Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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    My poetry reifies
    my “it should be”s

    or tries to

    or maybe it pushes them further down into the kind of obscurantism
    that could be used as metaphor for black hole, rather than the other way around.

    I do not know, I never read my poetry with another’s eyes

    with your eyes.

    My poetry creates worlds
    and if no inter-worldly diplomatic relations exist yet
    it is because no one yet went there
    to return,
    no one yet went there, period.
    Maybe because communication is bound to fail,
    every untried communication is bound to fail
    with lizards
    with spiders
    with dandelions
    with my poetry.
    Easier to fly to the moon, I know. More expensive too
    which makes it more marketable.
    “Hey, let’s attach a Nike shoe to the rocket” is a better proposition than
    “Hey, let’s attach a Nike shoe to this in pectore poet.”
    Or opscurus. Or tenebrarius. Or inlaudatus inperceptus incelebratus.
    Not that the Nike executives know Latin, but they know Dollar.
    Like all executives.
    Unlike you, you know also Poetry. You went to my world but you are no diplomat.
    You are poet, like me.
    We both speak to lizards,
    also to us.
    Maybe this should be enough?

    My poetry fills your pillow,
    pads your chair uplifts your breasts cushions your stumble offers a firefly’s light
    for your next step.
    Do you speak also to fireflies? Teach me?
    Do you see my “it should be”s?

    I sit at my desk, write this blather with nerve ends tingling for your tinkle
    and hope that your next return from my world you tell me you found more of me.
    More of the meaning.
    More of the wishes.
    More of the “it should be”s burnt into your flesh
    as you, proudly, show me the scars.




    Do you know how many secretions we merged?
    All would be impossible. Many.
    Which is not a number.
    Which is not a number.

    She looked around at the devastation surrounding us
    some tree trunks still smoldering.
    Are we responsible for all this?
    Unfortunately. Or fortunately.
    Didn’t expect it to be so incendiary.
    I took the ‘expect’ part as an insult but I let it pass because of the ‘incendiary’ part.
    Fire is contagious, you know, starts on a bed and ends eating the neighborhood...
    ...continent, world, galaxy. Maybe even universe?
    Maybe. I have to check.
    Maybe even us?
    Certainly us.

    We had nothing to dress, everything burned
    and that included fig leaves.
    I think Adam and Eve felt the same.
    Before or after they lost their innocence?
    They didn’t have any innocence to lose,
    innocence was a later invention.
    So what did they have?
    Love. Lust. Lechery.
    Lechery doesn’t sound respectable.
    Lechery is the epitome of respectability when it is for the woman one loves.
    Or man.
    Or man.
    Like you love me?
    Like Adam loved Eve.
    Like you love me?
    Like Eve loved Adam.
    Like you love me?
    If to judge by my degree of lecherousness
    there never was and there never will be a greater love.
    Strange unit of measure.
    One of twenty three.
    And the other twenty two?
    Even bigger.

    The smoldering trunks stood no chance this second wave,
    they turned glowing red
    before bursting into flames again
    same as the neighborhood, town, country, continent, world, galaxy...
    Yes, the universe. I checked.



Encounters of the one kind

    Speed is essential in any real life love story.
    The slower the better.

    She smiled good humoredly with a bit of maliciously thrown in.

    Do you have any other word of advice? I asked, not really confident.

    Many of them, depends how long you stay.
    Depends also on how much I love you.

    How much you love me?
    Do you want it in 10-to-the-power-of-X terminology or in Shakespearean-blood-and-intrigue terminology?
    What about in some novel-not-yet-used-by-anyone terminology?
    Not even by you?
    Not even by me.

    She looked at me the way the sole of a shoe may have looked upon the ant to be crushed by it
    before deciding to side step it.
    I looked at her the way the ant may have looked up at the sole of a shoe about to crush it
    before knowing that the shoe decided to side step it.
    I loved her, I knew, she knew.
    She loved me, she knew, I knew.
    I told her, a few millions of words bearing witness to the fact,
    she told me not in so many words but in as many unexpressed thoughts.
    I was human, though, I needed expression.

    I love you.
    The way the Odyssey loved to be written by Homer and read by me.
    I love you.
    The way Antarctica hates each piece of ice melting to no return.
    I love you.
    More than the way God cried over each discarded piece of clay before settling for Adam.

    I did not stay longer than planned, it was not possible for any of us.
    I suffered longer than planned, both of us,
    horror stories of death by fire reverberating in our minds each time we touched
    each time we loved
    each time we burned.

    I left.
    No scars were ever going to fill up those smoldering craters dug into my flesh
    by the sole touches of her fleeting fingertips.
    I wondered if I would be allowed to board the plane
    lest the entire contraption bursts into flames.




    Silence, even when agreed upon it,
    is silence.

    Birds halt mid flight
    rain does not reach down to roofs
    Earth’s creaking axis stops, seizes...

    I wait for the supersonic boom of your presence
    to re-emerge

    and birds will fly on
    rain will continue its way down to roofs
    Earth will creak on its axis, anew.

    My eardrum may split – drops of our spittle will heal the cracks
    my skin may split – leftovers of your traveling tongue will heal the cracks
    my heart may split – your rising smile will heal the cracks and create new ones

    in the fabric of eternity.

    Eternity will split?
    Certainly. Reflecting your smile.
    Will something pour out through the split?
    Happiness. Pure undiluted unalloyed happiness.
    You know I don’t really say these things, silence still rampant, birds still halted, etc.
    I knew.
    I know. May I nevertheless dream?
    You may. For me as well.

    Birds, halted mid flight.
    Rain, still not reaching down to roofs.
    Earth’s axis, seized.

    I wait. It will come. You will come. It will come.
    The end of silence.



Blabbering away

    With God busy preparing the first accords of Beethoven’s 5th symphony
    a mischievous cherub was preparing the first words of my 555th poem

    long, long before any of us two was born,

    more or less at world’s begin
    still at the planning stage
    and long before the claying stage.

    Yeah, God’s long term planning,
    his cherub’s too.

    Yeah, I am a creationist
    when it suits me,
    like now.
    Aren’t we all?

    Free will?
    Also when it suits me,
    otherwise how could I blame someone else for my abysmal poetry,
    be the blaimee even a revolutionary cherub?

    Mind you, I refrain from blaming God for it,
    after all very few poets survived an attack of blood, frogs, lice et co.
    And these days he added also atomic bombs to his considerable plagues arsenal
    and I feel responsible also for my neighbors,
    and their dogs,
    and their LPs collections.




    You left behind a trail one mile wide (manner of speaking, not really)

    that even a vision impaired me (politically correct for blind)
    hearing impaired me (politically correct for deaf)
    speech impaired me (politically correct for dumb)
    IQ impaired me (politically correct for moron)

    could find and follow
    with his head shaved
    hopping on one leg
    and chewing Cuban tobacco (politically incorrect and even subversively dangerous).

    OK, sufficient parentheses, I believe.

    I found a button.
    Well, a button does not provide much direction unless if followed by another button,
    further on
    and then another button even further, before a gull swallowed it
    and I couldn’t follow it any further
    luckily under a clump of thistles I found a clump of buttons
    which told me I should start looking for another directional clue
    which proved to be a stocking old style, garter next to it,
    two shoes a mile further which I found by vision impaired luck due to a kangaroo
    (yes, kangaroo, yes, another parenthesis)
    hopping the right way since there was no other way
    followed by a torn sleeve
    at which point I started to hiccup
    followed by a second sleeve
    at which point I stopped to hiccup
    followed by a shirt with all buttons missing
    at which point I was struck by total speech impairment
    thus sat down to sew them back in case you might be cold by now if I find you
    then stood up and picked a bra... a bra? a bra? a bra? a bra cad a bra? as it was singing in my brain
    followed by a skirt... a skirt? a skirt? a skirt?
    followed by a pair of pink panties
    laced with ruffles
    sweet like truffles

    panties? panties? panties? panties? panties? (etc. for a hundred times or more)
    and I may have heard you giggle if I wasn’t struck by then with optional hearing impairment
    and if I haven’t had fainted with the delight
    of not having found you (thus staying alive).

    I opened eyes.
    First I saw green, forest, eyes.
    Then I saw red, fire, lips.
    Then I saw more red, more fire, more nipples
    dangling above me like church bells about to crush me.
    Then I saw life, variegated, indescribable, adoring life
    and all IQ impaired me (yet still alive, told you higher up) could think of
    was let my lungs take over the dialogue with the thesaurusless hish language of
    ooohhh and aaahhh and mmmhhh and other variations on the subject
    all ending with triple h.

    I found you, Gretel, I said switching back to humanish
    when you finished killing me.
    I even handed you over the shirt, one button still missing.
    You even refused to wear it
    letting me dress you with arms and skin and flesh and legs and mouth
    animal me offering woman you the analogy of fur mine
    with your head softly landing on my chest
    and your breath starting to tell me the tale of Hansel as well.
    I found you, Hansel, you concluded
    and I doubt if we ever woke up.




    Read my poetry
    very, very carefully

    else you’ll miss the meaning
    and you’ll miss
    the gleaning
    of a pleasure


    You may still miss it
    even if you read carefully
    but at least you’d have tried
    and you’d know you had tried.

    Don’t expect to find any clue to any puzzle leading to any kind
    of treasure.
    Unless, if you call my mixture of mind and soul
    which you should not.
    Because it is not.




    the sea
    behind you
    smooth, flat, glossy in a rippleless tourmaline-blue rigidity

    the sun behind the sea
    one starved-hair thinness above the horizon
    undecided if to continue up
    or down
    or rolling sideways on the sleek and curved surface
    curbed in its desire by its fixation
    with you

    in front of the sea in front of the sun
    and your head blocks the burning sphere
    with a fiery hoop turning into a spikey halo at the ends of your hair
    turning you anything between a saint or a ghost or a splash of phosphorescent ink

    mesmerized at the end of the sight line
    watching your cobweb thin cotton dress virtually smolder away in the glare
    while sharply defined wispy curls draw themselves on the disintegrating whiteness
    with the sharp end of a porcupine quill
    dipped in an inkwell
    of liquid shadow.





    such an ugly word,
    one of the ugliest words in any language any translation any synonym
    and yet I persist
    in it.

    Mutilating concepts of modern poetry
    classical poetry
    ugly poetry, beautiful poetry, political commercial brainwashingal poetry

    I don’t even know why
    this is the way it comes out
    the way a rolling stone down the slope of a mountain doesn’t know
    of laws of gravity
    of Newton
    of mass and inertia and acceleration

    it just rolls,
    until it stops
    or disintegrates.

    I do not explain, mind you.
    I do not excuse, mind you.
    It is just another one of those



Oh lover oh lover

    Oh lover oh lover

    Come take my hand

    And let us uncover

    A stranger land

    Where lazy summers

    Draw flower beds

    And woodpecker drummers

    Weave golden threads.

    Oh lover oh lover

    Come taste my lips

    And while I hover

    Around your hips

    We’ll mix the day’s brine

    With honey’s dew

    And turn to moonshine

    My limpid brew.

    Oh lover oh lover

    Obey your heart

    And let’s take cover

    Inside my art

    And when this world

    Does end one day

    We’ll lie down curled

    In ever’s May.

    ...grasping the tune and the rhythm and yet not the spirit of The Brothers Four’s Cleano.




    My intentions towards you are disrespectful, at best.
    At worst too

    leaving me with such a self-defined narrow range of action and microscopic tolerances
    that if Earth wasn’t this pompous balloon
    inflated to such disproportionate proportions by whatever prehistoric pump
    I would have had long ago defied all leftovers of respectfulness, mine,
    and ravished all leftovers of respectfulness, yours

    that horizontal sword cut joining your cheeks
    and dripping with all known and unknown fires of Hell

    that vertical sword cut slashing your body in two
    and bubbling with all of Earth’s hidden squalls and all of Heaven’s hidden elixirs

    those small sword cuts separating eight of them your fingers
    eight of them your toes
    and carrying so many times so many flowers in so many Summers between them

    added tiny random sword cuts with the rage of incisors
    intertwined with tiny sword cuts carrying the quest of fingernails
    all over your body

    to finally leave you a slab of flesh rustling like a forest prey to the whims of a whipping tempest
    before ravaging fire
    takes over.

    Your intentions towards me are mighty respectful, at worst.
    At best too

    leaving me with such a self-defined narrow range of action and microscopic tolerances
    that if Earth wasn’t this pompous balloon
    inflated to such disproportionate proportions by whatever prehistoric pump
    I would have had long ago declined all leftovers of respectfulness, mine,
    and subdued all leftovers of respectfulness, yours

    that horizontal sword cut joining your cheeks
    and promising all known and unknown fires of Hell

    that vertical sword cut almost slashing your body in two with its strange fist
    raving with all of Earth’s hidden squalls and all of Heaven’s hidden elixirs

    those small sword cuts separating eight of them your fingers
    eight of them your toes
    and carrying so many times so many strands of my hair in so many Winters between them

    added tiny random sword cuts with the rage of incisors
    intertwined with tiny sword cuts carrying the quest of fingernails
    all over your body

    to finally leave you a slab of flesh rustling like a forest prey to the whims of a whipping tempest
    before ravaging fire
    takes over.




