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    you flowed in between the bed sheets,
    your forms adapting to creases, folds, pleats,
    never breaking your wholeness
    like a gigantic drop of mercurial flesh
    playing havoc with my eyesight,
    other senses dulled into insubsistence... or almost.

    careful!!! I wanted to shout
    seeing you approach the middle of the bed
    afraid you might thin to paper
    and flow between mattresses to soak into some unplastered hole in the floor
    and leave nothing behind. just clothes,
    and who needs clothes? as I mentioned
    and you obeyed, unquestioning.

    paralyzed, I couldnít shout.
    I couldnít even move, even fall,
    could one be paralyzed rigidly upright
    hands hanging
    mouth open, drooling?... no, drooling had nothing to do with paralysis
    neither certain rigidities I did not mind.
    I would not mind, if I could move.

    coming? the alien seemed to say or gesticulate or both
    changing from one amorphousness to another
    in something that could have been called languorous
    the mercury way, or freshly spit magma way, or porridge
    and I still could not unfreeze
    my eyes glued to tremulous breasts and quivering belly and liquid hair
    afraid the flesh blob will either swallow me whole
    or repel me all.

    since when do mercury blobs deny gravitation?
    I asked my dwindled intellect
    watching the blob stretch into some formity, displacing the air around it
    as it arose, migrated my way through unclear propelling means
    and penetrated my textile hideout
    removing it as inelegantly as possible
    and preparing me for ingurgitation.
    do they always taste you before swallowing you?

    lover?... a worried voice came from somewhere,
    the tasting over
    and I let myself be carried to the altar
    laid down on its wrinkled whiteness
    and accept death as the flow of flesh slowly covered me, inundated, assimilated...
    hey, I was still alive, neither swallowed nor repelled...
    well, a bit of both but...
    lover?... the same voice again,
    this time sleepy, as the flesh poured away from me.
    funny, I thought, mercury derivatives are not supposed to be sticky,
    but being alive was already an improvement on earlier anticipation
    so I did not complain.
    not to mention the phantasmagorical humanoid that materialized next to me
    reviving the rest of my senses
    and licking my lips clean of salt
    and of that inebriating, persisting, invasive female species perfume.


The Woman Screamed

    The woman screamed.

    The woman screamed rain,
    she screamed lust,
    she screamed sighs.

    Her way to scream love.

    The woman borrowed her dreams from others,
    she borrowed her dance from others,
    she did not own a sky so she stole from others, from me.
    The scream was her own.
    As her love.

    U2 blares Desire from a 6+1 system
    followed by Uriah Heep blaring Lady in Black from the same system.
    Santana blares Black Magic Woman.
    I turn the volume higher
    until the sound in my car is as thick as swamp,
    not Elvis this time, Iím in no mood for romance,
    I want to hear her scream
    Her love.



    To unexplore your body,

    my explorerís dream,
    to drag you back through the one way street of time
    and I donít give a damn about other dimensions
    to re-instate your youth
    your unbitten nipples
    your hymen
    just to rip them open once again... no, not once again,
    just to rip them open
    once. Single. I.

    My explorerís dream.

    You slide alongside, aroundside me
    your youth long done
    your nipples long bitten
    your hymen long forgotten
    slithering all snake all muscle no bone
    every night, every time, every touch
    the eternally pebble breasted young virgin again and again and again

    and I relive my explorerís dream
    every night,
    every breath,
    every touch.


Magnificent Pleasure

    My flesh dismounts your flesh,
    a shivering lump of meat rends asunder along an undefined sweat line
    no anesthetic within reach
    none wished
    horrific pain a welcome tribute to its dead sister -
    magnificent pleasure,
    our baby.

    You wake to life,
    the seconds ago debacle visible only in breasts heaving half way to ceiling,
    your cupped palm culling a few of my tears
    a few of my sweat drops
    you taste...
    you crush a grape into the concoction
    chewing delightedly the result
    and offering me some of it on tip of tongue to tip of tongue,
    we chew together mixing teeth, tongues, lips, hips...
    ď...donít cry...Ē
    you smile between tears,
    ďshe will soon relive,
    then again,
    then again, eternally...Ē

    you say
    as meat lumps turn anew flesh lumps
    and flesh lumps join into that flesh-flesh continuum...
    ď...told you so...Ē
    you find a last mouthful of talking breath before losing all of your living breath
    and magnificent pleasure relives.

    Your flesh dismounts my flesh.
    How many times? Who?

    We count suns by shadows
    and seas by waves
    and deaths by the carrouselling magnificent pleasure
    again and again and again.



    I remember a mountain.
    I donít remember the mountain,
    I remember the woman on the mountain,
    maybe it was not even a mountain
    but there was no mistaking the woman
    for womanhood
    as she bit the rotting pillars into palace
    and the crumbling kiosk into golden baldachin
    and my lips into mincemeat with both my teeth and hers,

    I remember hands.
    I donít remember whose
    invading intimacies growling inside hidden cottons
    cowering underneath unhidden cottons
    all of it and us beneath a roof held together by cobwebs and flowering bindweed
    and heavenly slime sticking to our fingertips
    together with torn threads and curled hairs
    into bricks,

    I remember forgetting.
    I remember shame and innocence and world just to forget it, all,
    even passers by, even passing elephants... no elephants passing?...
    even ravens cawing envy and squirrels cawing ravens
    and four-leaf clover chewed by you and swallowed by me
    and balloons
    and garbage trucks
    and discarded underwear
    as I took you and you took me and we took us there and then and again
    and the mountain but a gigantic turtle
    and we but human bugs infesting the belly of the universe
    biting life again then biting life again then biting life again...
    who gives a damn about Alzheimerís?



    October. Howís the weather? I asked,
    the line cackling with static.

    Oh, the sky is blue.
    My heels sink in melting asphalt.
    Cherries hang ripe and apples hang heavy
    and cafťs teem with old people sipping cold beer,
    and ladybugs fill my palms - one black,
    and butterflies fill my eyesight - counted seventeen, maybe sixteen
    counted one twice
    while barefoot children war trees and dogs and traffic wardens with wooden swords
    dipped in ice cream
    and the wheat undulates, golden,
    and the sun burns my eyelashes, gently.

    Hey, donít you mix it with summer? I asked.
    No. Though, probably, I mix it with my heart, she said.

    I hesitated. Define insanity. Then I pulled out the sweaters
    and threw in a few t-shirts, sunglasses.
    At second thought I added also a tube of sun-screen.
    One never knows. Insanity might be contagious.



    You whispered about sunsets,
    sunsets clothed red velvet
    and dreaming of sweet dew
    crawling to bed inside yawning daisies,

    You painted butterflies,
    butterflies in phosphorescent hues
    flying on thin columns of air
    and getting lost in the sunsets,

    You invented colors,
    colors shimmering between oak roots
    and up gnarled trunks
    lining squirrel nests and tails...

    ...while I talked breasts, and thighs, and lust.

    We undressed, we neared, we touched.

    ...and I whispered sunsets, and butterflies, and colors.

    You talked about breasts,
    breasts with rebelling nipples
    demanding to be quashed by fists
    and extinguished by lips,

    You painted thighs,
    thighs opening to encircle the waist
    then closing to crush the spine
    and suck the boiling essence of nectar,

    You invented lust,
    raging moans invading my ears
    clawing hands ripping my flesh
    biting teeth tasting my blood...

    I back to breasts, you back to sunsets. Etc.
    Are we sometimes animals? you asked.
    We are always poets, I answered.


Bat Blindness

    She was blind. Like a bat.

    Where are you? she asked,
    looking above the spectacles, then underneath,
    even through.
    She squinted,
    tried the spectacles upside down, then left right... one never knows,
    she even tried wearing them on the nape of her neck,
    turning around,
    ridiculous, as you may well imagine.
    Are you here she asked?
    Bat blind.

    She found me. Easily. Like a bat.
    Under the endless whiteness of the bed-sheetsí desert
    she found me, easily.
    Whatever sight it was she used - infra? ultra?
    the bat in her fingertips located me as easily as an Everest in a Sahara
    homing in on each of nipples
    and each of hair ends and each of reality parts your imagination cells
    lets you define. Shamefully or shamelessly. I didnít care even if you do.
    Hey, I thought you are as blind as a bat, I said.
    I am, when I wish to be, the way I wish to be, she answered.

    I tested her again next day,
    hiding her spectacles.
    She fooled me. She closed her eyes.
    There was nowhere I could run so I didnít,
    one doesnít argue superiority of senses, sight included.
    You cheat, I complained for the protocol.
    Do you mind? she asked with her fingertips.
    I didnít.


Knees And Sunsets

    She didnít sit on my knees.
    If I sit on your knees I will never get up, she said.
    She sat next to my knees
    feeding the birds
    and telling me of sunsets.
    Better sunsets, they are the end before the beginning,
    she went on with irrefutable lover logic,
    before she started feeding the cats.
    Tell me when you move on the jackals, and bears, and lions, I laughed
    and she laughed back
    moving on to jackals and bears and lions.
    It is humans I am scared of, she said,
    humans leave with sunset.
    They return with sunrise, I complemented her earlier logic.
    No, they bring the sunshine, she said
    squeezing hard into me, with the rest of the animals squeezing into her.

    She fell asleep on my shoulder,
    crumbs trickling from between her relaxing fingers
    for those fearless gulls who disregarded the jackals and bears and lions
    and squawked angrily at the occasional invading sparrow.
    You greedy beasts, I stamped my foot at them,
    which they disregarded.

    I woke up with a start
    and caught her jumping up and away,
    flush chasing her cheeks the way she chased the sparrows.
    I touched my knees,
    they felt unusually warm.


crabs and things

    your skirt tied high, mid-way between decency and indecency,
    your shirt opened wide mid-way between indecency and decency
    with tiny crabs biting your toes
    and huge oysters shooting pearls your way
    not always round,
    sometimes in pairs,
    sometimes in salvos, sometimes straight into sea-weed garlands
    hanging down from your ears.

    I tried to draw you on the wet sand
    but waves kept stealing you away
    then I tried to rush after you
    but the tiny crabs called upon their big brothers
    finally I settled down to collecting the pearls that missed you
    and building coffins for my poems.



    You hairy beast, she said.

    I watched myself in the mirror -
    a billiard ball was hairy, I was not.
    You hairy beast, she repeated
    making it slightly clearer and much more painful.
    I guess I deserved it.
    Fools deserve anything coming their way,
    pleasure seemed to be part of the deal as well.
    Intense pleasure. Screaming. Hers. Ours.

    You funny guy, she said.

    I descended from the bed
    put on her panties
    over my head
    hooked on her bra
    behind my neck.
    Thatís funny, I said.
    Thatís sexy, she said
    pulling the panties down
    until my head popped out where her leg should have been
    then pulling the rest of me down
    unless if I wanted to end up with a third leg
    then dressing that same part with her body
    until I did not care anymore who screamed.
    Even if it was the neighbor one floor lower down.

    You lover guy, she said.

    I did not react.
    She planted linden trees,
    waited for them to grow and bloom
    then bathed me in linden-flower essence.
    You lover guy, she said.
    I did not react.
    She chewed cherriesí pits with applesí seed with grapefruitsí peel
    waited two seasons for the wine to ripen in her mouth
    and abused my drunken body.
    You lover guy, she said.
    I did not react.
    She collected shells
    and listened to them
    humming each odd oneís note and filling each even oneís cavity with beads.
    She did not say anything.

    You lover woman, I said.

    She spread her wings to fly
    and I hung on the her belly
    making love to her flesh
    while she showed me the mountains as they should have been
    and the seas as they wished to be
    and the sun as it has never been and shall always wish to be.


Various CAPITALizations

    I think that my poetry changes
    not. With time?
    Sorry, you make no sense. Spelling? Punctuation maybe?
    I know. Probably because I donít know.
    Or because I rush
    everyday less more.
    Define. She sounded like HAL
    but she was my lover. I wish I was as articulated. As HAL.
    Part of the rush. Was supposed to say
    every day less rush more.
    Trying to re-invent the language.
    Pretentious for a non-native English speaker, no?
    Took her some time to digest, I wondered which part of it was tougher.
    No. Poets allowed. She diverted from HAL to GPS.
    At least GPS allowed choice of sex. I mean woman sex.
    I mean sex of choice, sex of voice.
    Yeah, reminds me,
    reminds me itís long since I wrote a rhyming poem.

    I said the last sentence aloud. I think I did.
    She moved my hand from her left breast to her right.
    Breast, of course breast, what did you think - liver?
    Do you know that livre means book in French?
    I didnít want to sound pompous, just literate.
    And anyway, I did not always control the links and associations in my brain
    especially when she moved my hand elsewhere.

    To me you sound like Romeo,
    choosing a roseís petal every morning
    to drink its dew
    before writing on it his love poem to Juliet.

    Looked like my handís last position had a different influence on each of us.
    She stopped sounding HAL or GPS and was on her way to MARYLIN,
    through BILL of course.

    I always dreamt of wineís demise
    When vineyards cradled in your eyes
    Declined the right to bottled tomb
    And asked for sanctum in your womb...

