The son of same sex parents speaks in Ottawa speaks against marriage discrimination. Absolutely worth your time.

End LGBTQ marriage discrimination everywhere. In Muslim and Arab countries too. In Jordan even.

The gypsy reads the tea leaves,
yet we believe in coffee beans - mostly,
besides minarets and food on the table.   

My mother -in her beloved concern- had asked her aunt to tell my fortune
I should marry a man. 
 
My mother’s aunt sets two chairs on a balcony lined with her childrens’ fresh laundry.
She is a widowed woman, who knows the dried fruit of Damascus
with wrinkles predestined to rule the hunger within the ragged allies swarming with ants and children playing survival  of the fittest.

She had prepared the pot of brown brew over a stove that gives out an actual fire flame.
Houses and people like these had never known electric plates,
let alone starbucks.
During my college years in the States I had countless moments of self discovery,

I learned I’d rather be straight than a capitalist,

and that I’d rather love hunger than love big corporate assholes.

My aunt asks me to drink her heavy coffee, and talk to her about what has been troubling me;
Her nervous temper gets the best of her, and she ignores giving me a second to answer instead she tells me why she thinks my capacity to love a woman is unnatural.

Apparently, I am more interested in her kitchen than her opinions on my love life.
I think to myself; the pot used to prepare my drink had been in a civil union with the
face of open fire for centuries;
its how it goes.
According to my aunt I should have rooted myself in some man’s tiles already,
I find myself not understanding whats so unnatural about two women
making love and coffee in a kitchen like that.

It happens to be my dream,
I romanticize her life, except I’d rather be remonatic with another arab woman as I live it.

I ask her how she makes her coffee.
Her voice trembles as if a concern-monkey is balancing on her voice-strings;
you add contaminated tap water to the pot,
then 4 spoons of ground arabica beans
then you stir,
then it boils,
then you take it away from the fire,
then you stir again,
then you pour.

Much like lesbian sex in the Middle East;
you add taboo to a bed;
then 4 spoons of trust that this chick does not tell on you;
then you stir her between her legs
then she sweats
then you stop stirring and you kiss her neck
then you stir again
then she pours.

I ask my aunt if coffee is unnatural too.
She ignores my question
and asks me to finish the coffee.
That’s the thing with Muslim Arabs,
they do not enjoy questions that make them question themselves.

I finish my cup.
She asks me to flip it and have it rest face down.
I suddenly relate to the cup, people around this side of the globe make me wonder if my face should belong on the ground with feet and flipflop toes.

She leaves me in my admiration for a flower pot next to the wall.
I try to think up a poem to match it,
or at least a line.

She takes the cup.
The coffee had left queer patterns on the inside walls.
She tries to read them.
Her face begins to look like the Prophet’s in cave Hiraq,
when he first received the message of Islam from God.  

Her son walks in,
asking about his lunch.
She leaves to prepare it.  

I leave to see my girl,
who I had missed.

She never tells me what she found in the dirt of my coffee,
it could’ve been something horrible.

I just wanted to thank everyone following my blog. It means so much to me. I dont know why. It also makes sick to my stomach, because I dont want people who know who I am reading this. So if you know me, please dont discuss anything I post here about my mental state with me. It makes me feel awkward and scared. But anyways, thank you so much for following, I mean it.

I haven’t been posting any new stuff because I am working on a new piece. I am currently transitioning from poetry to prose. I hope to publish a novel one day. My girlfriend might become my new producer, we are thinking about audio recording some of my poems/prose to put it up on the blog.

I had an interesting conversation with my mother this morning. She asked me if I have met someone at work I think I would date, and even marry. I said I dont plan on marrying anyone. That disappointed her, and I hate doing that. I have two older sisters who are not married, and my mom thinks I’d be the first among my three sisters to get married. This is true, chances are I will get married first. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure my kind of marriage doesn’t count to her. Sometimes, I even question the validity of my kind of marriage.

Funny thing is, I am dating one of my coworkers. My girlfriend moved to the Middle East recently and started working with me (FYI we began dating in college, way before we started working together). As you can imagine separating our love life from our professional life is very complicated, and difficult. What we are doing is quite risky in this part of the world. I am too scared to imagine how my father would react to all this, had he known who I really am.

I’ve been in a gloomy mood lately. I think its this medicine I’m taking. One of its side effects is depression. Knowing my past with depression, and the fact I am genetically prone to it, I knew that side effect would hit hard in my case. My uncle put a bullet through his head a week before I was born. I think all he left behind for me were his suicidal tendencies. I do not say this for sympathy, I hate sympathy when it comes to this.

Truth is, I have a pretty good life. But living at home doesnt help me, because it puts me in the same environment I was in as a child. I have witnessed a lot of domestic abuse when I was young. So, being around my parents puts me on edge, because I’m always scared something might happen. I have gone through child abuse myself, I mentioned that before, not by my parents, but by other people. That doesnt help me either.

But I agree with whoever thinks I shouldnt feel the way I do. It is extremely selfish. But I think I relate to pain well. It makes good art. I dont like thinking I am a selfish human being, I prefer convincing myself that I am brave. I am just trying to explore that aged unlit room creaking inside my chest. There’s nothing wrong with that. But, I am perhaps a bit grateful to myself, for not doing any self destructive stuff lately. I dont know why. I like doing it, but at the same time I know its unhealthy.

Anyways, I just wanted to keep you updated. I will be posting a prose poem soon, I’m pretty excited about it. Hopefully, I’ll post some audio stuff as well, but -as we all know- I’ll be risking my anonymity. 

I hope you’re doing well yourself.

Sincerely,

B.O