    The wagon rolls, I look ahead, the oxen heave under the yoke
    We near the road’s deserted inn where we’ll await that midnight stroke
    When past’s reluctant lords of life will strike their shields one final time
    And all my oxen, yoke and me will bide for scythe’s triumphal chime.

    I ask you, woman, will you share the moments left until all gates
    Will close forever in my wake and bolts will moor to iron plates
    That sunder heaven from its lust and hell from fields of butterflies,
    Will you, oh woman, wed my heart, my soul, my flesh and my demise?

    I promise you no promise vain
    I times be Abel, times be Cain
    But promise do I, to the end
    Your smile with sun and light to blend.

    I lead my oxen to the leys where many other grazed before
    Where shattered dreams and fallen stars have merged with myths from days of yore
    The yoke has fallen to my axe and lies a thousand splinters wide
    I let my heart bleed on the mound and it ignites like devil’s pride.

    I watch you running down the hill aflame with embers in your hair
    This be my ever last of bids, my ever last of passion’s lair
    You crush me with the vise of love and leave no pity to be found,
    The oxen ruminate the myth, and round they shuffle, round and round.



and when

    and when I go
    and I forgo

    all that I know...

    here, thoughts
    I wrote hundreds, thousands,
    hundreds of thousands
    and I connected them in various ways and various styles and various languages
    and letters I sowed have sometimes bloomed into words
    sometimes withered into blank pages
    sometimes kicked me in the teeth like the mules they turned into
    and left me bleeding
    asking for no help from fellow, mule or human,

    slab of folly

    vile yet holy...

    here, memories,
    one cannot count memories
    one can remember memories
    even those forgotten even those one wishes to forget and cannot
    I never stopped wondering at the depths of that brain-cells sack
    hugging them all
    and protecting them all
    and when the right time comes letting them all out from the sack
    and drowning the owner, me,
    in a mix of sweet & sour & bitter & beautiful,
    yes, also & ugly,

    all seasons pass
    all life turns crass

    and tufts of grass...

    here, tombstones,
    accumulated and accumulating and yearning for the moment when accumulation stops
    family, close and far,
    friends, close and far,
    pets, close and far,
    lovers, close and close and never far,
    the shine of marble and the shine of candles and the shine of reflections in tears
    decorating spots on Earth I may never visit again
    desecrating spots on Earth I wish I never had to visit
    I will never forget, may I say ever?

    moon and sun
    and the one

    when I’m done...

    here, countdown, not much left,
    here, countup, much counted,
    here, countless ways to say good bye and none as beautiful as the one never said,

    and when I fly
    into the sky

    and when I die...



The joy of nonsense & son

    Lately I talk too much about death,
    I know.
    Not that death is my companion.
    Not that I don’t wish it was my companion
    so I could poison it
    or push it under a bus
    or buy it a one way ticket to where it came from
    wherever it was or is, supposing I knew.

    Do you think death remembers its parents?
    Its neighbors
    its flag?
    Do you think it has a taste in clothes, in music, in smoothies?
    Do you think death is a man? Or a woman? Or gay?
    Do you think death has political opinions?
    It sure as hell does not discriminate, it always takes the good ones first, no?
    Do you think death can catch influenza in winter?

    I believe death is red. Tomato red.
    If you object you’d better justify your choice,
    what do you believe death to be – avocado green?
    Spaghetti long? Alligator hungry?
    I stand by my red and I do not have to justify it,
    after all I started this discussion,
    my prerogative.

    OK, by now, if you reached this milestone in my poem
    your reaction depends on who you are.
    If my friend, you tear out every last vestige of hair from your scalp
    and raise eyes to the skies mumbling... ‘oh, no, not again...’
    If my lover, you pull up every single or double pair of panties you find at home
    and send me a relevant picture with a relevant text
    threatening no sex for the coming twenty three years
    unless I repent and recant and repudiate and recycle this piece of paper
    (I wrote it on a piece of paper)
    within the next twenty three hours and send you the receipt.
    If my critic (I believe the one that ends with c not the one that ends with que)
    you immediately inform president Trump with ‘I told you so’
    and he will not answer but tweet back something about Biden’s prostate
    (may apply to mine too).
    If a random reader, I do not wish to lose you and I beseech you to forgive me
    invoking and blaming God’s plan and Butterfly’s effect
    (lately I cater to both camps, don’t know why, intelligent senility?)
    If you’re me, then I really don’t know what the hell I am talking about
    but one thing is certain – this piece of text HAD to be written, period.

    Oh, and let others explain, suffer, comment... I simply enjoyed my no effort.




    I sit on a bench, at the left end of it,
    you sit at the right end.
    Another bench.
    Another park, another city, another continent.
    I look right.
    You look left.
    I move a quarter of bench rightways and you move a quarter of bench leftways.
    Then I move a quarter more same direction
    you too
    we are both at the middle, there is no place for two at the middle.
    No, it matter not another bench, park, city, continent.
    And half a world in between. Irrelevant.

    You clamber and sit on my knees
    hands clasped around my neck breath burning a hole through my cheek,
    I hope no teeth are showing, it would be gruesome.
    I wish I could do the same
    but we cannot both sit on the knees of the other
    it would be an Escherian paradox in two dimensions
    an impossibility in three dimensions
    and I’m too heavy, anyway.
    Your clothes cannot contain the heat.
    Undress, I beg, or you’ll go up in flames.
    You first, you answer.
    I don’t want you to run away screaming, people are still asleep, I try.
    Hell is down not up, you continue your line of thought, not having listened.
    You undress.

    The chilly morning air builds landscapes of goosebumps all over your body
    some areas more visible than other
    some areas more elusive than other
    some areas breathtaking.
    Like my nipples?
    Like your earlobes.
    Close your eyes, I’ll undress too.
    You don’t close your eyes. I am half a world away, I won’t run away. Where to?
    Why to?

    I refuse to answer. I undress.
    The bench underneath begins to smolder
    my turn to go up in flames.
    I know why.

    We saddle each other,
    somehow Escher is not a necessity anymore. Probably distance is multi-dimensional.
    Make love to me. Make love to me.
    F would have been a more appropriate word but children might be reading it.
    And the setting does not lead to F but rather to ML, so I give in. We give in.
    What with autumn’s leaves fluttering down to your shoulders
    and turning butterflies upon propinquity
    and the eye of the breeze trying to steal your breasts from the confinement of my palms
    and all those puppies and their puppy eyes looking up at us from all around us...
    ...where did they come from? you giggle, embarrassed.
    Our sharing? I try, not really certain.
    We wait until the last one is asleep. The last one snores.

    Constriction! Coarctation! Contraction!
    The world is down to pinpoint size we are down to pinpoint size on pinpoint
    the rage uncontainable
    the rage rages

    We slide from the bench in between the hugging embrace of the puppies
    butterflies thickening on your shoulders
    the eye of the breeze still failing to steal your breast from the confinement of my palms

    Will the world grow back to its bulky self?
    And we will be sitting on different benches, different parks,
    different cities, continents.
    So how did it just happen?
    Magic, I answer.
    Heart magic, is my extended corny answer,
    and I really do not want to understand it. Just to live it.
    Live it with me?

    We get up.
    I from my left side of the bench, turning left.
    You from your left side of the bench turning right.
    We start walking. Thankfully the world is round,
    till we meet again, I promise.
    Till we meet again, you echo.
    Or, maybe, it was the other way around?




    Lips linger lustfully locked.

    Hands happily holding hips.

    Metaphors mobilizing more meaning.

    Is your world always alliterated?
    Not necessarily. Nice notion.

    What about something with A? Fast, don’t think.
    Are all approaches acceptable?

    Huh, I see... did you prepare for this dialogue?
    (yawn) Yes, yesterday yvening.
    You’re cheating.
    Yada yada, yammer yammer.
    Just trying to keep it interesting. Could have said
    Yuppie, yes, yesterday. Yahoo!

    Now, this gets too boring, you know?
    Know know know know.
    Ha, ha, ha, ha.
    Now, this is the spirit, you know?

    Pause. This is not part of the dialogue.
    This is a pause in the dialogue.

    Actually, at this stage we were not talking anymore,
    just practicing.
    Concatenation, compaction, convolution.




    Show me the beauty asleep in your shirt
    the beauty asleep in the folds of your skirt
    the beauty asleep in the depths of your mouth
    when you open it wide and your cranes travel south,

    The beauty of ridges that fingerprints hide
    you burn down my castle to ravish my pride
    the blinking ordeal of those forests of green
    you climb my oppidum with armies of sin
    and argue my body’s defenseless sophism
    to slobbering muteness and wild anarchism,

    Show me the beauty of traveling quake
    with crocodiles chasing my flesh in its wake
    of traveling skin over pastures of lust
    with shattering bones grinding slowly to dust
    then bury my head in that muscled domain
    that hosts navel’s rich pitter-patter of rain
    your fingers relentlessly pushing my head
    my mouth’s trailing slobber fermenting in dread,

    One knee preys on sunset, the other sun’s rise
    I prey on the vista invading my eyes
    A gravity fist horizontally pulls
    To depths of a chaos in search for the rules
    About to collate seeds evading my will
    With life from your canvas and ink from my quill,

    The hasp treads the loop and the padlock clicks shut
    The metaphor dies and a kiss clears all smut
    And under the dome of a ray-riddled hutch
    You show me that you which my hand craves to touch.




    One million readers they have.
    And one million dollars,
    or more
    or less
    or more or less.
    Are they worthy of one million readers?
    And dollars?
    Maybe they are
    maybe they are not
    maybe they have one hell of a marketing machine where money does not really matter
    especially in the beginning.
    Afterwards is the avalanche effect and no one gives a shit about quality
    or value
    or worth.

    One hundred thousand readers some others have.
    And one hundred thousand dollars,
    or more
    or less
    or more or less.
    The rest ditto, saving some ink.

    What about one thousand readers,
    I sure as hell wouldn’t mind that
    even without associated dollars.
    One hundred readers?
    Well, if worse comes to worse...

    But one reader?
    One, o-n-e reader
    synonyming with only, lonely, alonely, etc?

    OK, I know, I may not have been completely honest with you
    my secondly, additional, unintentional, circumstantial reader,

    one, o-n-e, synonyming with only, lonely, alonely, etc
    is ALL, A-L-L, everything, the entirety of, the totality
    of readers I want, need, desire.
    More is nice to have
    one is must to have.
    As long as this one is she.
    She, the one who, when reading these lines automatically supplants she with you
    and then leans back laughing at everyone who does not understand my saying.
    She understands, the only one in the world who understands.
    Maybe she even... loves me?



One, two

    And then I lost my one too.
    I lost her, you
    depends on who reads these lines.

    I don’t blame her. You.
    Damn Cronos the bastard
    with all infinity to play with
    he decided to focus on this singular slice of nanotime
    the nanodifference between us
    blowing it up to, well, bigger nanodifference
    smaller than it should have mattered
    but big enough to have it matter.
    To her.
    To you.
    And I lost her too. You.

    Less than a blink in time, much less actually than nanotime
    probably more like nanonanonanotime and more zeroes behind the decimal point of importance
    and a gigantic slice of nanohappiness
    sliced off. Torn. Ripped. Reft. Rent. Rived. Ruptured.
    So many synonyms to so much teranegativity.

    Of course I keep writing.
    Maybe she will for a moment forget the divide
    and her eye will wonder my way
    followed by her heart
    followed by her smile. Maybe even her hand.
    A nanomaybe. Worth the effort.
    Until the effort will not be there anymore
    lying alongside me.
    For an eternity bigger than even Cronos can conceive,
    serves him well, the bastard.

    And until that moment I will wait.

    For her.

    For you.



Dude and I

    Dude, please let me carry on
    Songs of praise from dusk till dawn
    Then from dawn to dusk anew
    Songs of ‘woman, I love you’.

    Dude didn’t really like the idea. After all the effort He put in creation, He expected songs of praise and love about Himself, not about the piece of rib he tortured and torsioned in the thing called woman. This piece of clay whom He gave some (limited) brains was overstepping its boundaries. I should have stopped with dog, He thought.

    Sure, He could devise some solutions like a better flood or a better virus, but He didn’t feel like starting all the toiling anew – another six days of labor? and another Saturday? c’mon, enough was enough, He wanted some relaxation. And His angels were threatening to unionize, ha, imagine communism in the skies.

    Dude, I know your mighty hand
    You could smite me where I stand
    But as much as I love you
    I love more her dripping dew.

    For a moment Dude was taken aback, for a moment He thought He was going to use His mighty hand to smite him where he stood, but then re-considered. Hey, he did say that he loves Me, which is already an admission of kinds. He also did not specify the kind of dew he was referring to, so he probably did refer to lips dew, not some other ignoble kind... well, I did create this other ignoble kind Myself so I better stop complaining to Myself.