    Mmm... sanctum sanctorum?
    Your imagination is... different, you know?
    I know.
    Of course I knew, after all I was the one writing these lines.
    JOHN? I volunteered,
    meaning the Cleese fellow, of the Python thing
    Like SOLOMON, of the Canticum Canticorum thing.
    You mean the one that cut children?...
    My envy was showing above my smug satisfaction,
    and the fact that I was still writing these lines had nothing to do with either
    (yeah, sure...)
    ...and had one thousand women
    (you bastard...)
    ...split between seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines
    (you are going to pay for it...)
    ...and... OUCH!
    Ouch was a sound, not somebody
    and was capitalized and exclamation-marked for pain emphasis reasons.

    If I had choice of own demise
    Iíd choose the kingdom of your eyes
    And for the petals on my tomb
    Defile the flower of your womb...

    She had no more use for my hands,
    It was her turn, and the turn of her hands to make themselves useful.
    And they did, OH! heavens, they did.

    Oh was a sound... etc... etc...



    I edited your body.
    Not much, didnít find many typos,
    though I tried desperately to find some... you know,
    and you told me I took too long on some paragraphs
    and that they should be re-written as pornographs.

    I emphasized several times the iís. Not the capital ones,
    those donít have a dot on top,
    the others,
    I kept pretending they all missed the dot, my finger poking and poking...
    I wonder if you guessed my mind.
    Maybe you did,
    Otherwise how could any of us explain that short, sharp
    It wasnít pain. Iíd rather have my finger cut than causing you pain.

    After finishing with the iís I went after the oís,
    one of them your belly button.
    Some even more interesting,
    some even having yielded already to my earlier i invasion
    and I blamed the mix-up on dyslexia...
    yes, dyslustxia, you reflected loudly
    turning this way and that
    to allow me access to ever more oís, some quite big.

    Thatís two letters, you said there are still lots to go,
    also words.
    I preferred to leave words out of my scope, that would have been too obvious
    and you would have guessed what my real goal was.
    I preferred to keep playing the sly.
    Shall we go Hebrew? I asked, there are a lot of dots there.
    What about Arabic? you answered, even more dots.
    You know what? I will settle for Morse, I countered,
    fifty percent dots.
    You know what? you counter countered, I will allow you to cheat,
    you can skip some lines, keep mostly to the dots.
    You did not have to say it twice.

    Thinking back to that time, I think you were pulling my leg,
    but I have no proof to it.
    And I donít think I will ever try to get any.
    Because tonight we are going Braille.
    Dots. Dots only.


an autumn's vista

    raining leaves, yellow,

    I step into the soft death,
    my shoes sinking
    as death turns to dust
    dust to long, thin tentacles covered villous powder
    wishing the rest of me to follow
    my clothes magically disintegrating upon my skin
    as I wait for other shoes to sink into me
    turning me to dust...



    it was her nature to kill the mood,
    and I watched her chasing first a squirrel
    then a Rottweiler chasing her
    then a Zwergpinscher chasing the Rottweiler
    then a crow chasing the Zwergpinscher...


    until she fell into me
    trying to get in between my coat and flannel shirt
    steaming like a dragon
    just after eating the daily virgin...

    you and your sick imagination...

    not that she minded my imagination
    once I started parting her hair in strands
    and braiding into it dry twigs
    with thin, broken, petal-less poppies
    and yellow leaves.

    ripe. beautiful. dead.

    even the squirrel and the Rottweiler and the Zwergpinscher and the crow
    sitting side by side
    all heads cocked left except for the rebellious Zwergpinscher, of course,
    watching me sing
    and her sleep.

    where are you Themistokles von Eckenbrecher?

    sinking sun
    started painting red
    inside a strange scenery.
    a human couple asleep, under a tree.
    a random mix of tails and furs and feathers
    asleep just across from them.
    and raining leaves, yellow,



    it doesnít matter if sound born
    along harmonicaís brass reeds
    or up wind chimeís wooden rods
    or between broken lips against concrete wall as lover invades lover
    with little regard to civility or civism or civilizedness
    the huffing music tearing at bricks
    before letting drops of pearl
    litter bare toes
    and rolling all the way to sea
    and greedy oysters,

    it doesnít matter if sound drives through needle ears
    riding torn threads
    or bounces off alligatorís tooth
    before sinking in the heart of dead wood
    or finds its way from loverís fingertip
    through shirtís buttonhole
    rounding up flocks of breasts and bevies of nipples
    upon the slopes of ribs
    and down the slopes of pelvis
    milking wine from the insides of awaiting, burning vineyards,

    it doesnít matter King Davidís harp
    or King Solomonís harp
    or Marx Harpoís harp
    when fingers stretch from palms to eternity
    rolling along the way around bedpost knobs
    and tabletops
    and fallen treeís rotting roots
    with pairing fingers playing havoc through chromatic and diatonic and orchestral harmonics
    and through guttural exhalations fit for broken violins
    and disintegrating heavens... if there were more than one.


Peeping Tom

    Pulling the blanket, gently,
    further away, slowly...
    no, donít!... you didnít, Morpheusí mysterious arms your cradle
    while the lubricious appendages ending mine
    kept pulling the blanket
    beyond your spine
    beyond your waist
    beyond... beyond... is it gulp or stutter or... beyond...

    I just sat, watching. Just. Probably more
    if I had eyeglasses to measure the steam leaving my body
    by the number of wipes I would have needed
    or condensing drops
    dropping, what else?

    Skin. It is probably illegal to possess such smoothness at such age
    and donít tell me you are not twenty years younger than me
    or thirty or whateverty,
    your foetal position leaving no secrets undisclosed
    no mysteries undiscovered
    no curl concealed if I only cared to look closer, I did look closer.
    Suddenly I was five years old
    playing doctor with the neighborís five year old girl
    awed at discovering the reason why girls wear earrings,
    only girls...
    she told me,
    I believed.
    I was discovering the same reason again,
    with the additional knowledge of desire, abstention, lust, torture...
    skin... smooth, beautiful... beauty.

    You moaned, moved slightly.
    I didnít see more, there was no more to see
    if not hidden eyes rushing side to side wildly
    under eyelids,
    which godly lover were you chasing at that moment, lover -
    Adonis, Apollo, Angus, Groucho
    (Marx, the only G, he had to be different, what else?),
    Ammon, Anshar, Aegir, Agayu, Groucho...
    (sly this Groucho character)?
    Or were they chasing you
    fighting each other to death (all except Groucho)
    with sword, mace, axe
    while you fed yourself grapes
    offering the winner your breast?... whisper... whose name did you whisper
    your skin suddenly coming to life
    like coarse sand, like grains of salt, like a raspís teeth?
    Caught. Flagrant dťlit. Red-handed, red-cheeked, red.
    ď...what are you doing?...Ē
    It wasnít a question, merely an incoherent moan
    translated by my obvious guilt into manifest mea culpa
    and lashing.
    ď...what lashing?...Ē

    You turned the other way,
    the foetus now facing me. What moron said there was no more to see?
    One limp breast falling on top of another limp breast
    one inflamed areola kicking out one inflamed nipple
    above another inflamed areola kicking...
    a tuft of curls asking for independence
    barely visible under the belly,
    thighs sleek, freshly shaved muscular shaped threateningly powerful
    toes... twitching?
    ď...please... scratch my toes...Ē
    My cue.
    Maybe not, but who was there to question my interpretation?

    ďWhat was that?Ē

    You knew what was that, I did not have to respond.
    We ended on the balcony tiles,
    I dragged the blanket underneath you
    once we finished exchanging corporeal comments about my interpretation
    and as you gratefully curled foetal again
    I started cleaning the glint away from your body
    with wet cloth and long motions...
    ď...I remember...Ē giggle, present... ď...my inner thighs were so clean...Ē
    following which I dragged the blanket next to the bed
    and with a big heave (you had put on some weight, you know?)
    I lay you on the bed again.
    You were asleep before I could cover you. I did not cover you.
    Did not want to wake you up... ď...yeah, sure...Ē
    instead I started inspecting very closely
    for possible damages to your skin
    probable birthmarks I may have missed on previous occasions
    and the improbability of shadows...
    please, open your thighs, slightly... yes, sorry,
    I am terribly near-sighted as well as forgetful
    have to count these curls again, may I?

    There was no answer. I started at one
    and with every few of them there was a sigh from somewhere around your head,
    I could not keep from wondering -
    who else was in the room?



    to the flowers,

    talk to them red,
    talk to them yellow with blue stripes and black eyes,
    talk to them freshness of early dew
    aromas of lilacs and perfumes of jasmines and somnolent bees
    opening petals
    sticky pollen on puppy noses,

    to the flowers,
    you know their language
    you are

    what about me?
    oh, yes,
    I talk to flowers as well.
    we are family.



    I am on the mountain,
    I know it was just a hill,
    still, Iím on the mountain,

    There where you gave me your shame
    your four leaves clover
    your yellow butterfly.

    The school in shamelessness
    for our hands
    the broken roof to the blue
    and the missing windows
    to chirrups to running dogs to bees

    Had it been celluloid
    it would have melted.
    Had it been cotton
    it would have torn. It tore.
    Had it been rain
    we would have soaked into the grass with beetles and hail
    and mud, most of it ours.

    We sat in the tram
    your shame melting between sticky fingers holding sticky fingers
    your four leaves clover in my wallet
    your yellow butterfly in your cameraís solid state heart
    your head on my shoulder
    my hand in your pocket
    sucking in the fire the fire the fire...



    She finished a full scan of my body
    six consecutive times.
    At present, she was well into the first ten percent of the seventh time.
    She did it with such minute attention to detail
    that if I was the blushing kind
    I would have finished all the reds in the world,
    with their surrogates.
    And started borrowing from the yellows by now.

    She poked a flabby portion, I care not to mention which.
    Flabby, she said, wrinkling the nose, then kissing.
    Once, when I was weightlifting this was hard muscle, I said.
    There it is, still, under the flabby.
    She pushed deeper, feeling for the hard. She didnít look utterly convinced.
    She started poking another flabby portion, letís keep the anonymity, okay?
    Flabby, she said, kissing.
    Once, when I was wrestling this was steel, I said.
    She seemed to find some of it under the flab layers
    since she didnít make a face. Not immediately, at least.
    Youíre losing your hair, she said.
    Goodness, I was losing my hair for the last twenty five years,
    no one was balder than me except maybe a billiard ball.
    And that one was a it not a he. High time for her to pay attention.
    Once, I had as much hair as Rapunzel, I said.
    She kept investigating my skull for a full hour,
    probably ascertaining that Rapunzel remark.
    Whatís this blonde hair? she asked.
    Aha, so she wasnít just ascertaining my past Rapunzelity.
    You have a pimple here, she said, too embarrassing to be specific.
    Once I had more, I was the king of pimples and hormones, I said.
    And youíre king of what now? she laughed loudly.
    Now, this was a direct insult to my kingness... or whichever the hell was the word,
    if my pimples and my hormones were so dissatisfactory
    why did she keep investigating?
    She reached a spot that I did not mind letting the question go unanswered
    as long as she kept investigating with the same thoroughness as until then.
    You have some lipstick marks here. Of course. She added some more.
    I guess there was an idiotic grin on my face.
    Shut up! and I knew exactly what she meant. So I shut up.
    As punishment she went back into flab investigation
    pulling, poking, stretching.
    You have two ankles.
    Most people have.
    You have two knees.
    Most people have.
    You have two...
    I certainly hope so.
    You have one...
    It wasnít really the moment to discuss flabbiness,
    once so much less evident.
    Shut up! And she started removing the previous lipstick leftovers,
    carefully, attentively,
    then started the usual pulling, poking, stretching
    applying new layers of lipstick just to remove them moments later
    and pull, poke, stretch...

    Shut up!

    Her onceís were part of an history I preferred to disregard
    feeling my once muscles and once steel and once hormones gathering under my skin
    turning flaccidity to desert storm
    and flabs of flesh to flesh ripping fangs
    and her discourse turned
    inane gurgle.

    Scan eight was under way.
    She poked my belly making sounds of tsk-tsk tsk with her tongue
    she poked my tit making sounds of tsk-tsk-tsk with her tongue
    she poked my ass making sounds of tsk-tsk-tsk with her tongue,
    I did not tell her.
    I craved for someone to poke my flabs.
    To search for the muscle, steel, hormones,
    do unleash my storm and die willingly under my fangs,
    I probably craved for her.


once, again

    you told me you were young.
    you lied,
    you were younger.
    even three days later.

    you were afraid of my hand
    touching your breast.
    is this the reason
    you guided my mouth

    i believed in poetry.
    i stopped.
    after knowing you
    i started worshipping it.

    i made love to you
    for the first time.
    i always made love to you
    for a first time.


La Vie par Procuration

    Lie next to me,
    stop breathing.
    No, donít worry, stop breathing,
    let me take care of it.
    Stop thinking, yes, you can, same as breathing,
    stop thinking, dreaming, feeling... stop!
    All your bodily functions - chewing, itching, digesting... peeing?
    Yes, I will take care of that as well,
    donít ask, just... stop.

    Are you alive? Told you so,
    now let me breathe for you.
    With my fingertips.
    Soaking the carbon dioxide from the tips of your skinís tiny hairs
    and feeding you back oxygen through same channels,
    through the corners of your lips
    and the areolas of your nipples,
    feed you the smell of blossoming orange orchards and crumbling autumn leaves,
    the salt of sea breeze and the smoke of burned toast and whiffs of crushed nuts
    and lilac,
    oh, forests of lilac...
    Are you alive? Told you so. Now you want to see how I do your thinking...
    and your dreaming too?...
    Feeling as well? Arenít you making a mish-mash of it all?
    Close your eyes.

