by Mahyar Afshar
Again, I check my appetite. None for work or play.
None for doing.
To do is to want is
to call down on your head
another cycle of wanting. Each little
eating one bright aril in Hades.
A malign efficiency in the world
is accruing. Fed
by doing’s light machinery.
I hear it creak, engaging
overhead, as on a knuckled chain—
like a lift that passes by
with, over and over,
the offer of an empty seat.
Am I a fugitive?
In the white field I’ll lie down. Fear
barges my heart open,
but I’ll keep quiet and still.
If I just don’t do, eat, fuck, work—accrue,
maybe time won’t
Mahyar Afshar lives in Chicago and has worked in the (mostly unpoetical) fields of insurance and logistics. Born in Iran, he grew up in sunny Southern California, leaving him grossly unprepared for his later life on the cold steppes of the Midwest. He holds a BA in English from UC Berkeley. His interests include poetry, hiking, cooking and putting on airs with his shaky knowledge of foreign languages. Find him on Twitter at @rhymesw_afshar.