    I think this is something I can work with and in a few millennia things will get better. Thank Me for not letting them live more than 120 years, certainly not this duding character. The word ‘more’ bothered Him subconsciously, though He would never admit to owning a subconsciousness - what a damn long word, they should have stuck to Hebrew.

    Oh, he’s talking to Me again, yes, not all is lost.

    Dude, a father you’re to me
    Love me like I do love thee
    This word ‘love’ is kind of lame
    Love you both, but not the same.

    Hmm, we’re getting there. Admission of love, better than admission of guilt. He ran a few tests, the usual, you know – blood pressure, heart rate, saliva acidity – they all pointed to the fact that he was actually telling the truth. On an uncontrollable impulse (another thing He maintained He did not admit owning) He went back and read all the past writes of this talking clay (He could read almost as fast as Superman, but the clays had a way of abusing their He given imagination), and was forced to sit on a cloud and think a bit more. Then He re-read a second time, a third time...

    Then He started laughing, disregarding the fact that this triggered hurricane Omega (they were out of clay names already). Oh, My I, or maybe it is more correct grammatically speaking, to say Oh, My Me?... he really has Me hidden in his heart, some corner I didn’t even know I created (hey, am I to remember every schematic?) and when he talks about woman there is always talk about Me, and when he talks about woman love he always talk about Me love, and when he talks about making love to woman he always talks about thanking Me for sculpting this piece of creation (even Michelangelo didn’t do better, ahmm) which permeates his every pore of mind and spirit and body of course.

    He didn’t laugh again, the clays were running out also of Greek alphabet letters by now. Instead he smiled, accepted the petition of His angels on condition that they change a few clauses, and listened to the last stanza. Me, I love clay so much!

    Dude, I’ll be forever bard
    Thoughts of you divine, unmarred,
    Thoughts of her, on other hand
    I will hew with carnal brand.



Linguistic wonderings and wanderings

    I’ve never admitted yet, or before
    but I suffer from this brain malady with a name so long and unpronounceable
    that no one in his right mind dared yet excogitate,

    a brain malady that drops me unexpectedly down these abysmal abysses
    with walls so smooth and oily and impenetrable
    that a cat could not hang on to them, or an octopus,
    or even a Mallet’s Mortar shooting at it shells adorned with moissanite tipped hooks
    and grapples
    and barbs
    and porcupine quills
    and other paraphernalia.
    Why moissanite rather than diamond?... a simple matter of price, mind you.

    See, the malady started its attack already,
    I hope it will not extend its unwelcome stay beyond this unwelcome poem, well, we’ll see.

    So let’s start with swan-song,
    who was the antiquity idiot who invented such uninventable combination?
    Carmen cygni, yes, carmen cygni my foot, the right one
    which is where a swan once bit me
    in a frenzy of jealousy and protectivity. Luckily it did not have hyena fangs.
    I believe the inventor was short hearinged, you know, like short sighted
    so he saw a nightingale or a harp or a turkey and he thought it was a swan.
    Maybe he was also short smelled, short touched... what else is there?... short tasted.
    Not short imaginationed, mind you, and reaching notoriety up to Bill’s times

    Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan.
    And die in music.
    Willow, willow, willow—
    Moor, she was chaste, she loved thee, cruel Moor.
    So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true.
    So speaking as I think, alas, I die.

    and beyond... Geoffrey Chaucer, Nicolai Abildgaard, Alfred Tennyson, Led Zeppelin...

    Clytemnestra, another arrow to my linguistic wanderings bow,
    do you think hubby Agamemnon called her Clytie or Clytoria or Clo-Clo
    before during after their intimate, passionate encounters around
    killing her first hubby Tantalus
    raping her
    seeding her son Orestes
    sacrificing her daughter Iphigenia
    bringing her home lover Cassandra
    getting killed by her sharp labrys

    so much blood and incest and treason wrapped in those revered myths
    that today would get them an NC-17 rating even for reading only
    if not a Fahrenheit 451 event at the hands of some proselytizing do-gooders,
    oh, Clytemnestra, a name bringing to the forwards of my conscience
    disassociated homophones and homonyms considered indecent
    the kind of the kleitoris concealed by the labia pudendi
    and the beauty of thoughts of shared passion embedded in its modest structure
    versus the noisome efforts in relegating any mention of it in any literature of beauty,
    techno-medical and degrado-pornographical excluded.

    Deformed meaning? Deformed hearing?
    You are probably right. You are probably wrong. You’ve been warned.

    And what about virtureality?
    Don’t google it, it does not exist, yet, I just coined it.
    And if you google it tomorrow and it wall-papers your screen it means you stole it,
    someone stole it.
    I coin a lot of new words, this one is especially dear to my heart
    because of someone specially dear to my heart
    to whom I dedicated a not so great poem,
    fact which does not contradict the previous statement,
    titled this way. Virtureality

    You will find online a lot of material about virtual, and virtuality, and real and reality,
    so what the hell is my brain envisaging to mean differently by this ‘other’ word, you ask.
    Listen, don’t ask, interpret!
    I do not control the excess weight and the excess creases of my brain
    pushing me along these wondering and wandering paths
    and if you lobotomize them, provided you could find them,
    this kind of debatable poems will not come into existence,

    same being true for myths and children stories and theoretical math,
    thus accept, interpret
    and if you interpreted wrongly that’s great because you tried,

    what is virtureality? a world, a rich world, an incredibly rich world
    where you move in and out of dreams at will
    where you create and destroy and recreate lives at will
    where you are the god and the other God accepts your decisions
    at least until the end of the story
    the poem
    the sentence.

    Ism. What about ism? Well, you could call them philosophies,
    or ideologies or religions
    type capitalism, communism, totalitarianism, sufism, judaism, catholiocism, budhism
    and various other ism’s but there is a new one
    not named yet and yet it seems to have invaded and conquered
    the minds of all new era politicians and leaders to their kinds
    and this is selfishism.
    Mine, mine, mine (remember Gollum?)
    mine! the chair, the office, the leadership, the country
    the money ah money ah money
    and the rest can go jump from the highest bridge or tallest building
    or parachute without parachute for all these new generation mumbo-jumbo’s care
    and one particularly comes to mind
    the one who set the foundations for changing president into presidonna
    as a leading step towards further changing it to presidonnald
    and redefining the American constitution
    and its destitution
    towards idolatry
    and the setting of his image next to the Statue of Liberty
    or maybe even replacing it.
    And in one year probably adding his effigy to Mount Rushmore’s quartet,
    his lawyers would see to it,
    hmm, yey!

    There are other linguistic wonderings and wanderings I regularly dab into
    like all those words starting with caco
    or all those words ending with nym
    or all those words ending with ist, phy, ics
    and some even stranger triggers to my neurological paths
    but then I would be writing a dictionary, not poetry.
    So I’ll give it a break for now.
    Maybe later on I will add a “two” poem to this one.
    For now I will just give my back and fingers a break,
    go drink a smoothie and repair some roof and watch a debilitating TV show,
    all good for their regenerative powers.

    I hope you did not read this poem, I really do.




    When I smoke
    which I never do
    I think of you.

    Running on the ocean side
    with waves desperate to catch our footprints
    and we desperate to jump from footprint to footprint
    and we losing every time
    and they winning every time

    until that armistice moment
    when we all give up the chase
    and they return to churn and to mourn the litter scumming their kingdom
    for which we apologize
    and we return to churn and to mourn the life lost away from each other
    for which they do not apologize though they lay in between
    for so many uncounted and uncountable and unaccounted for

    Your hair gathers sand
    and I work
    days and days
    getting each and every one of the sand grains

    I breathe, most of the time.
    I never think of you when I breathe
    too busy handling and analyzing and sorting the masses of rubbish invading my lungs.

    I build us a solid raft
    autumn leaves glued and sewn to each other
    and throw it middle of the ocean
    then throw you on top of it
    then throw myself on top of you
    hoping you won’t pay attention
    which you don’t.

    I discuss the situation with orcas and sharks and passing flotsam
    all too busy trying to eat me rather than help me wake you up
    and let you fall asleep again
    in my arms.
    Probably I should have tried another ocean
    or puddle
    or barrel.

    I wash the salt from your body
    and from under your fingernails
    and from between your toes.

    I think of you
    all the time left after not thinking of you,
    smoking and breathing irrelevant.

    The waves died
    the ocean almost died,
    I find it under broken chairs and soggy cotton wads and empty, not always,
    shopping bags

    hardly alive all of us.
    I propose to you love eternal
    knowing eternality to be an eternally limited proposition
    and you answer by starting a collection of thrash
    for humanity’ ocean-thrash museum
    asking me to join you before you accept or deny my proposal
    and you apologize to me and to the ocean
    and I apologize to you and to the ocean

    night finding us exhausted on our microscopic thrash island
    and its mephitic smells.

    Is your poetry also here? you ask meaning probably something
    a clothespin pinching your nose

    I surely hope so, I answer meaning probably something else
    clothespins pinching both my nose and my ears
    since I probably prefer not to hear any answer.

    You remove all clothespins, mine and yours
    and point to your meanwhile liberated left nipple
    though I know by now we probably mean the same

    Your poetry is also here, statement, not question.

    The rest of liberated you lies on the wet sand
    with my index finger drawing continuous contours around it
    and the ocean erasing each again and again

    your sigh arising always at the same point in the cycle
    until I give up drawing and let my finger linger at the sigh-spot
    for as long as the ocean allows it. And you.



I guess

    I guess my books could have been thinner,

    by some not by much
    had I but chosen not to start each poem on the odd page
    for some obscure reason which I cannot reason out any more

    maybe I wanted a gimmick
    or maybe I wanted them artificially thicker
    (by single percent numbers, mind you)
    or maybe it made me feel good to flick through the pages
    and always see the titles same side of the book

    like east always east
    and west always west
    and porridge not everyone loving it... whatever it means.

    I guess my lines could have been shorter,

    not really shorter but looking shorter
    if I just placed a random carriage-return (as once called) here and there
    the way universities teach
    and contests are won
    and fashion and fad and temporary coteries à la mode
    are defined

    or define themselves

    or are brought about by those meaningless in their minds
    but deep in their pockets, gold or virtual.
    Would compensate the previous guessing paragraph
    relative to book lengths
    and number of trees saved or sacrificed.

    I guess I could have written poetry.

    Not erotic drivel.
    Of course I like my drivel
    else I would not have written it
    and I ain’t ashamed to admit,
    contrary to others.
    After all each have their specialties

    drivel writer
    prime minister
    and so on.
    Some jobs paying more some paying less.
    Some not paying at all.

    And if some university would have offered me a cathedra
    on condition that I end my slovenly, nefarious influence upon the brain-washed masses
    populating their thickly packed auditoriums
    I would have said “make love to you”
    (my politeness/deference/respectfulness is boundless)
    and refused.

    I guess in one or several other lifetimes
    you would have loved me
    for words.

    It will stay a guess, I guess.



Those Words

    Modern world.
    Modern words, or rather modern use of old words
    not always in the best of taste
    but in the best of modernity
    slang. Buddy-buddy. Chummy-chummy. Matey-matey. Ha!

    Now, imagine this modern world but with all these words banned
    or forgotten
    or never existed
    be they four lettered or three or five or whatever-lettered words
    how would our daily sound?

    Certainly possible
    but clean?
    Or simply and alienly ridiculous, at least to our present ear?

    You’ll need some imagination for the following, since in this “new world”
    I cannot use these above mentioned words,
    I can merely use analogies
    and your up-front forgiveness for my idiocy is an assumed certitude. OK?

    Fine, let’s start with examples.

    Assume you made a mistake at an exam and you discover it too late,
    what would you say out loud?
    The obvious or
    make love, make love, make love?
    Or imagine you are fed up with that fedable up someone
    what would you tell them at your ragest –
    make love off,
    make love you,
    what the make loving hell?

    Ridiculous you find?!
    Well, this is the kind of world we are now defining some small details about.

    Other examples? Let me see,
    look, in such a polite world where sob would be just the synonym to cry
    the other one we like using these days would sound something like
    you born of a female canine species or in short boafcs
    (not as piercing as the original but hey, it’s this kind of world)
    rejecting someone’s argument would be phrased along the lines of
    bull’s entrails expectoration
    rather than the “other” one
    and someone you despise would be called a
    backside orifice opening
    or an excrement head
    or a rooster suckling person... if you get my drift.
    Shooing someone away?
    Well, in addition to the above mentioned make love off
    you could also use urinate off. A bit cruder but still within definition –
    no four lettered words, no three lettered words, no five lettered words
    and what they stand for.

    Get stuffed would still be ok in this world,
    after all one stuffs also turkeys and things.
    Goddammit would also be OK,
    calling upon God is always ok, no?
    and Bloody Hell could be construed as both medical
    and ethical, thus acceptable.
    But inferring that people are masculine or feminine organs should not be tolerated
    and should transmogrify
    (I have no idea what it means)
    into cognomens
    (another one I have no idea what it means)
    such as in: you reproductive female organ!
    or in: you reproductive male organ!
    or if subtlety yet sharpness is demanded then such as:
    make love you you reproductive organ
    and leaving the gender undefined... this would be a real killer
    with no parallel in the other world.