    Are you alive? Told you so,
    now let me think for you. Now let me dream for you.
    Now let me feel for you as well... too late... no changes allowed,
    itís already pouring,
    do you drown?
    I let words by-pass your ears straight into your memory paths
    weaving carpets of poetry
    in worlds of shifting sands
    before descending along the insides of your lashes
    to sculpt thoughts straight into your irises
    alongside with colors seen only by baby bats
    and contours sensed only by inquisitive octopuses
    and warmth suckled by blind pups beneath a fierce bitchís belly
    before the first squeal and after the last lick,
    I tie dreams in garlands
    and hang them from pine tree tops
    watching through your eyes sparrows swinging on them
    and storks swooping underneath them
    and hawks tearing them to shreds
    to drop the shreds on your squirming nakedness
    as you fight my body into you and your fingernails into my spine
    and drops of sun into your closed eyes alongside comets and black holes,
    I steal sensations from dead dinosaurs had they lived
    from wilted snowbells had they not wilted
    and goddesses making love to gods had they existed,
    I steal knowledge of sensations from you had you not allowed me to feel for you
    and hope for sensations had I allowed you to hope
    and crave for sensations had I allowed myself to crave while you were your own
    and had I not feared to be ripped into same size shreds as the garlands of dreams
    by the fierce bitchís fangs and the inquisitive octopusesí beaks
    once you would have known it
    and owned it.
    Are you alive? Told you so. Whatís next?
    Chewing? Itching? Digesting? I knew it... peeing.

    Close your eyes.

    And as you drag me behind you the way a lioness would drag a dead zebraís carcass
    my teeth hooked un-zebra like in your flesh
    I make love to your unbreathing, unthinking, undreaming body
    stealing your sensations
    your chewing, your itching, your digesting
    and for the love of hell I care not if you pee all the way to nowhere
    while I join you there.
    And after some time, you didnít care either.


English Is Such An Imperfect Language

    Pull up your panties,
    well, if you find enough evidence of them
    to sew back into the once lingerie pride.

    Your bra... now, where is the other half?...
    tataaa... here it is. Funny, I distinctly remember the clasp an S shape,
    this one looks more like an inscription in Arabic
    dots included. Here - one dot, and another, bigger one.
    NO, this hole in the middle is not MY finger,
    it was YOUR nipple, look, the split edges are from inside out
    not from outside in,
    see? see?...

    Your shoes ARE intact. Almost.
    Thereís nothing a little fast glue cannot solve.
    I have a better idea, letís remove the other heel too,
    this way you will be... ahm... closer next time.
    What do you mean to what? Youíll never make it even close to Miss Marple.
    So what if she wasnít a Mrs, you think she wouldnít know,
    do you know her first novel was called The Murder at the Viagra?
    Vicarage?! So whatís the difference,
    she WOULD know. She always saw further beyond,
    I guess she saw further below too. Why do you giggle?

    Hereís something you will not giggle about.
    Here are all the buttons to your silk shirt, ALL of them.
    And here is the shirt. ALL of it.
    We just have to bring them together,
    somehow. That I do it?
    And how would I know which was to which hole?
    Whoís an idiot?
    Okay, I will find it, I read all of HER stories,
    I know how to solve a mystery.

    Your skirt is longer. Better,
    no one else will see you knees, hehe.
    All we have to do is pull out the thread, like that, see?...
    now iron out the hem line... hmm... we need an iron.
    NO, my ass is NOT an iron, you should now better than that,
    here, see, soft like a babyís ass.
    Maybe yours... ouch!

    What about the pantyhose?
    You forgot already, huh, sex does funny things to you.
    We used them last night to drain the water from the pasta,
    aha, now you remember,
    remember where I pulled the last noodle out from? aha... you do,
    and remember where YOU unwrapped your last noodle from? aha, you do...
    and remember how insulted I was when you called IT a noodle? aha... you do.

    Your glasses? I stepped on them,
    they were the wrong number anyway,
    ha, calling IT a noodle. Hey, what are you doing,
    what do you mean you want to check it again,
    what do you mean you... want to... test it again,
    what do... you... to... taste...?...

    missing onomatopoeia... English is such an imperfect language...



    I followed to her side of bed.
    She followed to the floor.
    I followed to the floor.
    She followed to the bathroom.
    I followed to the bathroom.
    She sat.
    I sat on her.
    This is ridiculous. Maybe even sick.
    No, not sick, sick is dirty. Now I have to wash my mouth.

    Iíll give you better reason to wash your mouth.
    I gave her reason. Several reasons.
    She did not. Wash her mouth.

    She followed to my side of bed.
    Human bodies are not built as accurately as plastic injection molding pieces,
    she pushed, squeezed, wheezed, rumbled, cursed, forced...
    finally we molded to each other,
    even more accurately than plastic.
    Kind of restrictive, kind of repressive,
    kind of... give me another word that ends with Ďiveí.
    The world started with Eve.
    No, word, woman, and i-v-e, woman.
    You donít have to shout.
    I donít shout, I shouted, her ear buried deep somewhere in my anatomy.
    Addictive is a bad word.
    Addictive is a bad word in a good way, she said,
    licking her lips. Licking me on the same occasion.
    She kept molding. I stopped moaning and groaning
    and started enjoying.
    Not that I did not enjoy until then.

    She took some more reason to wash her mouth. I gave her.
    Then I took similar reason myself, moderately quantified.
    You can take more, she said.
    By the way she reacted, I decided next incarnation I will be a woman,
    even if I had to bear children.
    But until then Iíll suffer heroically in my manly shape.
    Stop complaining.
    I wasnít aware I was complaining loudly,
    she gave me good reason to complain further
    by giving herself good reason to wash her mouth further.
    I wasnít anymore sure about next incarnation.
    Next incarnation I want to be a dildo.
    A dildo is an inanimate, soulless item.
    Inanimate? did you see them shiver?
    Next incarnation I want to be a woman.
    Well, one of us had to have brains.

    She molded further,
    making sure we both had our dreams start coming true.
    I had no choice but to follow her.
    ĎNo choiceí is probably an oxymoron to something.


The Word

    What is the word
    if we take out the metaphor of a galloping sun
    chasing a sea of evasive sunshine always a few miles ahead
    to never meet in that dark room hosting the gallows
    wherefrom both will thresh wildly
    as death slides through skin inside skin under skin ending with a shared heart
    leaping out of body
    to wail its own departure
    from the moment?

    Is it f?

    What is the word
    gutters linguists intelligentsia whores sailors bored housewives use
    when short of words temper mind
    to tell of nymphaea buds exploding inside lungs into fire edged petals
    before climbing the endless tunnels to enkindled mouth caves
    fomenting the rebellion of teeth cutting their way into alien flesh
    and tongues wiping the nectar of alien flesh
    and alien flesh sizzling then reaving then rotting
    into roses dying
    on their own thorns.

    Is it f?

    What is the word
    hiding inside Romeoís
    she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear...
    inside Julietís
    bid me lurk where serpents are... to live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love...
    inside Petrarcaís to Laura
    era il giorno ch'al sol si scoloraro... chè i bè vostr'occhi, donna, mi legaro...
    inside silver sweat beads we share under unshared blankets
    when mountains the color of starless worlds split our tensing fingertips
    and silences as loud as roaring waterfalls cut our lips
    and while a universe is born somewhere
    another dies inside clenched fists
    waiting for imminent re-birth
    inside clenched tangled howling

    Is it... f?


The Lilac In Winter

    Your palms smell like lilac, I said.

    Your hair-ends grow lilac flowers, I said.

    You look like a living wreath, I said
    and you shook your mane the way of unbroken mares
    disseminating blue petals into the world.

    I never drank lilac wine before, I said, refusing to wipe my lips,
    why do people call lotus what should be called lilac, I said
    drinking again, getting drunk.

    You laid your lilac white body on the sun yellow canvas of wet sand
    and gnome lilac bushes started sprouting alongside your forms
    skipping the budding stage straight into blossom.

    How does lilac grow in the sand, I asked
    watching a swarm of tiny mermaids flipping their way from the sea
    pouring mouthfuls of sea water in the bushes
    then flipping to the sea again in an endless cycle
    until a giant sea lion dragged its bulk nearby
    and all the mermaids squirmed upon its back,
    tiny tails flittering, tiny breasts bouncing,
    looking more like a football stadium
    packed to refuse with miniature cheerleaders
    chirping lilac stories and lilac colors
    and lilac you.

    I gleaned a fistful of lilac flowers and rained lilac over them.

    Have you ever made autumn lilac love, I asked
    watching the sea lion and its priceless load sink back into the sea
    and send waves crested purple lilac
    to wash your body.

    Your nipples bloom, I said.

    I have made spring lilac love, many years ago,
    I skipped summer, I fear winter, you said.

    Your nipples bloom, I repeated,
    your lips a garden,
    your thighs an orchard.

    I invaded the beauty
    and autumn rose
    raising its fist to crush lilac flowers into the potion
    oozing down from your breasts
    spilling down from your lips
    flooding down from your thighs.

    You rushed into the sea
    and the sea turned blue.
    Autumn lilac blue.



    It was the last question, the ultimate,
    the question of the last chance before empires tumble and crumble
    and lizards take ownership of gold and ruins.

    And if rockets carrying seeds of gigantic mushrooms
    that donít need rain and donít need rot and expect no culling
    start flying,
    what will you do?

    There was no way I failed this question.

    I will hide inside your robes
    digging my way through endless coats of cotton and peels of silk to one layer of female
    and I will call it skin
    before robbing it of innocence into knowledge
    to ask its forgiveness for pleasures previously unknown
    and soon to come
    and soon to end
    and complex epodes I will never write again except inside that texture
    you call flesh.

    I passed with flying colors
    then flying garbs
    then flying splinters of wood and shards of pebble and geysers of breath
    and one would not have guessed
    it was not that gigantic mushroom paying an unexpected, unwelcome visit.



    stand still, I said,
    knitting the woolen cloth directly on your naked skin,
    starting from heels upwards
    as I kneeled in front of you
    eyes fixed horizontally not on the horizon
    knitting needles missing the wool more than once
    and piercing my fingers more than twice
    yet refusing to watch anything else but the horizontality offered to me
    until finally the knitting reached the end of your thighs
    obscuring my view
    my dream
    my trance...

    did I lose the thread or the count or the step
    when I decided that I had to start all over
    unthreading all the work down to your ankles
    and starting upwards again,
    my horizon filled with interest

    will you ever finish? you asked, cold shivers running parallel to my thread
    enriching both design and horizon.
    I am tiring, you added.

    I let you lie down, lifting your feet on pillows for support
    and feeling like a Rodin sculpting in wool
    I started at the ankles again.

    it wasnít easy, my position as uncomfortable as you can imagine
    with me astride your chest
    my hands trying to reach down to the ankles
    the cat starting to play with the wool ball
    and you suddenly interested in the proceeds as well
    as your hands suddenly started doing things that had nothing to do with knitting
    and everything to do with disturbing me deeply
    and with pendulums.

    I gave up wool sculpting, forever.
    I cut the leftovers from knee to ankle
    pulled your thighs apart
    and invested myself fully in another domain of the art of knitting - that of short curls.

    it was a supreme effort,
    worth every curl and every single drop of sweat.


too late, later

    I leave
    a trail of fire
    hidden inside the covers of my books
    to be found

    too late, later.

    I build suns
    with dots of i
    and hells
    with crosses of t
    and if Iím still cold with heartís winter
    I open my mind
    and let it sink between your breasts.

    I seed
    shedding behind me in a sea of wandering dunes
    to sprout into sunsets

    too late, later.

    I build seasons
    with open mouthed oís
    and orchards
    with a sweep of my comma
    and if in my inebriation I demand even more
    I call for a blossom between blossoms
    and let it sink between your thighs.

    I paint
    their names strange their colors inexistent their lives unwritten
    to open their wings

    too late, later.

    I build pleasure
    with elongated lines
    and touches
    with endless stanzas
    and if my hunger opens gaping wounds at the ends of my fingertips
    I burn my books to cauterize the pain
    and let the ash sink around our dying throes.


I Really Try Romance, Really

    I must be sick, no other explanation.

    I want to build chimes
    with rhymes

    I crawl through fields strewn with daisies
    culling petals with batting eyelids
    and pulling roots with groping fists
    my teeth green with the sap of truncated stems and my nose yellow with stamenís fluff
    chewing with a hungry mind all beauty into the mush of ink
    for my calligraphic dream to drown in and my index fingernail to dip in
    and smear on paper celestial words
    and heavenly thoughts

    and yet, again... I end between your thighs.

    Sick, no?

    I want to hang from the wings of birds

    I mingle my aquarelle with dew
    and sneak upon treetop nests
    to strew drops of magic on tips of wings
    then sneak upon mountaintop eyries
    to strew drops of sunset on deadly beaks
    after which I drop all the way to Earth through craggy rocks and pointed stumps
    the colorful potion waiting in my mouth to splash upon a sunburned meadow
    where I will paint my last of green on the last of blades of grass
    and my last of red on the last of petals of roses

    and yet, again... I end between your thighs.

