatisfied, he continues his journey
by bringing history from the closet
knotting the blue bath towel around his neck as his cape
and the broom stick as his sword
he is Tareq ibn Ziyad
he is about to conquer Iberia
while peeing he plans the arrangement of his soldiers in the ally
his army should be aligned somehow in the road
connecting the living room and the kitchen
it seems inevitable that they have to cross the pond in front of the kitchen
created by his mother while cleaning
he shouldn’t attack on a Friday...
they should avoid the passage over the newly washed rug
the shoe marks would be easy to identify
bringing on a fierce confrontation with his mother
he would end up loosing that battle
he consults his plastic commanders sitting on the floor
while relaxing on his sticky leather chair
he decides to pull back and spend the evening in his camp
he put his sword on the floor and takes off his cape
convinced it was a strategic move

© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud

The sweat

Under the heat of thoughts,
the humidity of age,
the fabric of an old gray jacket,
I sweat memories.
They saturate the pores of my system.
I stink.
I blame two brothers: Apocrine and Merocrine.
I quarantine them on top of Everest
and send sister Sebaceous to the South Pole.
The freezing body stinks.
I rub my skin with spring water,
white sage leaves, Easter lilies
and remorse. The soft touch stinks.
I soak my head in relationships,
fountains of rum, barrels of numb,
and rivers of long naps. The floating dream stinks.
I hide in the Mariana Trench
neighboring the quiet sea cucumbers,
babysitting the little shrimps,
and painting a nude scale worm.
The exotic darkness stinks.
I join a cult.
They scoop the left side of my brain,
I chill it and eat. Still aware,
I swallow the leftovers
and sharpen my skull for Lars Ulrich sticks.
The muffled sound stinks.

After years of serving loneliness,
every night and before bed
I take off my gray jacket,
floss my ideas
and dry sweat with recyclable pages
I lay over the deserted shelves of a bookstore.
Every morning I wake up untucked,
dry
and covered with dust.

© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud

For my sake

Early morning
I make sure I keep no residues from last night’s shift
I offer no excitement for the crawling hours of the born day
With the fog I feel welcomed
I travel to get my large coffee with small cream
And my cinnamon raisin bagel toasted with cream cheese
The coffee is harvested by sweat from Brazil
The cream is collected from melted clouds underneath flying cows
The cinnamon is a rebel swami escaped from southern India
The raisin is fostered in a local farm outside Niagara Falls
The homemade bagel is the pride of a widow
The cream cheese is a Danish family’s wealth
And the toaster is heated with people’s arguments
In the thick queue I adjust the gray ponytail of the future
I place confidently my order
In exchange, I give away a loon, seven heads of moose, and couple of boats
All compressed in my small pocket
At the bus stop the cold faces are still waiting for a second chance at life
I lobby in the curious looks for loneliness
My daily ride to nowhere starts on the same dirty back seat
The bagel softened by saliva and strong coffee places the world under my teeth
My life has always been the few moments
I take a nap eyes half closed watching the buildings getting smaller and bigger
The sky getting zoomed in and out
The trees getting stripped and naked
The soul getting obese and sluggish
The running hours carry bodies of all colors, odors and shapes
Mixed as a paste, the empty tube gets stuffed
Forced to swallow the others expired air,
To fill the ears with the daily told stories,
And to carry an old man’s wasted hair on my collar,
I squeeze myself through the resistant bodies
I smell them and they smell me
I touch them and they touch me
I swear that we will never be that close again
Against Newton’s law and a father’s advice I jump
Or was I pushed
I hug the asphalt
I bleed from elbows and knees
Attracting no attention from the birds on the leased branches -
soon about to leave,
I feel ached
The light turns blue
I slowly stand up and I limp until I disappear

© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud

The island

On June 23 and November 29,
I moved to that island of mine.
I carried with me no luggage,
no worries and no expectations.
Even the conclusions I’ve collected over the years,
I donated them all to those in need.
I’ve been enjoying the island.
Early morning I float naked
above the clear fluid.
In the afternoon soft tics massage my muscles.
In the evening my eyes make sand clocks
barely running.
Every night I prepare Pina Coladas and Sushi.
We dance till dawn.
Insomnia is our hammock when I feel tired.