    OK, close parentheses.
    I think we bloody hell should keep on using fuck and shit and other members of the clan
    else we all die of old age by the time the insultee gets whatever we mean by whatever,
    and we wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?




    You see, I have been blessed with this eighth sense.

    Which other two?
    Forget them, skip them, they are meaningless in this context,
    the eighth is the one I can boast about.
    And do.

    You see, I know when I write divine poetry.
    I know also when I write shit poetry.
    This is my eighth sense, part one.

    Part two is I know if someone shits me and praises my shit
    or abhors my artistry and decimates my divinity,

    divinity i.e. divine creativity and not the “other”.

    So whichever you are, don’t!
    I know.
    Come back only when you are awash with honesty, if to be Shakespearian
    and then praise me or abhor me
    I will love you.

    Cross all my hearts and hope to die,




    By the sun’s height over the horizon
    your eyes are blue
    and your name’s Lou.

    She turned off the mike for a few seconds,
    I guess she did not want me to hear her laughing.

    We were on the same continent
    if you account for the bottom of the ocean as part of the structure,
    but on different planets if you account for everything else.
    It was an across-the-world dating site,
    voice only,
    my first try and probably the last.
    Curiosity, you know.

    She opened the mike again.
    I measured said height
    resulting in green and June.

    Hmm... so maybe it was not my last try after all.
    Intelligence at the end of a phone line was not what I expected,
    maybe I was wrong

    Did you use a sextant? I asked.
    No, I’m not that rich and or talented,
    I used an Internet table. And my ID.

    This time it was I who closed the mike for a few moments
    and when I opened it again she snickered audibly.
    I guess you had to laugh off-line, right?

    The discussion started taking unexpected turns
    each turn finding me more intrigued than the previous one.
    Laughing was not an issue anymore
    the mike staying open even during the most embarrassing moments
    or the most stimulating ones.
    Like when she asked me my age.
    Like when I asked her what she was wearing.
    Like when she asked me my postal address.

    Why, do you want to investigate me?
    I want to send you a package.
    Naked pictures?
    Also, when I was three months old.
    Also a few books, CDs, DVDs,
    if we’re ever going to fuck you’d better know more of me.
    Do you like poetry? I asked just to kill the embarrassing moment
    No, she answered.
    Even rhyming poetry?
    Worse, she answered.
    Can you give me your postal address? I asked.
    Why, do you want to investigate me?
    I want to send you a package,
    I do not have any three months old bare-assed picture of myself
    but I have some rhyming poetry I wrote I want to send you.
    You know you risk that theoretical future fucking moment? she mussed.
    I know.

    Three months later.
    Mr. Post did not get any richer with one package each way, I am sure.
    The continent size reduced to one bed size
    the different planets reduced to same one bed size
    we reduced to crazed animals finally settling their bodily arguments
    with one final sigh... well, more of a growl.
    If I remembered correctly, we did not exchange one word from the moment she landed
    to the moment after the mentioned growl ended.
    I believe I fell for your books and CDs and DVDs, I offered.
    I believe I fell for your rhyming poetry, she offered.

    No more.



Not quite an argument

    So, really,
    why does one write poetry?

    No one remembers it
    no one reads it
    no one in his right mind buys it.

    Maybe some college professors to justify their paid desks
    and flaunt artificial knowledgeness towards the innocent flock
    grazing the waxed floors of their auditoriums
    and paying with daddy’s hard (or easy) earned money. Or mommy’s, if you insist.

    Maybe also the afore mentioned flock
    to get their pass/fail points
    from the afore mentioned professors.

    But does anyone really READ it?
    Dive into it, mine into it, dig into it until the fingers bleed
    and the spades blunt.
    Does anyone really try to understand it?

    Yes, it carries some glow from the “classics”
    or even “recent classics”
    not that they were more of a success than of a fad,

    is it reason enough?

    I wonder.
    I keep wondering.
    Maybe I should stop wondering and keep writing
    even if I do not remember ninety-nine percent of whatever I whenever wrote

    and once I become a classic myself
    someone else will ask the same question
    and maybe by then there will be also an answer.

    My answer to myself?
    Because one loves it.
    Because I love it, damn humanity’s short span of interest and brain activity
    and though it is one of the most disregarded forms of art
    it is one of the deepest
    most accessible and most evocative forms of art planted on this planet.

    No one asks a nightingale the reason.
    No one should ask a poet the reason.




    lay me awash
    with sex

    let my concupiscence betroth your prurience
    and we’ll chisel longer words straight into bones

    while you smear thick layers of flesh upon mine
    sprinkled with thin crumbs of glinting skin

    allowing me no time to avenge my departed morality
    and lost time before its departure.

    let me disembogue
    into you

    as I anneal into emptiness of reason
    do deliquesce into fermentation of wantonness

    and the sizzle of lancinated insides
    rise to nostrils with the screech of desquamated outsides

    like a symphonic orgy
    of birds trying to find their places on disemboweled staves.

    leave me hunting
    for a lifetime lost

    faltering between worlds unknown to man
    and worlds unknown to this man

    while caviling at the injustices befallen me since creation
    and then gather my entire corporality

    to lay it down gently in your lap
    just underneath the garlands of your breasts.



Fame. Or is it fameish? Or maybe fameishness?

    Nobody thinks I’m as good as Shakespeare,
    an overwhelming minority thinks I’m better
    the rest don’t know I exist.

    Same idea when comparing to Bukowski,
    again overwhelming, again minority
    but this time another minority,
    I wonder why.

    In a state of complete and total excitation
    I tried other names:
    Cummings, Pound, Plath, Eliot, Yeats, Lorca...
    each time decisively winning by a minority of 1-2
    in a total count of 2-3
    the minority component changing each time
    entirely dependent on the street corner where I ran my research.

    Significant find, don’t you think?

    I intend to expand my research from East Papua to West Papua
    and after this, who knows,
    the world?

    I mean, world domination was never my intent
    but given that it is offered to me so readily
    who am I to say no?

    BTW, I will have to raise my books’ prices,
    everyone thought I was an idiot for asking such a low price for such high quality
    and kept pointing to their temples
    with their index fingers going round and round.




    brought you into my life,

    bucketfuls of word-puzzles broken into single components
    which you could magic-wand into bubbling brooks
    and rising larks
    and falling snowflakes upon the ends of my eyelashes

    took you out of my life,
    the lack of it, mine.

    it was short
    measured in seconds, in inches, in pounds

    it was not as short as it would take not to be cut
    to slivers.

    we’ll never walk
    we’ll never talk
    we’ll never endure through that riveting gasp
    that kneads steel into wax and pounds flintstone to chalk

    we’ll never abide
    by the groveling tide
    we’ll never emboss into sinew and bone
    the profound veneration that alloys groom and bride.

    read it. learn to.
    we’ll never live it. accept to.

    by the time you solve the last puzzle there will be no last puzzle left
    to solve.




    I listen to the orchestra tuning their tools,

    ok, they call them instruments,
    so what?

    Still tools of trade
    like hammer, rasp, drilling machine

    I can also call my tools instruments.

    So I don’t compose a concerto to one vise and three screwdrivers
    and I don’t play one since no one ever wrote one

    but still,
    these are honorable tools
    and I play them no less enthusiastically than a cello, or a trombone, or a piccolo

    like my father before me
    and his before him
    and how many before that?

    I like the dirt under my fingernails
    making me one of the many
    who really count.



the 8th

    ...and on the 8th day God was bored

    and then He had this wonderful idea
    and He gave His creation free will

    and from that moment on there was never a dull moment.

    and at a certain moment
    it even became
    maybe... too much.

    and it got Him thinking...



Rant. Seventh? Last?

    I read them.

    Not all, the good ones,
    the so called good ones
    classics and modern classics and neo classics and similar classics
    trying to understand the roots to their success
    and influence carrying throughout the masses
    limited masses, that is, but still – masses,
    and rave reviews
    and repeated editions

    and similar extraneous manifestations of success,
    not necessarily money.

    And I found.
    It is crap. And shit.
    The more the better. Crap and shit.
    And the crappier and shittier the resulting world, the better.
    Distribution. Fame. Compilations, anthologies, fifth editions. Bestsellers.
    Crap. Shit.
    Literally and figuratively speaking,
    there is sufficient analog material available in among drugs,
    smoking, alcohol, self mutilation, suicidal drive, STDs, jail,
    parental abuse, parental neglect, parental violence...
    yes, parental is such a favorite pass-time.

    Admittedly all this carnival stops short of C words,
    C male and C female,
    not always but mostly.
    Yey! such gentleness of spirit and consideration.

    And I? Where am I?
    Damn, nowhere near.
    Beg to be exculpated
    but no parental problems, no drugs, no revolution except socially justified,
    yeap, down in the doldrums
    and lower.
    Thus no fame for me, no fifth edition, no bestseller.
    Damn it, not even first edition.

    I can’t claim I’ll survive it, I will not
    but I can claim acceptance.
    Ranting acceptance but acceptance nevertheless.

    Listen, you, the one assumedly reading it,
    I have as much life behind me as you have before you.
    So maybe you’ll get there, good luck!
    And if you can do it without crap and shit even better,
    it means you didn’t sacrifice your beliefs on Molech’s altar.
    It means your talent was spotted,
    and accepted.
    Hallelujah! Inch’ Allah! Soli Deo Gloria! Amen!




    I have to make sure my books are printed on FSC approved material
    controlled foresting, recycled non-bleached paper

    pages soft and thin and malleable
    ink water-based and preferably food-safe
    glue non-toxic
    binding thread fully soluble

    thus allowing fully flexible and fully ecological solutions and answers
    to the question “what to do with these books?”
    after (preferably) buying them or (less preferably) stealing them
    and (preferably) reading them, at least partially

    the options variants as in the following, non-exclusive, listing
    with estimated percentages of the total quantity distributed
    all based on pre PPP (Personal Private Prejudiced) research:

    0.0001% to private shelves or national libraries or lost in public places

    23% to composting bins, preferably aerobic though anaerobic would do as well
    as long as you and your neighbors agree with a degree of stank
    small price to pay for saving the planet,
    you’d preferably run the book through a powerful shredder beforehand
    to help with the process
    and only then mix with peels of oranges, pieces of rotten tomatoes,
    scraps of meat, borscht leftovers, torn cabbage leaves, sugar, spoiled eggs

    11% to support feet of wobbling tables or cabinets
    though no responsibility accepted by the publishers
    for eventual collapse of said tables or cabinets
    and resulting damage to persons of all sexes, pets of both sexes or property

    34% to be sent to sub-developed areas around the globe
    whereas these books should be dis-paged to individual pages
    and these pages to be fully mottled and then un-mottled several times
    after which procedure they should be impaled upon nails of various sizes
    on walls of private or public outhouses
    for the obvious use of keeping the planet and people thriving upon it
    clean and literate (some of them will know to read, I imagine)

    3% to feed goats, some like it mainly mixed with fresh cabbage leaves

    6% to be carved in between the covers and used to smuggle
    firearms, drugs, cheese, soup, waffles, diamonds and similar
    to prisons, from prisons, to mental institutions, from mental institutions,
    mainly the thick books

    15% to be used as individual pages to wrap fish in the market place,
    small fish, mind you, say sardines
    they could be also cone-formed for the storage of seeds, cherries, blueberries
    and similar but nothing liquid, mind you

    the-rest-of % ... imagination is the limit...
    origami folding, open fire supplement (one can try to fry potatoes in it),
    paper confetti, who throws it further games, weight lifting competitions,
    ransom messages cutouts (not recommended, letters too uniform),
    bullet penetration tests, winter stuffing for shoes,
    counter weights for cranes when mixed with concrete, platforms for short people,
    headgear protection against heavy hail
    scafanders sink weights
    balloons ballast
    weaponry (throwing off the walls of a castle on attackers heads
    if a time machine would bring us back to that period, still theoretical).

    Now that I am certain my name will be immortalized on the walls of the hall of fame
    if not for poetry then at least for ecology
    and now that the goals of my art were made so plainly clear to me
    and to a multitude of 2-3 other people
    by me
    I have no choice but follow my destiny
    and add a few more kilograms to said art.

    Oh, the beauty of this art
    scraping my shoulders to bleeding raw...




    I read Bukowski,
    I think I connected.

    Probably only partially
    but partially enough to call it connection.

    I thought I connected to you as well
    but I was wrong

    with him it was probably because I was close to the age
    when he wrote those lines
    with you it is probably because I am far from the age
    when you read these lines.

    I read Bukowski,
    some lines he says I would have said the same
    but better
    some lines he says I would have said the same
    but worse

    some lines I did.

    You agree with some of his lines
    I agree with some of his lines,
    we are not always in sync.

    I certainly agree to his one word answer to those asking his advice on writing poetry.
    His answer.