    If this is not sickness, what is?

    Remember, you bit me?
    Remember, you bit pieces off my shoulder
    and your stiletto ends of fingers marked scraggy trails between my ribs
    and I asked about your being inoculated against all transmissible diseases
    animal mental sexual cosmical
    and you said ďnoĒ, remember?
    Now I am sick, see?

    I want to pray
    for flowers dead in May

    Please, make sure
    next time you come donít you dare get inoculated.
    Against anything.

    If to die
    I want to die... between your thighs.



    You see the world in pinks and blues,
    In clumps of whispered I-love-youís,
    I sink inside the creaking bed
    A sight of lips in autumn red
              invades my head
              and paves my mews.

    Your feet drag dreams across the floor,
    You tango between sink and door,
    I follow you through worlds of light
    One tile to left, one tile to right
              of raw delight
              and craves galore.

    You hum a long forgotten note,
    It might have been a sigh I wrote
    Upon the whiteness of your breast
    With loverís skill and loverís zest
              to pad your nest
              with verse and quote.

    You let me tear your human shield
    And rape you in a pastelsí field
    Then sew you back, with ribbon bow,
    With spider thread and midnight glow,
              with melting snow
              and flames unsealed.

    I watch your lips, as butterflies
    Forgo your smile to fill the skies
    Your thirst allayed, your spirit fades
    Inside a world of pink charades
              till morningís blades
              cut through my eyes.



    one two three, one two three...
    thatís a waltz, I specified unnecessarily
    following with
    one, one two, one, one two...
    and thatís a tango,
    unnecessarily again, just hiding my embarrassment
    moving around in my underwear
    with her undulating in a bit less than that
    her breasts at a distance measured in negative terms away from my chest
    and her hair crackling with static,
    I guess in absolute darkness I would have seen blue sparks at hair ends
    and auras around areolas
    if these would not have been on their way to exit my back by now.

    letís make love she begged.

    this there is the Ursa Minor, I whispered in her ear,
    and this there is Mars, I added,
    and the big one is the moon...
    and the blinking one is an airplane, she complemented the lesson
    with knowledge of her own
    whispering all the way from my ear to my mouth
    and all the way back
    making sure the moisture left one way is dried the other way around
    lest mould starts growing on that cheek,
    and she wiggled tighter into me
    with me crackling underneath her
    with the chair crackling underneath me
    with the floor crackling underneath the chair
    and I donít think it was related to my sitting in my underwear
    and she sitting in a bit less than that on me.

    letís make love she begged.

    the bad guy shot the good guy,
    the good guy shot the bad guy back and almost shot another good guy
    but there were a lot of other bad guys jumping around
    and the good guys kept helping the beautiful girls and the old ladies
    to cross the road
    under fire
    and then there was a bomb threat
    and the president got involved while playing golf
    and she started snoring softly alongside me dressed in a little bit less than me
    and I got a stiff neck dressed in underwear,
    hey, I tried to wake her up towards the end
    when only the bad good guys were dead
    with the good bad guys helping the good good guys get rid of the bad bad guys
    and it was too late nevertheless to make love.

    letís make love I begged.

    I hoped she would be more considerate than I had been.
    she insisted on equality, though. I had to get rid of my underwear.


probably not calculus, methinks

    you are dance.
    or maybe the other way around.
    does it matter? equality is bi-directional... or is it maybe non-directional?

    I and you... hmm... you and I.
    same bi-directionality idea, I guess
    though completely different context,
    the result as well. actually there was no result higher up, just a statement,
    there is a result here.
    something like storm
    something like hurricane
    something like cataclysm... no, cataclysm is negative
    and the sum of two positives cannot result in negative...
    something like sun. better?

    I times you. now, this is a conundrum worthy of my worthless talent.
    letís try you times I. bi-directionality ok. result problematic.
    meaninglessness meaningful, I mean - meaningless,
    I mean meaningfully meaningless... I mean... what do I mean?
    I wish it would have been a programmable world
    where if time is love and times is loves then I times you is I loves you.
    hmm... strange, who the hell is I? and if you loves I... you? who is this you?
    maybe I miss else if.
    I think Iíll give up on times.
    Iíll give up also on root, log, power of and the variety of brackets. no trigonometry,
    thatís for geeks. not poets. especially hungry poets. all.

    divide. what about divide?

    you divided by I. meaning? not easy. close to impossible from the other side,
    the impossible plus side. if you get my drift.
    I divided by you?
    now, this makes slightly more sense.
    like when teeth illiterate in the rudiments of mathematics
    divide me into squirming pieces of flesh,
    like when primitive fingernails counting barely from one to ten
    find twice as many vertebrae to exercise such primordial abacus skills
    as pulling apart the whole disorganization of frame and beads and wires and body,
    like when I explode into perfectly uncountable shards
    liquids and solids and plastics inosculated into perfectly endless tails of comets
    to form underneath you a perfectly consciousless mess of humanity
    and its smoldering desire.

    science fiction? no, dear stranger, none such.
    life. raw, rapacious, rapturous life.



    You are beautiful.
    Just like a high class whore
    but, contrary to her, you are beautiful.

    You enjoy it.
    Just like a high class whore,
    the gasp, the shriek, the heavy breath, the nails, the quiet.
    But, contrary to her, you enjoy it.

    You lick me clean,
    just like a high class whore.
    But, contrary to her, you lick me clean.

    So? Whatís the difference? she asked,
    pulling the nipple from my mouth
    and her hand from all over my body.
    Though she knew.

    For her, it is a profession, I answered.
    For you, it is an art.

    I woke up with the nipple in my mouth
    and the rest of her around the rest of my body.
    I guess it was a good answer.


Leaving You

    Leaving you.

    so much easier. Nothing.
    Soundless, colorless, senseless. Even bodiless... well, takes some time.

    Leaving you.
    Not like dying. Not like nothing. Like... leaving you.
    The hoofbeats in the skull the sun glare in the mirror the boiling oil on the skin,
    I try to make myself laugh and ask - is it olive oil?
    The skin doesnít think it a joke
    sending cataclysm after cataclysm to irrigate my veins
    and tell me of collateral damage. Sanity collateral. Damage.
    I know, thank you.

    Leaving you, barefoot,
    with all your ten toes and the pair of ankles and knees sliding outside my palm
    or, the other way around,
    Leaving you tussled
    with hair rolling like worms around my fingers and bat legs upon my face
    and rests of it in my mouth that I keep spitting and cursing
    for not strangling me,
    Leaving you,
    leaving you, naked,
    leaving you naked like a newborn butterfly like a newborn shark
    like the newborn scream
    I leave behind with you
    naked. Why does it scream if it has you

    Leaving with you my teeth marks - will you keep,
    leaving with you my splits in your stockings if they can still be called stockings -
    will you keep,
    leaving with you my your fusion, yes, my your fusion - will you keep
    inside your mouth beneath your breast between your thighs
    will you keep?

    The moon has gone to lands beyond the everlasting glow
    To tell of seeds inside the ruts of fateís impassive plough,
    Of sprouting buds beneath the sheet you lay upon your bed
    When I return to pluck your life and feed you love instead.


Opus: The Physicality Of The Impossibility Of Expression

    I wish I had less self-confidence
    and more talent,
    not that I have much of any.

    I wish I had less money
    and more success,
    not that I have much of the first or any of the second
    or any chance to have any of either.

    I wish I lived on a deserted island
    with one woman, no soap and seventeen dogs
    hyena-fanged and mongoose-spirited and puppy-hearted
    humanity excluded, cruelty excluded, atom bombs excluded.

    I wish... I wish... I wish... sounds like a boy scout poem
    I wish nothing. I live. Absurd thing, life.
    Three hundred sixteen miles. Twelve dollars. Five degrees, Celsius.
    Nine sins, nine wonders, nine millimeters,
    not seven, nine
    one less than fingers
    one more than byte
    two sins beyond mortality, you,
    two wonders beyond mortality, you
    nine more than death and eternity less than eternity

    and I wonder if it is the ozone in the air or the mushrooms at dinner
    or the pollen count way above the threshold where people sneeze
    and people choke and people die.

    Writing fluent nonsense,
    is it something like madness or like autism
    or like a running nose with no handkerchief in sight, in city, in country,
    no handkerchief ever invented?

    Pause. Block. Not mental, doesnít exist.
    Logical. Reasonal. Conscientiousal. Dictionarial.
    I have the idea
    I donít have the words. Just the feel. The mood.
    The physicality of the impossibility of expression.
    Not emptiness. Abundance or its synonym glut or its synonym opulence.
    Of desire, of no words, of the desire to explode because of the no words.
    Like a Beethoven cursed with hearing cured,
    like a Cicero cursed with stutter striking,
    like Joshua the Warrior without Rahab the Whore.

    I roll on my side scooping a palmful of breast
    and seeing the mound refuse to come to mouth I guide mouth to the mound.
    You incohere, she mumbles, acknowledging the shortcomings of English
    when addressing this particular lover,
    and moves slightly to allow mouth to better cohere with the mound.

    A concise history of humanityís benefactors,
    Eve the shy, the lustful, the expelled from
    Jesus the Jew, the teacher, the nailed to
    Martin the black, the courageous, the murdered by
    and none died in their bed,
    then I try to run a concise history of humanityís ugly
    and have to give up on concise and even on short
    and give up. I never give up. I give up.

    Someone drew a yellow heart on the pavement.

    Cars move left and right in front of my window, excuse me Mr. Car would the alien say.

    Shakespeare, did he really write his masterpieces, I wish I had a time machine.
    Everyone wishes he had a time machine. Or she. Or it.
    Yes, it, dogs trees tables. There is a crumb on the table.
    Incohere, sure, easy for you, you sleep with your breast in my mouth,
    I am the one with my mouth around your breast
    trying to make sense of the world, of his world,
    of dogs and trees and tables. There is a crumb on the table.

    I donít think I had any infected mushrooms at dinner.
    Last time it was a year ago.
    And it was not mushrooms, it was asparagus.
    And it was not infected, just over-boiled. A dog barks.
    You pull your breast away from my mouth, it is stained red and blue
    you put the other breast in my mouth,
    you donít even have the decency to wake up for the transfer
    just pop out pop in of its own volition like a glass roving over an Ouija table
    singing songs a dead Elvis never sang but would have wished to.
    Or da Vinci. If he was a singing performer the way he was a painting performer
    no one would have remembered him,
    arts and their built in cruelty
    some residued (yeah, trying to say leaving residues),
    some ignored, forgotten, puff, snubbed, like never was,
    like me.

    I moan pitifully and pitilessly and full of self pity.
    Self pitying again? she asks. She still doesnít wake up.
    It is like she had an automated answerer in her mouth
    triggering on certain cues without waking up its mistress.
    Hey, wake up, I want to shout, I want to make love,
    but I cannot shout with a mouth full of delicious meat, or flesh, or nipple or whatever...
    I scold at a dead moth hanging upside down from an invisible thread
    on a long deserted spider web.
    Maybe the spider is dead by now too. Maybe if I bite your nipple. No reaction,
    spider or woman human.
    Damn Morpheus and his panacea to all humanís ills.
    I try to take leave but the breast follows me... hey, itís alive! itís alive!

    Where are you going? she asks, still sleeping. Miracles of women lovers.
    There are no miracles of male lovers. Smaller breasts.
    True, there is compensation, and she grabs the compensation. Women lovers, ha.
    Even asleep. She snores. Incomprehensible. Better said she incomprehenses,
    yes, new word, what the hell, Iím poet... or shall I say I poet? being poetical and shit.

    I sit up. I refuse to have my life dictated by a breast in my mouth. I sit up.

    She faces me. Lying on her side, asleep.
    Breast falling on breast.
    I try to push the top one up but it falls again. I wonder if it is gravitation.
    What else, I wonder. Stop wondering, I stop wondering.
    The skyline of her body far from shaped after my rib.
    Rather shaped after my dream, my incoherence, my desire,
    my mushroom slash asparagus induced hallucinations.
    I touch her ankle with my finger. She shivers. Even the dead moth seems to shiver,
    even the room, the building. I donít know about the continent,
    I donít care. Why do you shiver?

    I let my finger trail up towards the side of her knee
    is it the same shiver, maybe there is a continent wide earthquake?
    along the side of her thigh,
    her thighs squeeze together trying to take control, I wish they would part
    trying to take control,
    I reach the place where I wish she would turn on her back
    with my finger keeping position,
    wishes, wishes... wishes again? She doesnít turn on her back
    and my finger descends towards her waist parting upwards again
    along her rib cage.

    Iím fat, the dinosaur mumbles and all I can feel are bones
    and skin and muscles and tendons and fangs
    biting small pieces off the tip of my finger
    and I donít remember when it was I found my way into the lair
    and my finger between its jaws
    when she shakes her mane... she? her?...
    and turns on her back... her?...
    before she... she?... starts doing something with her thighs,
    with my spine, with our bodies,
    her... love, I whisper, looking upwards at the dangling moth,
    this poem is still classified general public.
    Love, she whispers back, her actions moving into indescribable though
    if I wanted I could probably fit description to fiction,
    love, then it is probably high time for you to stop writing



    Under the cherry tree
    a low branch
    a green cherry my mouth closed around it
    Waiting for what?
    I cannot talk, my mouth busy,
    she gives me a pen.
    Waiting for it to ripe red.
    Youíre crazy.
    She has a point.