I decide to stay
I build a window facing the dripping salty water.
Through the foggy glass I glimpse the back yard,
a hole, a homemade box and flowers…
We’re still waiting for my body to arrive.

© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud

My kitchen

I throw out the frozen meat, the expired ideas,
The rotten relationships, and many leftovers
I keep the green heart, the fresh mind,
The juice of life, and sweet memories
I wipe the sink, the stove, and the floor with my sleeves
I dust the Chinese teacups I inherited from a garage sale
I apologize to the silver spoons I never touched
I separate the vinegar and the oil from their rusted set
They have been standing side to side for years
And they never cared for one another
I bring down the cleaver from its rack
Shinning there in pride amongst relatives of sharp knives
I put them to rest in the lower drawer of the cabinet
No more short cuts
I fill my scratched mug with black coffee
He lives through it all with me: the bad and the good times
I dim the light to its minimum
It occurs to me that my kitchen has no windows
A small table and one chair in the corner
I’ve never invited anyone to my kitchen
It has been always the hidden part of me.

© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud

Link: Kitchen by banana yoshimoto

Birthday...fatherhood...and a Poem!

Today is my birthday.

Do I hear screams of joy, hysterics?

Lately I do not celebrate my birthday as I use to do. I just acknowledge the event and spend it quietly. Growing up as a kid, my mother used to execute these big lavish birthday parties for my older sister and I, inviting all the family members; uncles, aunts, cousins -- and I have lot of them. It was also an opportunity for my mom to show off her great talent at making desserts, especially the birthday cake. She would spend hours making it. She was proud of her work and it didn’t hurt that she loved the sugar. When I was older, I had two birthday parties, one with my family at home and one with friends; going out to a restaurant or a coffee shop. During my Masters studies we used to have birthday traditions... for all graduate students, staff, and my two co-supervisors. We were a big group. We had four birthdays in January, two of them in just one week. I was one of those two. We were fed up with sugar that month. Remember Elaine's coworkers on Seinfeld celebrating every event at the office with a cake? We were like that!

Last year I spent my birthday with my wife, it was a special one as she was pregnant with our son. This year is also a very special one for me as I celebrate it with my son. But I have the feeling that it’s no longer about me, it's about him. Don’t get me wrong and think that being a father means giving up your life. We have to make sacrifices for our children but not necessarily give up our lives. I do not mind celebrating my birthday but feel as if I’ve already received my gift for every birthday I will ever have.

I never thought of myself as a father. For me everything changed the day my son was born and I could actually hold him with my hands. I will brief you on some of my thoughts and experiences.

1. I’ve become an expert in the different types of diapers
2. My son pees on me many times while changing his diapers (a tradition!)
3. I actually lost some weight from holding him and walking back and forth to get him to sleep; especially when he wakes up in the middle of the night. It’s good exercise.
4. I’m stunned by the new generation of strollers, their names (Bagaboo, frog, Cameleon...). I feel it’s like buying him a new car that has many different models! Myself, I still prefer the classic old ones.
5. I make a fool of myself any time anywhere so he’ll stop crying.
6. I do not mind if he becomes smarter than me…actually I hope he becomes smarter than me!
7. At the end of the day, I cannot wait to see him with his incredible smile. This is what keeps my days and my life going!

If you allow me,
I will tell you my story.
I was born in January
on the coldest day of the year.

Some claim it was raining that night,

Others did not really seem to care.
No irregularities were reported before birth.
I landed from the planet Uterus to earth
three hours after midnight.
Unlike other new comers
I faced the light with wide open eyes.

I was curious, I’m still curious!

Strangers dressed in blue and white surrounded me.
They referred to me as "a boy".
I did not appreciate their attitude,
They had their hands all over me.
I could not understand the language
I screamed and screamed.
They did not care and no one listened.

They cut me from my world with scissors.
I was too tired to fight them,
Too much noise
More strange faces kept coming.
I missed the darkness,
the sound of the beats,
and the fluid I used to swim in.