    I read Bukowski,
    I did not yet finish
    but I could write his rest of poems blindly.
    Except for a few words I would probably nail it,
    say – 93% ?

    Nothing to do with predictability,
    more to do with the mood he put me in.
    I will have to read now three times sequentially Cinderella
    in order to erase the lingering taste of futility, impotence and cynicism.
    Not that I mind aftertaste of such kind, it is reality after all,
    but I prefer to save the streak of optimism in me
    that tries to survive life
    and a Cinderella ending kind of helps.

    I do not mind if you consider it childish.

    I read Bukowski.
    I think I will give up reading Bukowski for a while.



Mixta Cogitationes

    Before my soul returns to dust, my dear,
    Et ne peut plus t’apprendre du désir,
    Before I melt my quill inside my art
    Et l’hirondelles avec ces doux mots partent,

    Just watch how sunset dips its evening brush
    Et peint ton lit avec des tendres taches
    Where I will lay you into whisper’s lull
    Pour faire l’amour cernés par des étoiles.

    Oh, don’t wake up from this embracing blue
    Et n’oublie pas ma vie, ma mort, et nous.



In a way

    I was a handsome guy.

    I was wiry, sexy, alluring.

    I was attractive to women,
    and not only but only that counted for me.

    I am not handsome
    but handsome in a way.

    I am not anymore wiry, sexy, alluring
    but wiry, sexy and alluring in a way.

    I am not attractive to women
    but still attractive in a way.
    In a way

    even more in this way, all of above.

    I do not care about handsome, wiry, sexy, alluring, attractive, etc.
    I do no try
    I accept
    and all I receive is truly
    beautiful soft sexy alluring attractive etc
    so much more than once
    in a way.




    There’s a window.
    There’s a lake beyond the window.
    There’s a forest beyond the lake beyond the window and in the forest wolves, bears, deer.
    There’s a room beyond the window this side of the window
    and in the room red embers singing crackling wood tunes inside an open fireplace
    and I try to sing along poem tunes
    succeeding only in the crackling aspects,

    not even not my poems sound better.

    Yes, lack of oxygen takes over my expression
    though the logic stays intact.
    Your beauty intact.
    Your beauty incorporeal this side of beyond the window
    as you pendulate to me from me to me from me in the rocking chair
    your eyes glued to the row of willows pendulating in the passing breeze
    imitating you
    beyond the window
    before the lake beyond the window
    before the lake before the forest beyond the window
    before the wolves and bears and deer.

    Don’t read one, write one, you say
    and I don’t read one, I write one.
    You close your eyes.
    You smile when the verse is jocund
    you tear when the verse is tragic
    you light up when the verse is erotic...
    you read my mind

    as I write.

    Snow has fallen, you say.
    The bedsheets are cold, you say.
    Now read it into my ear, you say.

    You smile
    you tear
    you light up and with you the willows and the lake and the forest
    and wolves and bears and deer rage in illiterate appreciation
    of human passion.

    Morning finds us curled into each other.
    The fire long gone cold
    the hanging willow tips trapped beneath the lake’s glazy surface
    the forest painted with a thick whiteness shaped times wolf
    times bear
    times deer.
    Death? Life? Limbo?

    frozen into the immobility of beyond wonder
    beyond beauty
    beyond the silence of a breast fallen over my arm

    and the only sign of life an incidentally passing third party might hear
    are the soft snores of your puppy
    under the bed.



Click! Click!

    I pull both hammers back,
    click! click!

    I have it in my sights
    it’s barely advancing in the deep snow
    the chicken dragging lifelessly behind

    it senses me.
    It stops.
    It turns its muzzle towards me
    knowing what is to come,
    waiting for thunder.

    You kill me,
    you kill my cubs,
    go ahead, you can.

    I can.

    I guide the hammers softly back to their rest
    and turn my face sideways.
    The red tail disappears in the snow.

    Life has made another choice today.
    For whatever reason
    I feel good.




    What is your DQ? I asked.
    DQ? she repeated, puzzled.
    Yes, DQ, I repeated, Dummy Quotient,
    and my face was not there anymore as her hand lashed out,
    losing only a microtomic thickness of epidermis to the tip of her fingernail.

    Because only a high DQ would ask me
    ‘why do you write so much poetry lately?’
    when she knows that

    She wakes in the East and she sets in the West
    And she’s muse to my ink’s disenthralling behest
    With those forests absconding behind dropping lash
    And my mornings to evenings with laughter awash.

    What is your DQ? she asked, back into my vicinity
    and I feared the microtomic thickness would turn millimetric thickness.
    DQ? I repeated, puzzled.
    Yes, DQ, she repeated, Depravity Quotient,
    and my lips were not there anymore as her teeth lashed out
    losing various other parts of first clothing and then flesh bare of clothing
    as they disappeared into various other parts of her body lashing out
    first redefining and then undefining the thin perceptual border
    between depravity and desire deluging.

    What is your DQ? I asked, later,
    losing nothing this time if not moments of serendipity.
    DQ? she probably whispered, or maybe it was a butterfly fluttering by?
    Yes, DQ, I repeated, Delicacy Quotient
    and she did not answer
    she merely repeated earlier hell, or heaven, or whatever a human mind cannot comprehend.




    Erotistically speaking, I am second to last,
    I stated proudly,
    in this two competitors challenge.
    and then the rest.

    And the public is? she asked.
    And the referees are? she asked.
    You and you and you.
    And the prize is? she asked.
    Very erotful, she smiled.

    The world didn’t exist,
    she behind her glass of beer
    I behind my glass of beer,
    the world didn’t exist.

    And if you lose? she asked,
    the tremolo unmistakably there.
    Then you don’t give me your body and I die, I said,
    not even the shadow of a tremolo’s shadow in my voice.
    ...and thus you are trying to corrupt the referees even before the games begin, she said,
    another hue of tremolo invading the space the first one proudly owned
    just moments ago.
    I know of no more incorruptible referee than you, I responded
    draining the last of my beer
    and pulling out the pen.
    Chapter one, I said.
    Of how many?
    Of as many as you decide.
    Chapter one, I said, repeating myself.


    It was after a key turned the room into impenetrable realm.

    It was after unclothing reveled secrets of creation
    the masters of creation never engendered
    and its slaves never desired, before.

    It was after foreplay of forepaws
    and hindsight of hindlegs
    and various other mixed-up terminologies
    tore gales from unfathomable depths of lungs
    and left the rest of bodily constituents prey to the misery of profanity
    and upheaval
    and delirium
    of after,

    again, and again, and again... how many times?

    I opened eyes, sequentially,
    my four limbs tied to four bedposts in perfect Vitruvian imitation
    and you on your fours just above me
    your lips barely brushing my lips
    your nose tip barely brushing my nose tip
    your eyelashes barely brushing my eyelashes
    your eyes crossed
    the ferret the cobra the tiger about to pounce

    the softness in that regard turning dropping snowflakes to tumbling nails

    and as my eyes focused and crossed and grappled into yours
    you languidly started gyrating your body above me
    until you were facing towards my toes
    and your nakedness started advancing in inimitable felinity
    to somewhere
    my eyes uncrossing with every passing moment
    rippling shape of muscle
    glinting droplet of humidity
    locked bolted latched to that departing end of woman
    ferreting me into a litany of raging curses and conjurations
    that slashed impotently at the potent binds eating into my wrists and ankles
    while imperturbable you contemptuously continued that contumacious course
    until you halted above a jar overflowing with the viscidity of honey
    and slowly dipped one nipple in it, hanging breast following,
    then other nipple in it, hanging breast following
    and then you gyrated back
    felinity advancing now towards me
    living behind a train of sticky splotches
    with billions of ants and wasps and butterflies battling lives over them
    yet all I could see were those desynchronized pendulums advancing towards me
    growing in size
    in urgency
    in menace
    my brain decaying exponentially from millimating to centimating to decimating
    until one after the other the dangling torture carriers tarried above me
    lowered their load of nectar into my gaping mouth
    then again
    then again...
    the hell with nectar, I crave the carrier, I screamed...
    ...and will you behave if I unleash you?
    Will I behave if you unleash me?
    ...and will you abide by my bidding if I unleash you?
    Will I abide by your bidding if you unleash me?
    ...and will you...?

    I tore through the bonds
    broke the bedposts
    misbehaved and misabided and mis...

    Morning couldn’t find us,
    there was not much left to find in that fleshy tangle of knots and knurls and knars,
    three mornings had to invest overtime to disentangle us,

    not that we were in a hurry.


    A fly was sipping the leftovers of my beer.
    I tore the page and pushed it towards her
    then wrote on the top of the following page
    Chapter two.
    Of how many? she asked again.
    How long? she asked again, differently.
    Until when? she asked again, differently differently.
    Until you, I answered, not so mysteriously
    and bent over the paper again.

    Or until end, I told myself,
    whatever comes first.




    One hour later.

    Say, are all your poems, one way or another
    erotica oriented?

    All my poems are, one way or no other,
    erotica stained, suffused, soaked,
    even those that are not,
    not way and not other.
    And you keep writing?
    I keep writing.
    How many this year?
    Let me see, ahm,
    January 1st, January 2nd, January 3rd... no, January 3rd there were three,
    January 4th...
    OK, OK, I get the point.
    No, you don’t get the point,
    erotica is an art, my art
    and I am damn good at it.
    Why should I stop?
    Can I stop?
    Could a da Vinci stop?
    You compare yourself to da Vinci?
    You’re a bit outclassed there.

    No, I don’t compare myself to da Vinci, I am much outclassed there,
    he is a class on his own
    as were William (Shakespeare), and Pieter (Brueghel), and Auguste (Rodin), and Elvis...
    ...(Presley)? Yes, I heard the parentheses, I hope I pronounced them correctly.
    I see you did your homework.
    I did. Only men in your list?
    You interrupted me.

    She smiled, the first smile in the encounter.

    ...(La Fonteyn).
    And couples, any couples you intended to mention before my uncouth interruption?

    It was my turn to smile. The ice was broken.

    Laurel and Hardy, Fred and Ginger, and thousands of others
    in singles or couples or multitudes.
    I don’t compare myself to them.
    I compare myself to their stopping will.
    Neither I. Or maybe better said either I. None.

    She had stopped taking notes a long way back in the interview.

    You are a strange man, she said.
    I am a nonesuch man, I said.
    I am just a stopping-will-less man, and this about defines it.

    Now she laughed, finally she laughed and she felt good about it.

    You know, I came here determined to either blast you off the surface of Earth
    or worship you on it.
    I leave with none of these.

    She stood up.
    I simply like you.
    She handed me a card.
    Call me. I think I may make a good subject for you.
    You mean like a muse?
    I mean like a lover.

    She left.
    It was not the last of her that I saw.



How many different ways there are to say it?

    Say, are you trying to seduce me? she asked.

    Who, I?

    I am trying

    to sing praising tunes
    to the wandering dunes
    where a sweep of your hand
    harvests stars from the sand...

    Hmm, you are trying to seduce me? she hmmed.

    Who, I?

    I just try

    to let armies of runes
    descry why in the dunes
    after you wave your hand
    stars reflect from the sand.

    I actually do think you are trying to seduce me, no? she looked at me askance
    emphasizing ‘do’ and ‘are’ but hesitating on the ‘no’.

    Who, I?

    I kind of try and probably fail

    to describe green lagoons
    losing tears amidst dunes
    when your face flees the hand
    stars descend into sand.

    You are trying to seduce me, she stated
    the question mark gone, a smile pulling corners of lips to corners of eyes.

    Who, I?

    You decide,
    I merely try my hand in or at or with or to join

    unversed roving buffoons
    drudging taciturn dunes
    dreams of us hand in hand
    seeding stars in the sand.

    I decided.

    She didn’t tell me what.



A man under the influence

    You dragged me

    from rapt abysm
    to paroxysm
    of esoteric words
    from inane mires
    betwixt suspires
    to trills amidst of birds,

    You seeded inmost to me

    wake of deprival
    the savage revival
    of verses thousandscore
    the heartbeat thunder
    that rips asunder
    through silences galore,

    You smiled at me

    and mountains from crumble
    and oak trees from tumble
    rewake to sun delight
    the Ides of March witness
    a deadly pen’s swiftness
    that stabs to death the night.




    You entered the airport and we started kissing our first kiss.

    We took a taxi and started riding.

    We entered a restaurant and started eating.

    We entered another restaurant and started eating.

    We entered a third restaurant and started eating.

    We went to a museum and started gawking.

    We went to a cinema and started seeing a movie.

    We went to an ice-cream parlor and started licking ice cream.

    We went to a one-night hotel and started doing whatever people do in one-night hotels.

    Wherever we went we were either kicked out or had to leave in alarmed hurry
    leaving a trail of fiery destruction in our wake.
    Not intentionally. But unavoidably.

    We went to the airport – another airport, the first was still being reconstructed
    and started kissing our last kiss.

    The airplane had to leave in a hurry.
    Luckily, for all the passengers except for me, you did not fly with me
    so we couldn’t start anything.