    Three days later.
    Under the cherry tree
    the low branch
    the green cherry and my mouth around it.
    How will you know it is ripe?
    I will feel it is red.
    Red is a taste?
    She doesnít know, she was never a cherry, she was never my mouth around a cherry.
    Yes. I just want to get rid of her.
    Did you pee?
    Not a question I would expect from her.
    I scribble a skullíníbones then a Superman then a moon,
    she doesnít understand
    and she takes off her bra
    then her panties
    then makes a head stand and falls among the nettle. She is allergic to nettle
    I donít care.
    Youíre crazy.
    She scratches madly. She has a point.

    A week later. Of course I peed, during the night.
    Under the cherry tree
    same branch
    same cherry, same mouth around it, mine,
    She gave up. She shaved me, she washed me, she brought me clean underwear
    and helped me step out of the old and into the new.
    She even cut my toenails.
    You look like a werewolf.
    It was a compliment. Usually I was a mouse. She claimed mice make best pets.
    So I wasnít a pet anymore.
    It became clear once she brought a wooden spike and a mallet.
    Thatís for vampires, I scribbled. You need a silver bullet.
    She wasnít convinced, though she dropped the spike and mallet.
    But she kept chewing garlic.
    Youíre crazy, I scribbled.
    One of us is.
    Probably both.
    Certainly both.
    She peed in defiance next to me and left for the house.

    Next morning she was still stinking of garlic.
    I was asleep.
    Under the cherry tree
    under the branch
    under the cherry, my mouth no longer around it.
    The garlic stank woke me up.
    She was mesmerized,
    looking at that proud, round, shiny, fire-red cherry hanging right above my mouth.
    And now, are you going to eat it?
    I scrambled to my feet
    plucked the cherry with fatherly gentleness from its stem
    pulled her chin down with other kind of gentleness
    and dropped the cherry in, pushing her chin upwards, closing the gap.
    It was that garlic.
    For you.
    I had to catch her before she hit the dirt.

    She woke up chewing.
    You a-r-e crazy.
    She spelled it, not I.
    The garlic didnít bother me in her about to follow.


cherry, two

    our fingers

    Romeo and Juliet
    nail and plank
    Sodom and Gomorrah

    not very positive
    very suggestive

    the industrial swish of sliding zippers
    the romantic rustle of sliding silks

    we shared death

    our fingers

    do you want me to run naked in the streets holding an olive branch in my hand?
    what about a flower laden lilac branch? she giggled.
    itís winter.
    you offered running naked.
    I mean the lilac.
    same for the olive.


    a cherry.
    itís winter.
    a cherry - perfectly round, deeply red, exquisitely juicy, with a long green stem
    and a shapely green leaf attached to the stem.

    itís winter.
    you asked.

    one wish, the tiny fairy had said... when was it now?... long ago,
    after I gently talked her life out of the spiderís embrace
    and before she flew out through the window pane,
    she could not fly from a spiderís embrace but she could fly through a window pane.
    one wish, only.
    you can be the richest man in the world,
    you can be perfectly healthy, you can even be immortal.
    can I end all wars? I asked.
    it has to be personal, said the fairy.
    can I end all, hunger, disease, pain in the world? I asked.
    it has to be personal, said the fairy and flew out through the window pane.

    your biggest wish?
    my biggest wish.

    I closed my palm
    I opened my palm
    a cherry - perfectly round, deeply red, exquisitely juicy, with a long green stem
    and a shapely green leaf attached to the stem

    she closed her eyes, tight
    she opened her eyes, big

    how did you do it?
    magic, I answered enigmatically
    watching her chew slowly
    and she laughed
    cherry blood oozing from the corner of her mouth

    kiss me

    I tasted her lips



    like a flameís smoke
    like a flame

    undulating in random perfection
    descending from hips to toes
    only to rise again
    through thighs ribs arms all the way to ends of fingers
    guiding wafts of air
    on their way to drunken perdition

    Rob Thomas
    and your body is a whip
    about to lash turning snake about to lash strike turning wave about to lash strike foam

    curves wiggling their way through an ungodly obstaclesí range
    starting with ring 10 through nut M10 ending with beading needle... 10...
    sure, what else

    and as Smooth reduces you to smoke
    I am reduced to whimpering human watching you sneak through fingers
    on the way to Olympic glory and Zeusian lust.

    it stopped. thank God. the music.
    you land on me, laughing,
    and I break the record. taking no chances.
    some smoke still collecting in your eyes from wherever you did go...
    hey, was I there or?...

    ok, lie to me. I donít mind being called Zeus.


kingdom games

    at the middle
    of the center
    of the heart of the flower a country

    at the middle of the center of the heart of the country a castle

    I hereby
    decree you
    queen of the castle

    your first decree, míam?

    I hereby decree you king of my country
    minstrel of my castle
    slave of my passion

    and your second decree, míam?
    my second decree?
    yes, your second decree about mice and rabbits and hedgehogs and brontosaurs.
    I hereby decree mice and rabbits and hedgehogs and brontosaurs herbivorous.
    pardon me, míam queen, if I may say so, but they are already herbivorous.
    oh, is that so? then I decree them free and I decree you herbivorous.

    I looked at her
    her nipples piercing the darkness around them like stiletto blades
    the air around them shivering like around a candle flame.
    there will soon be moths, I said.

    what impossible?
    herbivorous, me.
    how will I eat your toes and bite your breasts
    and take with me chunks of lips as breakfast and lunch and dinner.
    is that all?
    I didnít want to mention the obvious. it is, well, obvious.

    there were moths gathering. this was for the night.
    I guessed there will be butterflies with morning, around her mouth.

    I still miss the second.
    regarding mice and rabbits and hedgehogs and brontosaurs?

    I didnít deem it necessary to answer the obvious.
    even if she was queen and I was slave. I was slave only to her passion.

    I hereby decree mice and rabbits and hedgehogs and brontosaurs
    kingís knights and queenís pets

    that made sense

    do I have to use a sword?
    for the knighthood?
    surely not for the pethood.
    I donít have a sword.
    use your nipple.
    itís too short. maybe you do it?
    donít be rude.
    I have a plastic sword, it is deformed.
    that will do.

    what about T-rex? she did not mind the moths, they were butterflies too.
    for knighthood?
    for herbivorhood.
    we should ask lady T-rex, I snickered.
    sheís plastic too.
    then none of them would mind.
    I love you, we said, and we didnít know who said it first,
    it would have needed a photo-finish kind of equipment.

    the moths went where moths go mornings
    the butterflies fluttering above her mouth

    I knew it.
    you knew what?
    I preferred to keep it mysterious so I didnít answer.

    in the castle
    at the middle of the center of the heart of the country
    at the middle at the center at the heart of the flower
    a queen sleeps
    surrounded by sleeping mice and rabbits and hedgehogs and brontosaurs
    and T-rexís
    and moths and butterflies
    and words from a sleepless king minstrel slave

    sleeping words? the sleeping queen asked the sleepless king minstrel slave.
    another one I did not intend to answer
    even if it meant getting my head cut. anyway, she was asleep.

    I took a pencil and balanced it on the tip of her nipple.
    I spent the rest of my royal life watching it. the nipple.


Feudal Justice

    Just turn on your side and consider denied
    Your plea to preserve a last vestige of pride,
    My jury and fury decree this young houri
    Will carry the wrath of my cravings applied.

    From dawning of night into morningís first light
    To drown in a sea of dementing delight,
    To soak in my stroke and your gods to invoke
    When vanquishing shivers your hunger ignite.

    From pine between sighs driving drought between eyes
    Through blistering nipples imploring reprise
    Remiss in my kiss as you tread the abyss
    With pennons ablaze between smoldering thighs,

    To build trepidation with cruel privation
    And once you will curse me to hell and damnation
    Your need and your greed with inferno to heed...
    Then crawl to your feet in distressed adulation.



    I resonate with the sounds,
    my brain resonates with the sounds...
    I guess each to his harmonics and resonance frequencies
    where brain cells of reason disintegrate and inner bridges tumble the endless void
    towards annihilation,
    never reaching, endless voids are endless before they are voids
    and the rest of me collapses
    cells of bone cells of flesh cells of skin
    along with that perversely pervasive chemical plaster holding it all together

    until I start undulating.
    watching you undulate ribbons ribbons of your own bone and flesh and skin
    struggling to keep upright as they fight gravity and wind and buoyancy
    your random body kept together by the inhumanity of clothes
    and leather belts
    and silk straps
    with Yellow Moon enveloping and penetrating and melting
    and belts
    and straps
    until all that is left is ribbons of your skin

    and mine.
    we undulate into tangles
    then we undulate into knots
    and after the knots finish exploding we know that Yellow Moon is over
    and the radio dies
    and cars flash left and right of our immobilized tin box
    while you pull down your skirts
    and help me pull up my textile inhumanity
    and your head leans on my shoulder
    with your fingers fumbling around the radio buttons looking for other harmonies

    and my hand shakes on the steering wheel.



    I feel so sad and all alone
    Like a child without a bone...

    Child? You mean dog.
    Huh? Oh, ok...

    I feel so sad and all alone
    Like a dog without a bone,
    I feel so sad without your bliss
    Like a pod without its peas...

    What hmm?
    Careful with peas, some people might hear piss,
    you know, p-i-s-s... .

    Aha... then maybe cheese?
    Cheese doesnít rhyme with bliss,
    it rhymes with, say, wheeze. .

    I see... listen...

    I feel so sad and all alone
    Like a dog without a bone,
    I feel so sad without your cheese
    Like a pod without a wheeze...

    Pods donít wheeze. .

    I started losing my patience.

    I feel so sad without your wheeze
    Like a pod without its cheese...?

    Sounded a bit strange even to me.
    I wheeze? .
    Thatís not what I meant.

    This poem was going nowhere,
    it was getting me nowhere too.
    I tied her to a tree with her pantyhose and stuffed her mouth with a tomato.
    That should have provided me with
    a sufficiently supporting greatly enhancing creative environment.
    It was without counting on her ingenuity (she ate the tomato)
    and her ingenuity bis (she squiggled her skirt above her waist).

    I feel so sad and all a bone
    Like a dog without a loan
    I feel so sad, I need your piss... ahh, peas... ahh... bliss
    And the pod needs a... kiss!...

    Ok, it was a lost case,
    not so much over the sound or over the skirt fluttering around her waist
    as rather over what the skirt was not fluttering around.

    I untied her,
    licked away the tomato sauce
    and tried another kind of poetry.
    I was better at this one. Proof?
    No vocal interruption, not as much as a cluck...
    wait a moment, screamed the poet in me, cluck rhymes with...
    Shut up! she said.
    No, no voice was necessary,
    the mouth has a wonderful ability to express itself
    even without vocal chords.


Sour Cherries

    She was picking cherries.

    Since when do you climb trees in a skirt, to pick cherries?
    These are sour cherries, she answered, as if it had anything to do with it,
    dropping the deep red marbles in a hanging basket,
    and I never climb trees in a skirt, she added.

    I never contradict a woman,
    certainly not one picking sour cherries. Even if she is wrong.
    A lesson I learned long ago.
    I moved underneath her, looking carefully upwards,
    just ensuring she was safe
    one never knows
    she might as well forget where to place her foot and someone should be there
    just in case she slipped or something.

    I kept looking upwards
    I kept looking upwards
    I kept looking upwards
    the pain in my neck unbearable but her safety counting above all.
    She moved left, then left again,
    then she bent,
    then she stretched her left foot to reach a remote branch
    and stayed like that for a whole five minutes,
    mighty dangerous, I couldnít lower my eyes even for one second,
    not even when the neighborís dog peed on my shoe.
    Safety, you know, above all. She climbed higher, then lower,
    I followed obstinately her moving shape
    my eyes fused to her... aaa... safety
    trying to shake the neighborís dog off my leg, he had other ideas.
    I guess three topmost vertebrae in my neck fused to each other too
    but I was a natural, dedication to the mission to the end,
    come rain or thunder or...ĒGet off dog, get off dog!...Ē

    What are you looking up at? she asked,
    picking the basket in one hand
    and slowly climbing down with the other.
    I couldnít tell her the truth, she hated when I worried about her well being,
    a white lie was appropriate, I guess.
    Peeking at your panties, I lied, worrying about my nose.
    She laughed, taking out from the skirtís pocket a ball of white cotton
    which unfurled from her holding fingers
    very much into the shape of the subject under discussion.
    The dog grabbed it and ran away, yapping happily at his trophy.
    Liar! She waited, watching my nose-end,
    then when it didnít grow she repeated Liar!

    I wondered if it was confrontation time.
    After all she was the mistaken one earlier on,
    if she still remembered. Women do have a tendency to memory blank spots.

    She filled her cupped palm with sour cherries
    and stuffed her mouth full,
    then let me have some as well, half chewed. I mean I got just the pits
    and she threw her head back, laughing wildly.
    The dog ran back to investigate if there was something in it for him
    and finding no interest started chasing the cat.
    It was the neighborís cat as well.
    You are crazy, I said.
    My nose did not start growing but a man is not made nose only.
    You are a liar, she said, feeding me some more chewed cherries,
    not only pits, her tongue was there as well.