I closed my eyes and brought darkness back to my world.
I shut everything out.
I decided to sleep and the next day I would fight them all.
A few days later I forgot all about it.
They transformed me...
I became one of them.

© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud

The white coat

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a visitor.
Shadowed face.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a barber.
Clean shave.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a waiter.
Broiled eggs.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a dentist.
Tooth loss.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a veterinarian.
Turtle shell rot.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a friend.
Marriage survival.

He is wearing the white coat
He might be a Chef.
Filet mignon.

She is wearing the white coat.
She might be a model.
Pollen attraction.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a pharmacist.
Viagra pills.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a doctor.
Exhausted heart.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a surgeon.
Valve repair.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a scientist.
Cloning hope.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a neighbor.
Cold extremities.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be a grandfather.
Hat in hand.

He is wearing the white coat.
He might be an angel.
Waiting list.

© 2008 Khaled KE Mahmoud
Published in Poemata vol 23 no 2

The pillow

My queen size bed with two pillows
the top one for my dreams
the lower one for my head
I have always slept on my right side
facing the sunset, the whales, a wish,
the fish boats, and the Japanese islands
dreaming west, absolute west
until I came across her in one of those dreams
I brought her to my bed
I gave her the top pillow and half of my sleep
I learned how to turn on my left side
facing the sunrise, the heat,
her eyes, the desert, and the great pyramid
dreaming east, absolute east
One night after a volcanic argument
I asked for my pillow
Since then I lie alone
sleepless on the equatorial line
facing my back

© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud

A face

© Martin Gommle

He is sad
He never knew it
He wets his face with cold water
He looks in the mirror
Below the eyes a dark night still up
On the lips dryness seems alive
The black curly hair is decorated with silver ones
After forty years
He still keeps his four year old face

© 2008 Khaled KE Mahmoud

Fall of a month

© Martin Gommle

The sun is heating the clear sky
coloring it yellow.
The birds in transit on trees
are delaying winter flights.
The folks are welcoming the unusual
in the backseats of convertible cars.
And November is in trouble.

Daylight saving time circumcised
his first week nights,
the rest of the month is feeling swollen.
Weak, the wind retired.
Leaves and branches unionized.
Dry days left unmoisturized.
The fat river shrank in size.
A heated standoff you can say, well organized.

Once the favorite son of the fall,
November is no more his bully.
October behind is smiling,
December, half-brother, looks worried.

© 2008 Khaled KE Mahmoud
Published in Poemata vol 23 no 1

A clown

I have always been a clown
Even when I feel so down
I place a smile on the lips
I collect laughs as daily tips
For a broken heart under the ribs

© 2008 Khaled KE Mahmoud

When I love

I love her
I transform her to a bird
I keep in my thoracic cage
I call her a sweetheart
I cover every second with blood syrup

© 2008 Khaled KE Mahmoud
Published in Poemata vol 23 no 1

At the diner

Thanks.
I need no menu.
I can handle life,
I had it before.
Just give me
A cup of coffee,
A few drops of silence,
A slice of truth,
and lot of cheese.
Do not forget,
I always need a refill.

© 2008 Khaled KE Mahmoud

My dream is 5XL

My dream is 5XL
It’s hard to find
It’s not in the people’ stores
It’s not in eBay auctions
I feel over the years
It exists somewhere
I am always seeking my dream
Even if my life just fits a medium size

© 2008 Khaled KE Mahmoud

A few reasons why we broke up

1. I like coffee with small cream and no sugar
You like tea with milk and lots of honey

2. I am a humanitarian
You are a vegetarian

3. I read before I go to bed
You dream before you go to bed

4. I sleep in full darkness with wide-open eyes
You sleep eyes closed with the light on

5. I take an early morning cold shower
You enjoy a late night hot bath filled with lilies

6. Sometimes I write down my thoughts
You always email me your emotions

7. I consider candles a source of light.
You use candles for romance.

8. I am realistic.
You are optimistic.

© 2008 Khaled KE Mahmoud