    He was a very humil man...
    Humble, you want to say.
    No, humil, I want to say.
    Why do you keep correcting me all the time?
    No one corrected Shakespeare and he also kept using strange words.
    He was doing no such thing,
    he was using the words and slang of his times
    and composing beauty with them,
    you use words of no times
    and compose confusion with them.

    And why would you care?
    Because I want people to buy your books.
    People do not buy my books, aha! I said triumphally...
    ...winning the argument,
    my intellectual superiority inflammating my chest.
    Women, must always have the last word.

    She started annoying me.
    Correcting me, reading my thoughts,
    what next? Wearing my aftershave? Buying my books?

    I decided to change my mood from moronic to patient, persuasive,
    or as they say in French - changer mon fusil d'épaule.
    English, please?
    Her ongoing listening to my thoughts was disconcerting.
    Sorry, no good translation available for the expression. And stop reading my thoughts!
    She made a face that could mean anything from go f yourself to go f me.
    Listen, say I want to emulate Shakespeare,
    say I wanna...
    Shakespeare would not say wanna.
    Say I kinda...
    Shakespeare would never use kinda.
    OK, now listen woman, who BTW I am deeply in love with...
    Yes, I know, Shakespeare would never use BTW
    BUT if he did use wanna, kinda, BTW and whatever else, would you have objected?
    Would anyone have objected?
    And if he was the one loving you, would you have objected?

    Ha, I got her there, I got her to thinking
    though I wasn’t so happy with my last question.
    Hey, you can’t unring a bell, right? I thought,
    hopefully she will not answer? I thought
    knowing she can read my thoughts, I thought.
    Les risques du métier, you know. The métier in this case being lover.

    I decided to push my momentary advantage further.
    You know, words you would never blink at even once when hearing them today
    like unaware, green-eyes, lackluster, bandit, dauntless, lonely... he coined.
    Even undress, haha.

    She was still thinking while I was still undressing her in my mind
    (out of control association of ideas)
    hoping she could read only words, not images.
    Say, I discern some blurred images...
    Hey, your shoes are nice! What are you chewing? Today is after yesterday! La la la!...
    In vain, I knew it was in vain.
    Say, why do you bring so much master S in our discussions, lately? Hey, maybe not in vain?
    Are you obsessed with him? She kept pushing me eastwards.
    Are you not supposed to be obsessed with me? My knees hit the edge of the bed.
    Is it pictures of master S that I discern in your mind? The bed rose to meet my other end.
    Is he always half naked? Gulp.
    Is he always entirely naked? Gulp gulp.
    Do you always have this reaction when you imagine master S naked? Gulp gulp gulp.
    Say, I am not so sure but are you sure he had green eyes... additional gulps.
    and long hair... More gulps.
    and breasts?... I did not have any time left for gulps,
    I needed all my gulps for my breath and my sanity and my apotheosisation.

    I lost consciousness, manner of speaking.
    This was one scene master S, luckily, never tried to describe
    even with his broken Early Modern English.
    A lucky stroke for the theater world... he would have died of a heart attack so early in life.

    Say, you bringing him up again?
    Hey, I am smitten with his endeavoration to reach perfectibilation and completitude.
    I gave her ample reason to correct me. She did not. Good sign.




    Winter, your side of the world.

    Immaculate, innocent, incorrupt,
    vestal, virginal,
    You hate leaving foot-deep imprints in the freshly fallen snow
    and yet... so beautiful, so symbolic of you one and nature one and you two together one
    and none and nothing else to disturb perfection

    falling flakes, hanging icicles, tiny needles of wind...

    Yeah, sure, none and nothing to disturb perfection
    if not for the unleashed four-footed one-tailed furry fury
    criss-crossing between your legs like a demon swarm ripping lose from hell
    and chasing everything in sight and out of sight
    from the smell of your today’s breeches to the smell of yesterday’s foxes
    to the smell of tomorrow’s bears... she stops. She suddenly stops.
    “Hey, girlie, girlie, here...” you call
    but she remains frozen.
    “Hey, girlie, girlie...” you call again
    but she remains rigid, lips curling slightly back, horrifying fangs showing,
    hair ends making slow advance muzzle to tip of tail
    a growl
    a bark...

    The mass of air splits


    I emerge from worlds beyond
    grab you by the waist
    drag you to my world and close the portal behind me
    not before the four-legged fury follows in
    her teeth sunk deep into my ankle drawing blood.
    I do not mind the blood. I do not mind the pain.
    “Hey, girl, easy girl,” I say
    and the dog lifts questioning eyes towards you and as you nod your head
    lets go and coils in a corner, growling ceaselessly.
    “Are you frightened?” I ask. I ask you, not the dog.
    “No,” you answer, kneeling and pulling my trouser hem up. “It’s bad.”
    You look around and seeing nothing suitable you pull your shirt out of the belt
    tear a long piece and tie it around the wound.
    “It is a cave,” you state matter of factly, looking around,
    “is there a world outside of this cave?”
    “I do not know, do you want a world? You asked for a cave so I created one,
    shall I create a word as well?”
    You do not answer.
    “Are you not afraid?” I ask further, partly surprised, partly relieved.
    “No, I am not afraid. I asked for it, why should I be?
    And thank you for dragging my doggie in as well.”
    “I did not drag her, she dragged herself,” I smile at the dog
    who looks undecided between the desire to tear me to pieces or to lick me to death.
    “Do you have something hot to drink?” you ask.

    I throw another log into the fire,
    the cave around us lighted by tiny coal sparks exploding all around us
    and a few flying fireflies buzzing a halo around the dog’s head. Then around yours.
    “Fireflies mid of the winter?” you smile, knowing the answer.
    “Fantasy allows for anything, fireflies in the winter,
    I kidnapping you,
    a cave on another world away from the world.”
    “Even for hot coffee?”
    “Even for hot coffee, or chocolate, or soup, or milk...”
    “Milk for the dog.”
    I pour a bowl of milk for the dog who decides to let her good nature get the upper hand
    and licks my bandaged wound asking for forgiveness.
    She didn’t have to ask, it was nice she did.
    “Do you have some warm blankets around?” you ask.

    You lie on the soft sofa,
    you asked for a soft sofa in the cave so I created a soft sofa in the cave,
    the blankets up to your chin
    the hot coffee mug moving rhythmically to your lips and from your lips and to your lips
    and I do not know anymore which part is my creation and which part is reality...
    “Are there bears around?” you ask.
    “Do you want bears around?” I ask.
    “Are there eagles around? you ask.
    “Do you want eagles around?” I ask.
    “Do you want to make love to me?” you ask.
    “Do you want me to make love to you?” I ask,
    and then point to the one-eye-awake nightmare sleep-make-believing in the corner,
    “will she not mind?”
    “Not if you love me.”
    “Not if I love you.”
    None of us ends the statement with a question mark.
    She does not mind. The doggie.

    The mass of air splits


    You open eyes, look around you,
    the snow slightly higher
    the foot-deep imprints behind you start filling up
    the mass of snow around you unperturbed by even the slightest of imperfections.
    “O, God, day-dreams...” you admonish yourself
    and turn around.
    “Hey, girlie, girlie...” you call the mutt to follow you
    and you kneel next to her as she gets close to you.
    There’s something strange with that piece of cloth hanging from her muzzle,
    there’s something really strange.



there not there wherever

    Look into my eyes.
    Doesn’t matter there not there wherever
    look into my eyes
    and find there home

    for pains
    for joys
    for life, love, answered question marks and exploding exclamation marks

    I’m there whenever you need me
    there there wherever.
    Just look into my eyes.
    Find them.

    Take my hand.
    Doesn’t matter there not there wherever
    take my hand
    and find there warmth

    for freezing breath
    for freezing fingertips
    for freezing flesh bared of pretense and bared of questions and full of exclamation marks

    I’m there whenever you need me
    there there wherever.
    Just take my hand.
    Find it.

    Hear my voice.
    Doesn’t matter there not there wherever
    hear my voice
    and find there succor

    for cracks in dreams
    and crevasses crisscrossing desires
    and abysses gaping hungrily around you to steal your reason and drown your avidity for creation

    I’m there whenever you need me
    there there wherever.
    Just listen to my voice.
    Hear it.




    rules and regulations and recommendations
    that force you through the narrow funnel of some snobbish know-it-all’s,

    termites and rats and moles to gnaw your dam to dust
    and let real you burst and overshadow the unreality surrounding you,

    the fire of your lava
    and the sweep of your hurricane
    and the nutrients of your river
    into those words that you alone can bend to a will forcing them to burn through
    blocks of marble
    and slates of iron
    and slices of oak
    on their way to become mind statues and eye nuggets and pages in a book
    of uncountable dimensions.

    Your voice
    the green stain in the yellow of a desert.




    my naked fear
    is to appear
    my naked self
    afore you, elf

    your eye to curse
    with thought averse
    your heart to lose
    to thought bemuse.

    my naked crave
    is to embrave
    your naked self
    before me, elf

    my eyes to nurse
    with rhyming verse
    my heart perfuse
    with godly muse.




    Never used it before, shrapnel,
    not as far as I remember anyway,
    strange that I found use for it
    same as for mansion. Strange ideas.

    You cut through me
    like saber shaped shrapnel
    the gash large enough for a house to pass through, a mansion,

    Look through the gash
    use tunnel vision
    see those galaxies?
    They are real though not real real,
    I placed them there, for you not to feel lonely
    for you not to feel sorry for the gash you opened
    but elated for the view
    for the gluttony of stars
    for poetry
    Do you recognize it?

    A crow flew through
    a murder of crows, mind you,
    I think I love crows,
    more intelligent than me.
    At least in love affairs. None.

    I’ll never use again shrapnel
    at least until I use it again,
    thus all options are covered
    no promise broken. Same for mansion.

    Same for gash, though I used it already
    and I’ll certainly use it again.

    Same for crow.

    Same for you. Again. Again. Again. Guess what follows...



Of geographies and geometries and sex

    Your legs were pointed east-west.

    Doesn’t matter which left and which right, does it?
    Yes, sometimes north-south and sometimes north-north-east-south-south-west
    and sometimes... okay, take a compass rose and decide
    what matter is that they were always at one hundred eighty degrees to each other...
    well, almost,
    well, I know you’re not a ballerina
    and splits or spagat or spaccata is more like my dream that more like your specialty
    and reality was more like, ahm, east-south-west, to name but one possibility
    i.e. one hundred thirty five degrees,
    closer to your bodily limitations and acceptable relative orientations
    sometimes trying more into the one hundred eighty
    sometimes more into ninety
    sometimes into zero when you wanted either to punish me or to delight me,
    depending on when in the process you decided – before, during, after?...

    OK, I know, there are additional complications to this educational expose
    this due to us being three-dimensional creatures
    and using just 2D Euclidean geometry may be misleading to the masses.
    And then we may be in need for 3D Euclidean geometry.
    Sometimes, for example, your body lies in one plane
    yet your feet extend above it in another plane, sometimes perpendicular to the first
    sometimes not
    sometimes together like in two I’s side by side
    sometimes separated like in one V connecting at a crucial point
    sometimes trying to achieve an O always imperfect and always crushing my spine,
    I wonder if an R could be achieved or a W without breaking any bones.
    Geographical references are even more difficult to apply,
    though we could use zenith and gravity as directional references
    but these would be easier applicable to me and my whatevers
    than to you and your wonderfully complementary to mine whatevers.

    Additional difficulties? Easy.
    Your legs are composed from a variety of segments
    your arms are composed from a variety of segments
    your body is composed from a variety of segments
    none of which accepts being confined to one or two or three
    or whatever number of dimensions we may accept as given to us
    eternally moving
    eternally attacking barring demanding locking interlocking outerlocking
    leaving poor me lost in my mushy adimensionality
    until you decide to lend a helping hand
    and help me find the one and only uni-dimension of any meaning applying to me
    and I let it take control
    forgetting anything about geography and geometry and Euclid and sex
    when we are both mowed down from whatever dimensionalities
    to a rigid singularity
    with nothing around us except the freeze of eternal space
    and the fires of eternal novae inside us...

    even eternity is not eternal.
    Eternity ends.
    You curl in defiance to any compass rose dictate and whatever dimension Euclidean rule
    everything about you soft and cuddly and invertebrate
    and you gather me to your chest
    letting me sink inside your embrace
    the way of a burning thorn
    in honey.




    are proof to the inexistence of gods.

    would be envious creatures.
    They wouldn’t have allowed the existence of someone
    so good at the harp of words
    that she could sing them out of existence,

    so good at guiding my mind over the harp of words
    that I could sing them out of existence.

    That I can sing them out of existence.
    Quod erat demonstrandum.



Shakespiritisms, two

    if Shakespeare would have been born these days
    and written those words
    he would have been panned, banned, oh-manned by the hoi polloi of critics,
    literati, intelligentsia, philosophiae doctors in litterae and clerisy of this world,
    dying of scurvy and hunger
    while the Rowlings of this world would have kept on making their billions.