    I found quite fast that there was an advantage
    to the dog having run away with his trophy.
    She did not mind my investigation into the truthfulness of the claim.
    It was a sold up-front game, of course,
    no investigation was necessary. But she did not know. Ahmm...


put on that dress

    put on that dress

    with a cut along
    and a neckline deep
    from your knee to your thong
    from your chin to your hip
    letting loose on the world your lean muscle of thigh
    and a cleavage debate gleaning sigh after sigh...

    put on that dress

    with a texture thin
    and a clinging hold
    leaving glimpses of skin
    and of nipples gone bold
    the indecent collusion of dreams with a sun
    conceiving forbidden incursions in fun...

    put on that dress

    with a button torn
    and a missing thread
    lost in pastures of corn
    or through splinters of bed
    mixing wantonness rumors with whispers of lust
    when the ribs in the heart-cage are turning to dust.

    you know what?... take off that dress

    with the neckline and cut
    and the texture and cling
    with the oops and the what
    and the wow and the zing
    with the button, the thread
    lost or torn yesterwhen
    and the craving unshed
    starting now ending then
    take off... let your flesh grab my life in its rummaging hands
    let it offer the gift which is mine and no manís
    you can put on that dress once the moment is done
    and then leave me with memories known but to none.



    I can easily
    thirty years ago... more? less?... whatever might be enough
    to place us on a dance floor
    with damning rockíníroll blaring from loudspeakers
    big enough to work a second shift as coffins
    and a skirt to your legs shorter than what would take to make a bow-tie
    barely hiding a rolling ass bound to drive me insane
    along with onlookers
    not lucky enough
    to roll your curves through drops of sweat hanging in the air
    and meet you at the end of the move
    with just sufficient sanity to feel the crush of breasts
    and the steel of thighs

    I can easily
    thirty years passing... more? less?... whatever the count might be
    when we step on that dance floor
    with a rockíníroll that never ended neither rocking nor rolling
    and loudspeakers who gives a damn
    and your spine still the whip lashing that poor dress
    slightly longer now
    and your thighs still the steel
    slightly the less offensive nothing the less sharp
    keeping the promise never made
    to wrap me in ribbons and cut me in slices
    as we descend the dance floor to the world
    to define normalcy for the books
    and live insanity for the life

    I can easily
    thirty years lost... more? less?... whatever who cares counts
    on a dance floor
    between the first beat of a rock and the last beat of a roll
    your hair slapping ruts across my face
    and your teeth promising ruts across my neck
    and your hips cutting ruts between bodies and tables and loudspeakers
    the discarded dress a trophy
    the piling thighs a pile of trophies
    once steel turns flesh turns madness turns flesh never turns memory
    between legs of overturned chairs
    and tatters of once garments once bedding never patience
    ends of fingers ending in ends of fingernails finding the roots of life
    to strangle rip caress
    never begging mercy
    granting mercy


pearls of wisdom... ha!

    pearls of wisdom... ha!
    what I have are not pearls of wisdom.

    what I have are beads of desire.

    my flesh opens mouths in a clamorous quire
    divining the parting of thighs and of clouds
    when lightning dissects me away from the crowds
    and turns me to pyre.

    notions of greatness... ha!

    what I have are not notions of greatness.
    what I have are lumps of hunger.

    a vanity lost between older and younger
    now thrashes its life at the point of my heel
    and craving the lust in your body I kneel
    salacity monger.

    reason for living... ha!

    what I have is not reason for living.
    what I have is design for burning.

    my body for body in body is yearning
    my nipple for nipple on nipple implores
    to wallow in salt excavated from pores
    delirium churning.

    wish for knowledge... ha!

    what I have is not wish for knowledge.
    what I have is thirst for shivers.

    to forage your raiment in search for the rivers
    that promise to sate my privation and want
    with perfumes indecent and lewd as the jaunt
    from furor delivers.

    hope for survival... ha!

    what I have is not hope for survival.
    what I have is impatience for later.

    impatience to humble the Chronos chap traitor
    as layers of autumn I hull from your skin
    before we start gilding with wafers of sin
    eternityís crater.



    You turn on your bed.
    Then you turn again. Then again, pulling your thin nightie up to your knee,
    then to your mid thigh, then higher.
    Your nakedness underneath does not help,
    just a psychological relief
    no match for the physiological oppressing heat that envelopes you
    like an unwelcome lover
    and sucks out all the salt from your body into blobs of sweat
    too sticky and too lazy to fall even to the mattress.
    Your breasts flat, even your nipples flat,
    your armpits smart, all your nooks and crevices smart... suddenly you guffaw,
    lucky men, you think, one less crevice for them to worry about
    and the guffaw turns to laughter as you crawl down from the bed
    into the shower.
    Not bothering even to turn on the light. Or to take off the nightie.
    Water, cold,
    oh, blessed blissful pouring water.

    How long have you been there, five minutes? One hour?

    You turn off the tap
    the thin textile sticking to your body like a second skin
    molding itself to islands of smoothness between spots of wrinkles
    dragging out from your body all of human heat
    your skin turning needles as you approach the open window
    and a barely existent breeze caresses the watery armor
    persuading it to desert that exclusive real estate
    of your flesh.
    Your nipples shoot out.
    Your fingers shoot between your thighs
    a moment of wild passion clouding your brain
    and you wish him there then with you inside you...
    damn simulation you laugh again
    peeling away the wet nightie and letting it splash to the floor
    as your elbows meet the window sill
    together with your dropping breasts
    and you close your eyes. Soon I will need a shower again.

    A dog barks. A mosquito buzzes. A moth flaps.
    How long did it take? A few minutes
    and the hair stopped dripping on your back
    and the tiny rivulet connecting spine to buttocks sizzles dry
    and your nipples sink anew into the earlier lethargy
    and indifference.
    How many hours to morning, you wonder.
    How many hours to him, you donít wonder, you know.
    This is a count no one will take away from you,
    patience baby, you smile as your fingers touch the sleeping nipple
    carefully, as if afraid to cheat them into renewed wakefulness.
    Soon, baby,
    and you change the bedding
    lying on the temporarily cool bed sheet and counting the stars
    from the left to the right of the window frame.
    You fall asleep somewhere through the count back, from right to left.

    The dog barks again. The same dog. You donít hear.
    With morning youíll count further,
    another hot night waiting for you but, hey, one night less
    to the end of the count.


reality, rewriting

    against the window,

    your lips flattened
    your breasts, belly, thighs

    the rest of you tri-dimensional
    in the other dimension
    behind the glass
    where I cannot hear your call
    where I cannot reach without magic. I am no magician.

    push against the window
    squirm against the window
    I want to see your nipples writing with memory of milk
    and your depths writhing with memory of virginity ripped and motherhood ripening

    and thirst unquenched ranting, raging, raving
    the smolder of parched insides calling for that which never came
    until I
    until us.

    lean against the window, naked,
    your palms cupping, holding, your soles cupping, holding,
    your thighs sucking against the glass
    knowing it to melt
    knowing me to penetrate the pit of molten sand
    and conquering that memory of thirst between your thighs feeding it sudden serenity
    and knowledge
    of what stays lost.
    and of what stays fed.
    and of what stays conquered.

    I am still no magician.
    I donít know how I got your side of the window and I hear your call
    and I conquer your flesh alongside with your memories
    the window melting around us
    to freeze our unificated bodies in a volume of words
    and withering glass flowers.



    A smells chart? She laughed.
    I guess all places from ten to one are taken by lilac.
    Youíd be surprised.
    You mean there are... other smells for you counting in the top ten.
    She sounded incredulous, intrigued. After all...
    After all what? she outguessed me.
    After all I never told you everything.
    You told me lilac.
    True. But not everything.
    But every time.
    What walnuts?
    Young, locked in their green husk, the shell broken, the nut removed
    the thin bitter inner peel removed
    and the soft white nut revealed... ohhh... heavenly.
    You must be sick.
    Ohhh, heavenly, I repeated. Number ten.

    We walked hand in pocket,
    her left hand in my pantsí rear left pocket
    my right hand in her pantsí rear right pocket,
    it forced us to squeeze against each other slightly more then absolutely more.

    And then nine to one lilac.
    She stumbled, almost tearing my pocket. Good quality Leviís, didnít tear.
    She squeezed my buttock until I almost screamed in pain,
    probably her way to ascertain she was not dreaming.
    Then she released it. No, she was not dreaming.
    Rain? Sounded almost like a four lettered word.
    Hey, it is a four lettered word.
    Rain, torrential rain cutting through treetops, through wild wheat
    and thin blouses revealing round breasts and small nipples...
    ...whose nipples?
    ...and desires no longer intimate. I refused to be dragged into a nipple argument,
    it would kill the romance
    Eight... and before she could interject nipple or lilac I rushed on...
    jasmine and wild rose and white lily.
    All of them?
    Yeap. Cannot decide and wish not to insult, so all of them. Eight.
    She giggled. Wish not to insult... squeezing my buttock again,
    gently this time. Then she kissed the corner of my mouth
    and tore away jumping in a dirty puddle
    enthusiastically spraying mud all over herself. I kept my distance,
    waiting for the enthusiasm to diminish,
    then neared her and pulled up the hem of her skirt...
    Hey, you stained your panties, they are full of mud now.
    Are you sure it is mud stains?
    She lifted her skirt unceremoniously and pulled her panties down,
    stepping out of them foot after foot then smelled them.
    Yes, mud stains,
    and she stepped into them again, pulling them up and letting the skirt down.
    You are insane, I said, minding not.
    Is insane number seven?
    Insane is not a smell, I muttered, not entirely convinced.

    Two dogs suddenly jumped from behind a fence, chasing each other.
    A mouse peeked from a hole in the ground then skittered back in.
    A crow landed to our right pecking on a piece of dry bread.
    Freshly baked bread.
    Mmmmm... I knew I hit a chord there with my number seven,
    no explanation no justification necessary.
    I waited patiently for her míing to reach an end (several minutes long)
    before I ventured into my number six.
    Orange blossom... Mmmmm... Yes, I expected this one as well,
    after all I knew some things of you by now.
    Linden tree flower... Mmmmm...
    ...and while she was míing
    I revisited in my mind all those trees lining the street next to home
    none of which I did not visit tearing my clothes and climbing to their tops
    gathering pocketsful and shirtsfull and armsful of the yellow miracle flowers
    and undying memories.

    Hey, you are crying, she surprised me, looking up at me in almost childish wonder
    then tiptoeing to kiss away my two accumulating blobs
    and guiding my head to her small bosom. Memories?
    I couldnít answer, afraid I would start crying for real.
    She waited, patiently,
    until the tension in my body subsided
    and only then she allowed my head away from the safety of her warm flesh.
    She moved her hand from my pocket to my waist,
    leaning her head on my shoulder.
    One of the dogs stopped in front of us, his tongue dangling,
    his tail waving frantically
    until the second dog stormed him and they disappeared barking their happiness.
    Four. Robinia. The one white. The one with thorns
    The one I was scooping palmfuls of and filling my mouth with
    and choking in that infinite childish happiness only... children know.
    Do you think you could... now, as well?
    Yes, I think so.

    We kept walking in silence, slowly. Evening started descending. A first star appeared.
    Then three more stars. She waited for the lilac, slightly worried by now.
    There were three places left, maybe lilac was eleventh, or one hundred and eleventh?
    I stopped, closed my eyes
    gathering her at my chest, my fingers sinking in her hair,
    the closing fists certainly ripping a few delicate fibers,
    she did not moan. She was quiet.

    The old, ruined, forgotten synagogue
    and the eternal smell of crumbling, sacred books
    and so many thumbnails leafing though the yellowed pages,
    the lingering vapors of burning wax, of my fatherís sweat under the praying shawl
    and my motherís freshly smeared lipstick for the festivities coming,
    gone. My number three.
    My number two.
    She looked up at me, almost imploring.
    And she danced and she pirouetted and she let out a yell like a hundred thousand throats
    shouting their Copa Mundial de Fútbol winning goal happiness...
    Then she stopped dancing and pirouetting and yelling
    suddenly aware of the impossible, inadmissible, unexpected.
    Lilac. Number two.
    The question implied in the statement, unvoiced, terrible in its insistence.
    Lilac. Number two, she repeated.

    I faced her.
    My hand moved under her skirt, hooking into the elastic band, pulling,
    I brought the flimsy garment to my face, closing my eyes.
    No. Insufficient.
    I kneeled in front of her, letting the skirt fall over my shoulder
    my face approaching
    sinking sinking sinking at that node of thigh and thigh and belly
    the perfume irresistible
    enveloping enkindling encarnalizing
    my scream turning gurgle as her fingers gently and firmly
    started pushing the back of my head deeper and deeper and deeper...

    I reached the top of my chart, no words were necessary anymore.


    One day, I will ask you your number eleven and up, she said.
    One day, I will tell you, I answered.



