This Glass Design


Poetry is dead in a world with no head,

A world with one body that plucks at its bread,

A hunger or thirst, no intellect to quench,

TerrorizingĀ the world while we sit from the bench,

Is there a light at the end of the tunnel,

Or are we foolishly tracing the fence,

All along a prairie of ignorance,

With all the more to keep our thoughts dense.

Hence, they have arrived,

At last to convey,

What message do you have to deliver today?

I peer out my window only to find,

A mob of white horses holding up signs,

In a world of apocalyptic political conjecture,

The distinction between propaganda and lectures,

Becomes that much harder to unwind,

But really who is at at fault for this crime,

This hidden agenda of fascist swine,

As though unhidden, the past its prime,

A catalyst to destruction, at last, divine,

And so we are left, where Nietzche wept,

Only looking half as fine, as we remain desperately,

Knocking on wood for good fortune in this glass design.



“He who is conceited cheats himself.”

A quote from my grandfather Yervant, a truly magnificent spirit in all his splendor. He came to this country in 1920 to study at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), the first ever Armenian-Syrian to do so, but was unable to stay due to troubles at home. I dedicate my pursuit of life’s wonder to him, from whom I have inherited this deeply embedded ambition.

youth in asia

My pride is rising,

Perhaps that is a bad thing,

Sometimes it’s a good thing,

in this life.

When I wake up for a cigarette,

Make music they pay for,

Love for, cry for,

I’ll be delighted then.

Remember Michigan?

Cold air and grey buildings,

misty breathe and my hotel by the mall,

the largest mall I’d ever been?

One day I’ll have a million stories,

I can tell you all again.

My imagination, I wish I let it spin.

My heart, I wish I let it sin.

My eyes, what do they see but air?

All this while that I’ve been in despair,

Will I grow the courage to leave,

My old self behind or at least that part of me?

a stream of consequence

All I want is to work,

Until at some point I may find,

The opportunity to succeed,

In doing what I do best.

Creativity, that art which flows,

so naturally to me composed,

of all the emotions I have yet,

None of which I do regret.

Only then may I find,

A peace that is everlasting,

For this is what my God would give,

To me a gift of words and magic.

That I would put my trust in Him,

By letting go of all so dearly,

held to me like pride and anger,

Replaced with love sincerely.

Now my task is to convince,

My closest family of my joy,

Music, art, and all the above,

And nothing else.

Letting go of all I thought,

I needed dearly, like karma,

and all the stories that weren’t clearly,

Except music, and the red head piano room.

There I lay sometimes in joy,

Others in sadness when my ploy,

Falls to bits because my friends,

forget the way the story bends.

And twists and turns like fortune,

Oh this poem never ends,

And all this time my purpose is,

To express my inner sentiments.

Trust in God.


The rooters would hate, lest they had one their own,

A lofty skill to appreciate as I do my stone,

My crystal palace, that hard headed dome,

Find it not, where t’is sewn.

Upon my shoulders, between this frame,

And the heavens, from where came,

That lofty gift of imposing fame,

My way with words, dare I blame.