    If I, on the other hand, would have been born those days
    and written these words
    I would have been quartered, iron-maidened, beheaded, spiked, burned at the stake
    by whatever equivalent of the hoi polloi above mentioned was active those days
    while the Rowlings equivalents of that world would have kept making their billions
    in whatever equivalent coins and measures were applicable then.

    And this is where the symmetry ends.
    While he, then, was accepted by the hoi polloi of relevant mouths at his time
    and is at my time
    I, now, am shirked by the hoi polloi of relevant mouths at my time.
    and there is no way to test the symmetry at his time.
    Ah, would have been nice to be burned at the stake,
    would have meant so much
    would have meant that it mattered to someone sufficiently enough to pay attention.

    Say, you’re still obsessed with the Shakespearean subject? Or what?

    I am still obsessed with the Iean subject.
    He, Bill, is just the crutch I support my I subject with
    and you’re to blame because you sent me this book of his
    and I keep rolling his phrases around my mind (not all of which, admittedly, I understand)
    and it keeps me awake
    dying of scurvy and hunger
    while the Rowlings of this world keep making their billions.

    You’re partially insane, you know?
    But instead of getting farther from me you inched closer.

    I know.
    There is, though, one point in which I win hands down over him,
    and over all the Rowlings
    and over the entire hoi polloi above mentioned past and present and future.

    Hmm, I wonder what that would be. You didn’t sound convinced.

    I lifted towards you puppy eyes,
    at least I thought they were puppy eyes and I didn’t even try to make them puppy eyes
    it came natural. Puppy eyes.

    I have you, I said.


    The publishers excuse themselves for obliterating the rest of this poem thus preventing any kind of criminal and/or civil and/or class-action lawsuit brought against the company due to graphic descriptions of an intimate nature way beyond a child’s and/or an adolescent’s and/or an adult’s and/or a libidinous person’s eye and mind and comprehension [sic].



it’s you, somewhere there inside

    abet fire
    with desire
    when you pluck that rebel lyre

    let your horses
    run the courses
    painting flames in your discourses

    winds pelagic
    visions tragic
    weave them through your poem’s magic

    barter horning
    with a morning
    every bridal bed adorning

    fill the terces
    glowing verses
    as your pen its light disburses.



Absolutes, two

    Was there a ‘one’?
    I don’t remember, so I call this one ‘two’,
    just to play it safe.
    Do you always play it safe?
    Thus... no.
    No, agreed.

    I could imagine her fingertips flitting above the keyboard
    writing some snappy answer then erasing it after careful consideration
    and mellowing the tone.

    Absolutes what? she asked.
    Senses. I can hear for example the grass growing.
    Everyone can hear the grass growing.
    I can hear the grass growing in your garden, I replied
    and before she could answer added...
    I can also see the moon, absolute vision.
    Ha-ha, I can see the moon too...
    Yes, but there is no moon here, I see your moon, and it is a nice thin crescent.
    Sure, you took it from the internet, I know the site...
    Will the internet know about the plane just crossing the moon’s line of view
    right now?

    Maybe she went outside to see, maybe she was freaking out.

    Lucky draw, lucky guess...
    but she did not really seem convinced with her solution.
    What about the sense of touch, absolute too?
    Absolutely. I sounded smug but I was not.
    Your lips are soft...
    ...shall I repeat my ha-ha?...
    ...and there is a soft breeze now touching your left cheek.

    Quiet again.
    It can all be circumstantial, she was thinking
    or rather I was thinking that she was thinking.

    Taste? Thank God she was not hysterical.
    I believe gin-tonic, around three minutes ago,
    following which you chewed two green olives.

    She was back two full days later.

    I left the computer on but there was no sign of her
    until a beep made me aware of a new message waiting for me.

    OK, there is a bunch of magicians who can do much better than you –
    David Copperfield, Dynamo, Penn & Teller, Carbonaro...
    This is your last chance to prove your pretense, lover.


    There was defiance, expectation, challenge... maybe even entreaty in this one word?
    Smell, she said. The last of the senses.
    Well, she asked for it.

    7066 kilometers away
    at one hour fifty three minutes PM
    you made love.
    Probably to a non-present me.

    A flood of beeps invaded my space.
    It accompanied an ohhh composed of seventy-four h’s trailing the o
    followed by one hundred thirty-two smileys of all shapes and sizes and colors
    all of the happily smiling type.
    Not even one wink. Or bawl. Or wiggle. Well, admittedly, some of them blushy.

    There is only one thig that can beat this, you messaged waiting for me to rise to the bait.
    And this is? I rose to the bait.
    To reduce the 7066 to 0...
    and she disconnected.

    OK, an order is an order.
    I mean, all these absolute remote senses may be great and fabulous
    but still...

    I started walking.




    I don’t know, maybe I should write about September?
    Or preferably October? November?
    No, not December, December is the last, the end, finito,
    I prefer to stay optimistically one step ahead, or rather afore...
    still hesitating,

    help me decide?!

    Not very popular, any of them,
    April May beat the shit out of October November
    in every category – music, poetry, theater –
    I guess apocalyptic thoughts are present only in apocalyptic minds
    closing in on their apocalypse,
    personal as it may be,
    and then still – these minds need the means to express themselves
    and find listening ears
    in a world that does not give a shit for this kind of apocalypse.
    Yes, I used the s-word twice in this poem, I know. It’s appropriate
    though maybe not educational but, hey,
    who gives a shit (3rd one, last?) about education when apocalypse knocks at the door?

    Fine, settling on November
    not that it matters,
    sounds more poetic than October and less abused than September,
    at least I think so.

    Have you ever thought of making love to November?

    Even if inside it’s hot July and stormy March
    it is November outside.
    Of course November can be beautiful
    with all those gold and copper and bronze crowned once trees now cathedrals
    and yet the definition could hardly apply to me
    since my gold and copper and bronze have gone bare
    not unlike a plucked eagle, dead
    a shaved lion, dead
    an antlerless megaloceros, dead

    and yet so like their hearts I inherited
    eagle, alive
    lion, alive
    megaloceros, alive

    but who gives a shit (4th) about heart when headdress is gone
    and November is come?

    So you think I sound scared.
    And why would you think so?
    Pissed off is what I sound
    (so glad I can use the p-word instead of the s-word)
    pissed off that my November will never meet your June July August
    pissed off that my heart will not get a chance to prove its worth over my headdress
    pissed off that my body will never melt into yours
    pissed off that your June July August flower will never burn in the sun
    of my November.

    Shit! 5th. And last.
    Oh, so un-poetic!



Lost Art

    Lost on me

    that art engendered by our ancestors before the invention of write and read
    and further cultivated by our other, more recent ancestors
    after the invention of write and read but before everyone had it
    and finally reaching the summum of evolution
    at the hands of our contemporary ancestors more or ancestors less
    when everybody knows read and write and compute and internet and tiktok and so on

    what I mean it’s lost on me
    the oral art.

    Poetry, storytelling, theater, oratory, sermon, lawyer double talk... lost on me.
    So I’m afraid I am going to lose you
    because of my ineptitude at this art form.
    I don’t even mention the oral art of singing
    be it hymenaios or epithalamium or serenade or aubade or aria or rock or punk
    (hey, I do mention it, damn, told you I am inept at oral art be it even in written form)
    because the oral art of singing will bring upon me an eternal curse of meowing cats
    and a few dogs joining as well.
    Plus a hefty fine from the neighborhood police.

    I am desperate. I don’t want to lose you yet I must.
    My oral art insufficient.

    I will not hang myself, not in Belgium at least,
    it is too heavily taxed here, by meter of rope noose excluded, plus VAT.

    She looked at me, pity in her beautiful green eyes enveloping me like the noose a neck
    (idiotic metaphor, I know, still in that mood).
    Then, strangely, her face started changing hue
    like some strange traffic light
    a red developing at chin level and slowly ascending to forehead level
    and then developing at forehead level and slowly descending to chin level
    and after several such up-down-up moves she closed eyes
    took a deep breath and exhaled one long...
    there is other oral art possible...
    after which she turned and ran away so fast
    that some of the red hue lingered behind until it dissipated in the gentle morning breeze
    causing me to bite my tongue
    (when she turned to run her skirt lifted slightly above knee level, if you didn’t guess).

    I remained behind, perplexed, mystified, befogged...
    could there be a solution to my oral art dilemma, disaster, discontinence
    (I have a vague feeling this last one may try to mean something else)
    and the girl I love may have tried to hint at it?
    Without saying it?
    If there was a solution I was going to find it
    may it even cost me more that the Belgian tax, VAT included.

    I rushed to blog groups...
    I rushed to facebook instagram twitter tumblr youtube...
    I rushed to a local lawyers firm (first half hour for free)...
    I rushed to an ATM (to pay for the 2nd half hour)...
    I rushed to a fortune teller then back to the ATM then back to the fortune teller...
    I rushed to a museum claiming all arts...
    I rushed to a kennel (one never knows)...
    I rushed to a library and the librarian condescendingly told me to look for Come Ma
    and when I returned a bovine regard her way she pitied me
    dragged me to an aphotic corner of the establishment
    where all vegetation was yellow going on reddish-brown
    and the few human specimens present were reddish-brown going on yellow
    and where she shoved a heavily dog-eared book in my hand
    and observing my bewilderment she opened it at a certain page
    pushed my ass into an empty chair
    and pointed with a knobby finger... there!
    And there it was, this strangely named Indian book
    and the definition of oral art. Another kind of oral art, mind you.

    I followed the same facial changing hues my lover followed earlier on
    then I surreptitiously photographed the page
    put the book back on the shelf, hopefully the right shelf -
    I was too agitated to pay much attention –
    and ran out of the place
    rolling and rolling the images in my mind, text superfluous.
    I looked behind me... no, police was not following.

    I called my lover.
    I kneeled in front of her and she knew it was not yet for a proposal.
    I looked up at her and when she closed her eyes
    I looked straight ahead of me.

    After several sessions I was an artist.

    Strange art, the canvas participating in the creation effort
    but such beauty, oh, such beauty resulting from our shared effort
    pity we couldn’t share it with the world.
    Well, some art probably better stays... private.




    I’m going to hover
    from webs stretched above
    like lingering thoughts
    I’m going to write you a poem of love
    with dashes and dots
    and when you’ll demand of your lips if it really behove
    to tie their wishes to mine with a hundred score knots
    I will let my tear drop
    with my rhyme’s latest crop
    like a bundle worth naught,

    I’m going to paint
    in your mornings a moon
    dropping ribbons to leas
    I’m going to swindle late April to June
    and seed May inside trees
    when the obstinate seasons will call for the cranes in my rune
    to share their lives with the mystery lands beyond wandering seas
    I will whisper your call
    and await through late fall
    for my terminal scrawl,

    I’m going to sing
    songs I never have known
    blowing breath into leaves
    I’m going to drip sweet together in lone
    under vine cluttered eaves
    with a rustle awakened to climb to its nest in your moan
    I will fold lung to lung and to heart as my chest slowly heaves
    the ink in my pen
    will retreat to its den
    as I fade in the glen.





    you slide between crisp bed sheets
    the way of wind between flittering leaves,

    hospitableness envelopes your contours
    the way of water finding its way around the smoothness of pebbles,

    thoughts invade your mind
    the way of nymphs dancing from nenuphar to nenuphar
    until they collapse in the agony of exhausted pleasure,

    you fall asleep
    the way of a puppy against the warmth of its mother bitch belly
    and you both chase robbers and butterflies and tender caresses
    in your shared dreams,

    you shudder briefly
    gaze into the surrounding sea of darkness
    and then turn on your side
    to enwrap me into you
    fusing to me
    the way of hot wax infiltrating amongst the flaking cinders of
    burning paper.

    Morning takes pity on us
    and postpones its arrival several times
    watching us intricately braided around each other
    the way of a rhyme
    and its poem.



Softly, two

    Your lips battle a rising smile
    lose the battle

    I touch them with mine
    you accept to offer me first the lower
    then the upper
    then both
    tightly closed, vestal in their abstention
    and arrogant impishness,

    I do not insist
    preferring to regard them with my eyes
    and guard them with my life
    until such time as you find befit
    to accept my plea,

    they touch the rim of the glass...
    what is in that glass – beer, wine, poison?...
    what does it matter
    they opened to the touch
    and I snatch the glass from your hand
    and I taste the inside of your lips
    by interposed party,
    you snatch my glass and let your lips touch it

    now full kiss by interposed party
    I wonder if we could skip the interposed,

    your nose against a shop window
    I like that hat, you say
    leaving a lips’ imprint to evaporate behind
    your face upwards
    I love snowflakes, you say
    letting miniature rivulets drip both sides of your lips,
    your finger points to a cafeteria
    I delight in winter ice-cream in, you say
    and a smooth trail follows your tongue and then your lips upon the creamy cone,

    your lips
    will they open for me as well
    one day?

    Train station.
    Platform number 2.
    My train to Nowhere.

    Our chests separate, softly,
    our cheeks separate, softly,
    out palms separate, softly,
    and suddenly you cling clamp clasp
    and your lips craze
    and my lips crack
    and our lips clash knead foment

    Train station.
    Platform number 2.
    My train from Eden.