    I define time around us,
    a bubble
    not even round, unnatural,
    no penetration possible
    or out either
    as long as we are the key holders.
    the only key holders.


    you kick the shoes under the bed
    you let your hair cascade loose over your shoulders
    and zero time starts
    ending... when?... whenever, who cares?...
    find the key, you challenge
    hopping on my shoulders
    your thighs closing around my neck
    your ankles locking at my back
    and I drowning, thinking of anything but to find the key...

    hey, you will bang your head against the ceiling, I scream,
    my scream muffled by
    around it.

    you descend
    letís dance
    and you start singing and we dance and I want to rockíníroll
    and all you want is to rollíníroll
    and we dance
    until I kick my shoes under the bed too.

    do we have time to collect dry leaves?
    barefoot? barefoot.

    you collect dry leaves and I collect ladybugs
    to watch them fly and land again on your hair
    from time to time I lift the hem of your skirt to ascertain you are still there
    and as I find you there you collect dry leaves and I collect ladybugs.
    I step into a thorn.
    I step into a nail.
    I step into a bear-trap.
    thereís no pain
    just ladybugs visiting your hair
    and fingers visiting the underneath of your skirt
    and dry leaves crush between toes exploding into clouds of past life
    and you ask me if I want to make love
    and I say never.

    we make love
    though we make nothing of the kind but just a holocaust of dust and fire and racket
    and never is meaningless
    in zero time.

    I find the key, I knew where it was at all times.
    you pull your shoes from underneath the bed
    I pull my shoes from underneath the bed
    I put yours to your feet you put mine to my feet
    we donít care to wash our feet or our mouths or our bodies in or out or anywhere


    time starts anew,
    bubble shrinks to zero dimensions
    or maybe explodes.

    you carry the key and a few ladybugs
    I carry the key and a few leaves
    we carry dance love zero time

    until next.


Life Seasons

    How old are you? I asked her.

    Many springs, she answered, smiling,
    the smile hiding any wrinkles she might have had at mouth corners.
    And you? she asked.

    I was still busy looking for wrinkles,
    insisting on finding.
    She insisted on smiling.

    Many winters, I answered.
    And now, one spring, I added,
    expecting buds to burst at her hair ends.
    Buds commenced bursting at her hair ends.

    How old are you, now? I asked her.
    Many springs and one winter? I added in self deprecation.

    She rolled a hair around my finger, until it ended with the flower above,
    made a knot.
    I skip one winter right into eternal summer, she smiled,
    and I felt something strange happening to the ends of my hairs,
    something like... bursting buds?



    you come in from the rain,
    or are you the rain?...

    shaking your mane like a dog
    like a lion
    like a lioness... hey
    natureís mistake
    the maned one should have been the lion-she not the lion-he
    and you shake your mane like a dog
    like a lion
    like a lioness wearing a lionís wig

    and you flood me with the sparkles of drops
    and the sparkles of eyes
    and you cut me with fangs and claws only to lick later
    the bleeding ruts
    and seed there traces of infinite love
    like a dog
    like a lion
    like a lioness for her cubs.

    you run out into the rain
    only to run in back from the rain
    and shake your mane anew
    waiting for me to chase you snare you trepan you
    and peel from you layer after layer of dripping water and oozing sweat
    and pleasures locked in between by ages of neglect
    for your canine majesty
    leonine majesty
    feminine majesty

    you, divine, unconquerable, Helen,
    I, Leonteus, loser, warrior, abductor of Helen against myth and against memory
    founding a new story
    love story
    love and lust and lilac story.

    what are you thinking? you ask
    and instead of providing you with oral proof of my madness
    I provide you with physical proof

    liberating you from the wetness of cloth prison
    to dry you with breath
    and soak you with breath anew
    and with sweat and sigh and scream and lust
    and love and lilac
    the rain beating its own gravitational madness
    against the pane
    watching us lock unlock lock

    until lilac fades into wither.

    withes... limbs?...
    clutch my thighs into a rigidity of death
    while my fingers winnow your hair
    setting free


The Event

    How do you cram lifetime
    into days?

    Worse still
    how do you cram one lifetime into that one last day of the few
    when you were busy living the other days as... days,
    one at a time? Like life. Like real life,
    like reality.

    Maybe you could try the next best -
    describe it,
    write a poem about it.
    Maybe several poems, maybe many
    yet you know that one or many
    it will take you the entirety of the leftover of lifetime
    to achieve a small fraction of the description,
    with the rest lost forever, for no one to know
    except for you. And her.
    And that small hotel room that hosted the fire
    the softness
    the sharing. The days.

    How do you cram emptiness
    into lifetime?

    When it is bigger than life.



    I saw an apple on the floor,
    bitten, half chewed.

    You sat on the balcony,
    knees dragged under chin
    hands knotted in front of knees
    the white underwear tight around the top of your thighs
    blinding in sunís unforgiving glare,
    your eyes closed.

    How long have you been there, hours
    years? No, couldnít be years,
    youíd be dead by now
    just bones, no flesh left even for flies... and yet...
    I pushed a stiff finger into your shoulder.
    No reaction.
    Steam rose in barely visible clouds from hair impregnated with water
    the top of a left breast clearly visible through the missing sleeve
    no nipple in sight,
    I wondered, is the nipple at least alive
    or as sleeping, dead as the rest of your flesh?

    Tooth ache? I asked,
    assuming life and seeing the swollen left cheek.
    A hand stirred (alive! alive!)
    sliding slowly from the front of the knees
    and stretched languidly backwards
    fingers fluttering lazily, like ribbons, inviting,
    I offered my fingers as support
    and a few bones followed by a few claws found lair in my flesh
    as you pulled me towards you
    the right hand grabbing the nape of neck,
    It was like a hydraulic piston, mindless, irresistible.

    Mouths clashed.


    An invasion of ivory and muscle and poison...
    hey, freshly fermented apple wine...
    took over my senses, my body,
    I writhed in inebriationís throes
    whining my appreciation to dawning apocalypse
    as whatever was cloth turned cinder
    and whatever was flesh turned minced meat
    and we fell
    my mouth hanging in desperation to one awakened nipple,
    the lone life-raft
    in a sea boiling with delirium
    and ecstasy.


Masterpiece. The Other One.

    I know what Iím looking for.
    I slide the CD in the player
    shift gears into the sixth
    skip the first tracks and bite my lips for the duration of the silence in-between...
    the first loudspeaker vibrations
    the first notes
    the first trumpet blares, trombones, drums,

    Swing, Swing, Swing
    and Mr. Goodman decides to share his good mood
    by driving shivers down my spine with his masterpiece
    as I close my eyes... ok, as much as I can
    while avoiding the rest of mad drivers around me

    and we are there,
    the big dancing hall and the big hanging chandelier and the big orchestra
    and you
    at the other end of my flailing arms
    high heels, wide skirts slightly above knees, the hairdo ŗ-la ťpoque
    and the deep red lipstick to your mouth ŗ-la ťpoque too and then some
    and we swing,

    devilís fire in our feet and devilís rhythm infesting our ears
    and your legs tanned and muscular
    and the skirts flip and flop and flutter around your hips
    and around your thighs
    and I roll you and I turn you and I crush you against me
    and you roll and you turn and you crush against me
    the pride of your womanhood flashing blindingly
    driving me insane
    driving everybody insane
    as you fly through the air and fly above my shoulders
    and skid upon the floor between my feet
    to rise on the other side,
    skirts high, laughter divine, spine lithe,
    woman, dancer, goddess...


    The other one.

    I open eyes. Somehow, I am alive,
    my car parked on a highway parking spot,
    motor still running,
    the leftover sounds pounding the windows into near shatter
    and picnickers hastily packing their stuff
    to put a safe distance between them and me,
    spreading the tablecloth anew on another table, two tables away.

    The thunder is over.
    My ears still reverberating, my heart still hammering
    with the ecstasy and travail of the madness and the dance.
    You fade away.
    Last I see of you are fingers lingering behind with a kiss they carry my way
    and suddenly my vision blurs.
    There are tears in my eyes.



    What about your body?

    The daily bustle back and forth
    Drives ankles east and paces north,
    The creaking sound inside your knees
    With morningís yawn and eveningís wheeze
    Compete with Ludwigís timeless Fourth
              and summerís breeze.

    The walls of glass around the church
    Ignore the gloom beneath its lurch,
    And then a sudden rush of blood
    And tears turn cheeks to rainbowís mud,
    You spot upon the dying birch
              a sprouting bud.

    The stifling heat among the trees
    Spreads yellow spots of sun disease,
    A sprinkler calls - hey, be my wife!
    For you the sun Iíll war and strife,
    Then soaks your transparent chemise
              with blobs of life.

    The dust astride the crawling air
    Reflects the void inside the stare,
    Your nipples through the cotton seep
    Preparing for the mighty leap
    Into my fingersí deathly snare
              my life to reap.

    The night is dawning on the room,
    The eyelids cut away the gloom,
    Your body wakes to life and shine
    The dream... or is it love divine
    Your thighs aflame, your breasts in bloom
              oh, mine, oh, mine.


Canine Intelligence

    I dreamt that you took my dog for a walk in the woods.

    There he went on a wild goose chase chasing a wild goose
    and you told me that you see treetops around my head
    then you told me that you see your eyes inside my eyes
    then you saw stars
    since you closed your eyes.

    By the time the dog returned carrying a log three times his size
    you were already dressed, your make-up immaculate
    and you were reading to me poetry in a strange language
    hoping the dog will not know.
    This was with disregard to canine intelligence.

    ďHeyĒ, you blushed in alarm
    watching him pick-up something pink from the grass,
    it looked grotesque in a funny kind of way hanging there from his muzzle
    before he rushed off to bury it somewhere.
    I peeked underneath your skirt...
    yes, yours I admitted to failure
    blushing in my turn as the dog returned
    sat in front of me and watched me with huge, black, questioning eyes.

    Never knew inquisition before, it was a first.

    We returned, hand in hand,
    leaving the dog pull himself by the leash,
    he preferred to drag the leash and carry the log.

    I kept peeking underneath you skirt, guffawing, yeah, canine intelligence.

    ďAnd after the dream?Ē
    What dream?

    I kept peeking underneath you skirt, guffawing, yeah, canine intelligence.



    you hang your days with clothes pegs

    yesterday leftovers drip into cups sorted by degrees of happiness
    ranging from torture to exultation
    you sort them by color, size
    with hints of tomorrow leaving preliminaries
    like bird poop
    or garlands of butterflies
    or frozen drops of rain mid of a sultry summer...

    you gather fallen branches

    to bury ceremoniously with flowers
    and poems instead of prayers,
    safer with a poem being listened to
    than with a prayer
    then you wait for the first green signs of a sprouting promise
    making sure no truck will step on it and no goat will chew it
    and when the promise turns tree
    you fall asleep under its shadow, safe in its embrace...

    you translate hopscotch hops to words

    like ribbon, like after we met, like pocketful of desire
    and when you finish the assignment
    you sell it
    for a cupful of sunflower seeds or a jar of black olives
    one to count years and one to count days
    and one unmentioned to light match-heads tired of life
    and stars tired of waiting...

    your realities, who cares about anything else?



    stretch your body
    until youíre as thin as paper, as cigarette foil,
    until you reach the moon and fall back to Earth
    after wrapping around the other side
    to collect dust
    and shadows we will never see,

    are there butterflies there?

    let your fingernails
    can you reach the topmost apple?
    can you reach through the clouds up to the sun
    and pierce through its swollen heart
    to find the truth
    about hell and heaven?

    can you find the truth about love?

    knead the dough
    bake it on sputtering candle fire
    bake it on my heart after you cut it open
    then feed the crumbs to me and to whales and to words
    to find
    if poetry heals,

    is poetry a religion of as many gods as poets?


The Call

    A voice. First.
    A smile. Follows.
    The bud opens and swarms of butterflies invade you
    and you dare not close your mouth
    lest you touch a wing and bring death to one of a trillion,
    yes, maybe one of a trillion to us
    yet one of one to one butterfly that will not die
    because you smile
    persistently, restlessly, even when I try to kiss you.

    Will it end? I ask
    knowing you cannot answer and hoping it will not
    even if I cannot kiss you until it does, ever, if at all.
    There are some bees as well, I laugh, knowing you wouldnít mind.
    Neither the bees nor my laughter.

    It gives me time.
    You cannot complain so I lift your skirt and blame the wind.
    You cannot run away so I paint your fingernails and blame the rain.
    You cannot eat so I finish the cherries and blame the goat. I mean a goat.
    I mean whichever goat happens to pass by. Scapegoat, you know.
    You cannot say I love you so I say I love you
    you cannot make love so I do not make love and blame you.
    What is red? Like the inside of the bud, like the inside of your mouth
    like the outside of your wound.
    Like bitten cherry.
    Like crushed watermelon like torn poppy petal like early sunset
    like late sunset
    like glowing coal, under ashes, like lily beetle.
    Like scarlet ibis.
    I blame your mouth
    for having me think bud, think red.
    The swarm never ends.

    Will it end? I ask.

    Hi, I hear you say from another planet
    and I guess you are not aware of wind or rain or goats
    and God knows if trillions of butterflies mean anything to you
    as you start chatting about weather, and internet and... whatís that? I ask
    as your voice dies into swishes and swishes and swishes...
    I have no choice, it would have cost me a fortune
    so I close the line.

    I had a strange dream, you phone me days later,
    it was not really fantastic, it was not really erotic, it was not really zoologic.
    Let me guess, I answer, it had to do with wind and with rain and with goats
    but it was not wind and rain and goats.
    And with trillions of butterflies, I add. The line dies.
    The phone rings. Is it a dream? The line dies.
    The doorbell rings. Is it a dream? The door closes.

    You flap your hair, you unbutton your shirt, you drop your shoes
    and trillion of butterflies invade the room
    and I feel like swimming in fluttering butter
    as I retreat further inside and you follow dragging the goat.
    It was my turn to ask but I didnít.

    I open the window to let everyone fly out except for the goat,
    yes, you too. Do not fly.
    Instead I help you drop other things next to the shoes
    then lay you on the bed
    and as you bite the ends of my fingers
    I feed the goat my stamps collection
    then comb your hair until autumn
    before making love to you.


    Shall I return? you ask, hand on the handle.
    Call first, I answer,
    letting the pen drop on the paper next to the word ďgoatĒ.
    The pick it up again, strike out ďCall firstĒ
    and write ďYesĒ.



    I send you a few words,
    sow them!

    Doesnít matter - sand, earth, swamp...
    all that matters is
    your expectations.

    They will grow, oh, they will grow, bloom.
    Maybe flowers,
    maybe trees,
    maybe forests maybe mountains maybe mountains covered with forests.
    Not castles, castles donít grow,
    smiles grow
    storms grow
    passions grow passion grows,
    castles are built
    with smiles, with storms, with passions,
    with passion.
    With words.

    Roll down
    upon the mountain slope, upon words,
    donít worry about thistles hanging to your clothes
    and thorns piercing your earlobes
    and words scratching your knees and cutting your hearts...
    yes, you have more than one, one with you.
    Iíll hang words to the holes in your earlobes
    together with camomile
    and I will remove thistles from your clothes
    together with clothes, starting with all.
    Then Iíll swathe your knees with my palms
    and I will fail on the impenetrable fortress of your breast
    before reaching your heart,
    I will settle for your nipple
    your tongue
    my poem.

    And then I will depart looking for Atlantis
    knowing their science to be the only
    that can strip poems from pages
    and thicken the essence
    until it becomes reality
    and deform reality
    until it becomes sweating skin

    and breath, smelling of dried flowers
    in blossom.


naked visions

    next to naked you,

    naked naked naked
    the only layer separating us skin leftovers
    barely hanging to your flesh around blister domes,
    whatever was left after visiting the paths to hell
    and ripping all the roses along the way together with thorns and roots
    and chimeraís welding fire
    wedding us

    tip of finger
    trying to find a virginal, unmolested spot, to touch you, to not hurt you,

    you can touch, anywhere, you allow

    and I touch anywhere
    and you moan approval taking me fully in
    there, where I molested most
    and the blister domes explode around your left areola
    as my canines fulfill their feral job and join the tip of finger in further demolition
    of your womanity

    do you think me beautiful? you ask

    mouthfuls of me filling the cavity of your mouth to its lung depths
    immediately after

    leaving me no choice but to find you the ugliest of goddesses
    how many there are? one
    the ugliest of wild flowers
    how many there are? one
    the ugliest of morning stars
    how many there are? one

    spitting me out and taking me in for each question
    until I find myself spread all over the nearest galaxy
    and the one after
    before I collect myself once again to pieces of slave
    embroidering your body,

    skinless snakes petalless tulips titleless poems

    we swap fingernails
    twine bones
    your aortic valve pumping into my aorta my cava pumping into your atrium
    while an asexual mixture of clitoris and testicles and nipples
    reaches nova
    and asks God for permission to recreate the world...



    would have been absolute if not for an insistent cricket.
    would have thrown a shoe if I knew where to.
    where are we?
    it took her longer to return. she did not yet hear the cricket.
    is this a cricket? she heard it, finally.

    I dreamt of Godís finger, I whispered in her ear.
    I dreamt of another finger, she whispered back and the explosion followed. laughter.
    I mean it, I insister, after. smiling.
    I mean it too, she insisted, after. shining.

    we joined the cricketís chirping,
    she by moving fingernail tips up my stubble,
    I by moving fingernail tips up her goosebumps.

    didnít take long before we tried using incisors against incisors.
    didnít take long before we started looking for fingers,

    whichever kind.


anew, after a time


    the steps slightly stumbling
    the bag... what do you carry in that bag that it hangs all the way into the asphalt,
    your gold, your lead?
    an atomic bomb and its how to use for dummies?
    sour cherries?

    you slam the door
    after you sit down
    after you pull your dress beneath your knee
    after you pull your dress above your knee and guide my hand underneath it
    with your lips sucking my gums down your tonsils
    and your fingers pinching my nipple into red then blue then scream,

    missed you, you say
    so why do you wish to kill me? I say

    not remembering at all the way to the room
    or the code to the door
    or the way to remove the right shoe

    the left shoe lost on the stairs

    yet remembering the way to tear stockings into inexistence
    and underwear into insignificance
    and even your name, what was your name
    before I forgot it?

    I turn my back to you
    and you scoop me into your spoon
    falling asleep,
    most of you ivy
    except for your mouth, which is poppy.



    One devil,
    so many, countless angels.
    Is it a measure for the power of evil and impotence of good?
    Or of our human need to subduct fear
    and aggrandize hope,
    proof to our pettiness
    and imbecility
    and ignorance.

    My annual, five cents worth of philosophy. Worthless.

    I compare it to your peaks and troughs
    finding no correlation except in perfect irrelevancy,
    my mind echoing with the rustle of goosebumps grating against my fingernail
    as it follows the perfection of curves upwards

    pulling out afraid to perforate
    your spine.

    I try to find another trail of philosophy
    finding the contrast to reality appalling
    knowing I overstate
    finding none
    angry that I find none and yet relieved
    that I did not perforate your spine.

    I detect the curl of a butterflyís antenna.

    I detect the redolence of a broken lilac branch struggling to breathe.

    I detect the pinpoint of sunís hellish omphalos. Where?

    My lust an exploding cyst
    covering the outer crust of your flesh with tincts
    stolen from all over the Cappella Sistina ceiling
    there, where the paint did not yet dry and is about to drip anew
    in tiny glasses I sowed all over the floor
    to be collected by the many, countless angels
    and one devil.

    The circle is ripe. I break the circle.
    We suckle each at another breaking point
    and when the jagged edges cut our lips
    we suckle each at each other
    and think of stupid star clichés like falling stars
    or exploding stars
    or the stars in your eyes.



    I own almost all the keys.
    To you.

    The simple one to your skin ripples,
    the complex one to your flesh breaking up into tiny islets of ecstatic agony
    and re-converging into a mass of limp, sweaty temporary nothing,
    all those in between
    the brass one to your haywire hair
    the steel one to winding up your muscles
    the ivory to steal your breath and the glass to persuade your ankles
    to part their separate ways for moments magic...


    Waiting for an answer.

    I donít own the key
    to your past.

    The one that uncovered your body and opened your body and created life
    with your body.

    Not absolute.
    The tap drips. Not like Chinese torture, like clockwork.
    Bones rattle
    like chopsticks in a grocery bag
    suddenly too big, too loose to contain them,
    joints creak. Each drop another tact, another note to the endful symphony...
    probably turning cacophony.
    Celestial music to my ears
    as the flesh enveloping them merges with the flesh enveloping them
    and the mass of limp, sweaty temporary nothing turns into everything,
    envelops me.

    Glad so.
    You are the composite result
    of your past.
    I would not have had all the keys, otherwise.

    The tap stopped dripping. A cricket took over.
    I did not pay attention to the moment of transition, not that time cares what counts it.
    If counts it.
    If it exists as all except in the minds of ignorants and on the boards of professors
    explaining the unexplainable.
    With words. Symbols. Equations.

    You join the cricket, unaware. Your breath irregular,
    as timekeeper you would be worthless.
    I prefer, though, to count my time in your breaths.
    Makes time personal, tangible, almost as tangible as the tips of your sleeping nipples.

    I pull the covers slowly away,
    drag a chair next to the bed to sit
    and watch. The cricket has shut down for the night.
    Time freezes.

    I think I found one more key.
    To simplicity. To happiness.



    Strange places. People.
    Mainly coming. Or is it mainly going? Thousands.
    Some permanent.
    Some temporary, some multi temporary. Some uni temporary.
    Some fixtures, like the lamps. Like ground personnel. Cleaners. Police. Pickpockets.
    I. Which category I?
    Missing you category, I guess. Probably a few more possible.

    Writing you a poem.
    For each one I write you there are five I write me.
    Or three. Or one. Or seven. Or one. Yes, I said it already. One.
    Or as much as I have electrical power and mental power and not falling asleep power.
    Food smells.
    Nothing to do with poetry but with consumetry. Donít look it up in Websterís,
    no such word. Like distantry. Like misstry. Like lustry.
    Like cravetry.
    Like pleasantry. Oops, you can look this one up.
    Somewhere between plea and zulu. Somewhere between here and my destination.

    I wish I knew my destination. Hopefully the pilot does.

    Hopefully I remember my name the way I remember your body.
    Yes, even that spot no one else remembers, not even you.
    Big deal, you never saw it, you never could see it, just touch it.
    I saw it.

    Someone cleans the tables,
    makes noise like before world war three, and during, and after,
    all phases together multiplied by two.
    Iím scared for my stereo hearing, imagine I lose one ear.
    No, not on the floor, not this losing,
    I mean my hearing.
    Imagine spending all my life with one ear hearing music
    and the other the continuous, ingrained clatter of dishes.
    Did I tell you about the egg?
    Yes, I know, another subject. What egg?

    My watch blinks. Maybe battery. Maybe winks, tries making a pass at me.
    Someone mumbles something on the public system,
    sounds Chinese. Why should one make announcements just in Chinese?
    Maybe China conquered the airport?
    Wonít be a big deal, anyway everything is made in China - Sony, Dior, Chivas...
    I am one of the few exceptions, I was not made in China. I think.
    Even dildos are made in China. Even American flags.

    I hope you are not made in China. I have to check carefully, next time.
    Very carefully, everywhere.
    You can check me too. Of course, you can use even a magnifying glass...
    hey, I hope you are joking.
    She calls me. I am not sure, these Chinese messages are a mess.
    Not even a sexy voice.
    I will try going to the gate,
    past the security line squatters crawling at one mile per millennium,
    past the security line queers happily massaging my body
    past the security line peepers watching my passing skeleton from every disgusting angle
    no one called me. But everybody is boarding. I have no choice.

    I send you a fast thought, no time for sms
    (turn off your phone or we shoot you).
    I sit down and send you another fast thought.
    We take off and between praying sessions I send you many thoughts,
    long ones,
    gliding along your body
    inside your body
    along around inside outside your body.
    Told you, praying, my style.

    Have to close the paper. Arrived. Have to face a customer, a machine, a hotel clerk.
    I like it. With you alongside me it is very easy.
    It has nothing to do with missing you,
    I miss you also when you are alongside me.
    Donít forget to dress,
    when I left you a few minutes ago you were naked,
    we wouldnít want you to catch a cold, no?
    Or be jailed for indecent exposure.
    Or kidnapped for a poor sheikh (a rich one would be less horrible).
    Okay, also horrible, if you insist.

    Someone closes the light.
    sdhbf wrkljir rerikQAjfk ?gg... oops, lighted a match, blind typing.
    Another day, another customer. Another poem.
    Same you. Thank God.


Full Cycle

    Nothing decayed into spring.

    Spring decays into summer that decays into autumn that decays into winter,
    winter decays into nothing.

    Full cycle.

    Iím somewhere along this abscissa,
    or rather taking a break inside one of the 6-tupleís positions
    knowing of the math of unidirectional vectors
    and of the direction of flesh vectors. Of this vector.

    I stop. Somewhere.
    You join me, my abscissa allows two marking systems
    or, if you wish, my 6-tuple allows bi-dimensional entities into each position
    and while knowing that the nothing position is absolutely singular
    I extend my stay on those along the way allowing the duality of sharing
    and tie you, to me,
    with chains with ropes with necklaces
    hoping the dual gravity will break the vectorís advance... maybe a little?...
    maybe a little little?...
    sure, none at all.

    Will that last nothing contain anything... of us?

    It will, we know,
    and we turn dragons once again scorching shared insides with shared breaths
    while our wounds drip blobs of molten words
    marking our passage, punching holes the size of mountains
    into the approaching



    Turns your breath into a river
    and your breasts begin to quiver
    as the tongues resolve to tangle
              in the wrangle
              growls the shiver.

    Was it Logiís rabid burning,
    was it Vulcanís dire yearning
    pouring volleys laden fire
    into wallowing desire
              with a lyre
              timbres churning?

    Or a passion long forsaken
    letting memories awaken,
    pulling hellís corroded latches
    and as light the darkness scratches
              madness hatches

    Samson dies between your lilies,
    at your fountain dies Achilles,
    all of heroes proud and gaudy
    turn to squirming low and shoddy
              from my body
              trot the fillies.

    From the fields of ashes prowling
    I retreat, my manner scowling,
    in the sack of flesh and bowels
    cling my lungs with bony dowels
              spitting vowels,
              poems howling.

    Whence you come? demands a fairy
    crushing clumps of fleshen cherry
    to my mouth... from devilís dwelling,
    dragonís lair with gods rebelling,
              oceanís swelling,
              eagleís eyrie.

    From before the birth from nether
    into blooming fields of heather,
    from beyond the none of never
    through the glimmer of forever
              humanís tether.

    From... and crumbs of shattered reason
    squirm inside my bony prison
    trying to retrieve a meaning
    in the gentle wake of sinning
              keenly gleaning
              summerís season.