Incomplete questionnaire

    Maiden, can you tell me why
    Light is dripping from the sky
    Leaving stains of bleeding color
    On my page’s scribbled squalor,

    Maiden, care you tell me what
    Makes those horses rear and strut
    Neighing explicit distasture
    When I snatch you from their pasture,

    Maiden, will you tell me when
    Did you join the perky wren
    Trilling life into my paper
    As your words carol and caper,

    Maiden, please do tell me how
    Do I carve into a bough
    My impossible romance
    Be it fate or happenstance,

    Maiden, now just tell me where
    Hides the adit to your lair
    That I may submerge it flowers
    Born of passion that devours...

    Sir of one and thousand question
    Let me frame here a suggestion -
    Shirk the queries, build the pyre
    And let’s wrap these hearts in fire.



Just another day

    We slide from within each other
    to the ends of the bed
    to the ends of the room
    to the ends of the world.

    The LP finishes, Sammy Davis Jr.
    I flip it expertly and let the needle guide its own way on face two
    guide my way as well
    on many faces, some I don’t even recognize.

    Second face finished.
    I decide to go depression and plug in a great, bitter, incredibly realistic
    Paths of Glory, movie,
    followed by a more sweet than bitter The Russians are Coming
    and then again to LPs, maybe Glen Campbell
    maybe By the Time I Get to Phoenix will do.

    It’s raining.
    It’s windy.
    I probably have to do some repairs on the roof.
    I hope I don’t fall

    What next – LP? DVD? bitter, tragic, sweet, laugh myself to death?
    Strange ‘laugh’ and ‘death’ in one sentence
    would have been stranger if not in the same sentence.

    I don’t feel like philosophy
    I don’t feel like life
    I feel like dream

    we slide within each other
    from the ends of the world
    from the ends of the room
    from the ends of the bed.

    Was it a dream? you ask.
    It is, I answer
    cursing the cursor for its indifferent insincerity
    while I wait for you to ask if it was a dream.




    If I set my mind to it
    I could cleave the moon in two, vertically
    and push the two halves so far apart that one could see stars between them...
    Aha, and some obvious obstructing elements like, say, gravitation?
    It wasn’t the reaction I expected.
    Why should gravitation be a problem?
    You are kind of... insane, you know?
    This was the reaction I expected.

    If I set my mind to it
    I could slice the sun in so many vertical slices
    that it would look like a burning garlic head in the sky.
    Aha, will also smell the same?
    It wasn’t the reaction I expected.
    No, the distance would be too great for any smell to reach us, no problem with this.
    Tell me, were there other cases of insanity in your family tree?
    This was the reaction I expected.

    If I set my mind to it
    I could rip the galaxy into clusters and then squeeze each cluster into balls
    thus eventual giants could play galactic tennis or basketball or pétanque with them.
    Aha, all trillions of tones of mass involved, right?
    It wasn’t the reaction I expected.
    The giants would be gigantic giants, I don’t see the problem.
    You definitely are insane, and this includes all the synonyms of the word.
    This was the reaction I expected.

    Now, that we are agreed on all the relevant insanity aspects...
    is there anything you could NOT do if you set your mind to it?

    I knew my insanity was secondary consideration,
    we both accepted it.
    Our future relationship depended on the reality of the answer to this other question
    and its relevance.

    There is.
    I could do any of those mentioned dinosaurian tasks, just give me a day or two.
    But I could not cut the earthy distance between us from kilometers
    to meters,
    I don’t know why.
    Even given a lifetime, or the rest of it.

    The quiet that followed was humbling in its immensity.

    I guess that your insanity is selective.
    Write me a poem.

    This was the reaction I expected.



My survival kit for a deserted island

    for the competition ‘my survival kit for a deserted island’
    would consist of:

    1. a condom, to pull on my finger once I cut it,
    to prevent infection;

    2. a mirror, to give to the natives so they will not eat me,
    in case the deserted island is not deserted;

    3. a few colored beads as back-up to the mirror
    in case it does not work;

    4. an empty tin can
    for showering;

    5. a nail to make holes in the tin can,
    see above 4;

    6. a hammer for the nail,
    see above 5 and 4;

    7. an electric razor
    so I will have an excuse for not shaving;

    8. another condom
    backup to the first one in case of rupture, cut, pierce, break, lava flow, etc;

    9. a Hellfire missile
    if the communists decide to invade the island;

    10. a plastic toothpick,

    I continued confidently until I reached number 117
    at which point she interrupted me.

    This is the longest, stupidest, most useless list I have ever encountered, she said,
    you’ll never win the competition.

    Wait, I did not finish it,
    I responded passionately.

    At 201 she tried to stop me again but I shushed her
    and at 336 she put a bucket over my head
    so I had no choice but to listen as she Morse’d me her words
    by tapping on the thick tin... haha, thick tin, nice poetry, no?

    She did not think it was nice poetry.
    Listen, the dichotomy between your list and their expectations is unbridgeable.
    By now you’ll probably need a trans-oceanic container for your stuff and still nothing of use there.

    I knew what trans-oceanic meant however I did not know about dichotomy
    but with a bucket over my head there was no way to access the internet.
    I guessed it meant she was displeased with me, at least.
    And why the hell do you want to participate in this competition?
    At least she removed the bucket so I could look up the dichotomy thing,
    not that I understood any of the explanations.
    But her question opened the door for me to prove my superiority,
    be it solely in matters of islands.

    The winner of the competition will be allowed to live on the island for a year,
    all expenses covered except the trip costs.
    What expenses on a deserted island?
    Building a fence to keep the alligators away.
    Building a hut for the TV crew and feeding them.
    Building an antenna.
    Lover, I believe that senescence is getting the better of you.
    I rushed to the internet to find senescence and I did not like what I found.
    So they invade your life and you get nothing in return, if you win.
    And this for what?

    For writing. In peace.
    A flicker of light shone in her eye for a moment, maybe my imagination?
    And you think this entire useless list will keep you alive for so long?
    You did not let me finish the list. I left one crucial item to be the last on it
    but you interrupted me mid way.
    OK, so let’s skip from mid way to end way. And what would this crucial item be?
    I cringed, looking at the bucket, then decided I had nothing to lose.

    Well, it wasn’t a flicker of light this time, it was a bolt of lightning.

    She forced me to erase my entire list.
    She forced me to entry just that one last item.
    She forced me to re-learn the Morse code, just in case.
    I won.

    Incredibly so but I won.
    Maybe I was the sole entrant, who cared,
    I won.
    And they were sorry I won.

    The first night over the antenna short circuited
    the crew hut caught fire
    the fence to keep the alligators away fell mysteriously down
    and the alligators infested the camp,

    everybody flew.
    But I and she and the alligators.
    And no one returned
    once it was found that the island was under UNESCO protection
    and the TV show went bankrupt.

    Now it is only I and she and the alligators.
    And the mosquitoes of course, which was the sole real inconvenient.
    Say, lover, she yawned luxuriously
    exposing to me some feminine secret views I was still in the process of processing,
    and when you finish writing, how do we leave this damn Eden?
    Even I knew that ‘damn Eden’ was an oxymoron.
    Listen, lover, the way you keep me busy with alternatives to the writing,
    I doubt I will ever finish with the writing.

    She got up, stretched luxuriously (previous it was ‘yawned luxuriously’)
    and started floating (yes, floating) towards the water.
    Listen, lover, if you ever imagined this deserted island to play fulcrum to your writing,
    (fulcrum??? damn, no internet here!)
    now you better consider it the embodiment of your capital punishment.
    Vivamus, moriendum est.

    I wished she would stop using these Turkish expressions
    but one look at that divine body slicing through the first wave
    and any poetical aspirations just flew out of the window
    (just an expression, we didn’t have any windows).
    I dived after her,
    a glorious army of alligator bodyguards diving after me
    like undulating arrows of light looking for a new dimension of musical cadences.
    Believe it or not.

    Creo quia absurdum est, she said it, as you can surmise from the italics.
    As for me, I will take some lessons in Turkish once and if ever I get off this island.
    Which I doubt.
    Yes, promise.



And the rant goes on

    I’m a fanatic.
    Not religious fanatic.
    Not political racial social fanatic.
    I am poetry fanatic.
    All good poetry, mine included,
    and I can read day and night and in the bus and on the john and in the attic
    as long as it is not written to impress
    but to express.
    Natural poetry, born from the need to say
    and not from the need to sell.
    Not from the artificial need to get recognition of whatever powers to be,
    not based on the artificial need to blindly emulate the tools given
    but from the need to externalize thoughts
    while the tools given are, well, just tools.
    Sestina, sonnet, oxymoron, terza rima, alliteration, calligram, leonine verse, iamb...
    and hundreds more.
    Tools, expressions, explanations, dictates
    of all those compensating their shortness of talent
    with the length of their exposés dealing with those that do have talent
    and making a profession out of purporting to explain and teach and impose
    what they cannot perform

    Strange thing, poetry.
    Such insignificant need of physical tools, if at all,
    so populist its accessibility
    so cheap and easy to copy and distribute
    so difficult to understand without investing time and effort
    so under-rated in the temple of arts.
    I did not choose it, it chose me
    and damn if I am not thankful every ranting day
    for this bane.




    My heart beats blue.
    For you.

    Corny, huh? I know.
    Probably as corny as I love I miss I adore.
    Which could be made cornier by adding ‘you’ after each couple.
    Or corniest by an extra ‘forever’
    or corniester by an additional ‘and ever’
    then corniesterest with a second ‘and ever’
    then corniesterester by...
    and so on, etc.

    Damaged, ain’t I? Or maybe just my brain.

    My heart beats blue,
    for you.

    No, blue is not just a color,

    blue is the sound of train rails
    the creak of a tree felled by storm
    the wail of a dog kicked by a mean foot
    the thought behind a hand waving goodbye
    the poem of a lover to a once lover
    the hand ending that cheek caress
    and never rising for a second caress

    The color in ink
    be it red or green or black
    or blue
    selling its pigment soul to its word master.

    What do I know about blue?
    and everything
    and all that lies in between
    filling up minds with thoughts
    and patching holes in memories with wishful thinking
    and drilling holes in memories where wishless thinking made homes
    trying at least
    to patch
    to drill

    to disguise.

    My heart beats blue for you.

    Because I see your blue.
    Any chance to carve some red
    into it?



Hey you, thieves

    You, yes you
    don’t look over your shoulder
    you – the one who steals my words and steals my art
    and dare pretend it is yours
    and right now reads these lines and hesitates between stealing and running away.

    Did I tell you I protect my art in ways you’ll never guess?

    Did I tell you the FBI is a bitch and the CIA is a bitch and the IRS is a bitch
    yet I am the greatest bitch of them all?
    Especially when I sink my teeth in your ass
    which will inevitably come?

    Did I define you already as an impotent worm
    enveloped with bubbling mucus
    and wallowing in a two years old outhouse diarrhea?

    I do now.

    I will not call you even plagiarist, it is an insult to honest plagiarists.

    I do will call me artist.
    I do will call you parasite.
    Do we agree on the definitions?



Collation of [sic] idiosyncrasies, ha.

    My poetry is inchoate,
    I get it.

    It lacks the beatnikality [sic] of a Bukowski
    and the classicality [sic] of a Shakespeare
    and the rhythmicality [sic] of a Raven... sorry, of a Poe.

    If anything, then it possesses the arrhythmicality [sic] of a Heart,
    no, not the poet Heart but the heart Heart, the organ
    sickly sneezing packets of life through a maze of vowels and consonants and syllables
    and trying to keep alive under the amassment of oppugning indifference
    of the massed masses
    and somehow still breathing. Quite proudly so, I may add.
    Ave Poetica, poetae te salutant.
    Yes, morituri as well.

    Sure, I foist it upon said masses discriminately [sic],
    reducing said masses to a chosen few capable of reining in the opprobrium
    evident among the complementarytothefew [sic] masses
    an opprobrium suckling its life from the very radix of knowledge
    brainwashing said complementarytothefew masses with the glittering promise
    of a honoris causa title. Or a conventional title, mind you.
    In an academic institution, mind you.
    Eyes fixed on the horizon
    maxillae grinding teeth to dust
    cogitations rolling in a predefined precisely mindgeneerd [sic]
    laboriously intellestructured [sic]
    painstakingly mentagripping [sic]
    endlessly spinning squirrel cage round and round and round
    mumbling a stream of cacophonies qualifying under other circumstances as obscenities
    with a hand consciously sewn to the trousers’ side
    yet unconsciously barely containing itself from rising and stretching to a deafening Heil!

    Intellectual bullyism. Joining the nefarious ism family of communism, capitalism, nihilism,
    nepotism, consumerism, fascism, racism, totalitarianism, imperialism, despotism, sexism
    and similar human banes...
    wonder how humanitarianism got itself trapped inside the family
    the way I wonder why does democracy rhyme with bureaucracy
    when the later one should have been named bureaucratism,
    oh, the curse of language evolution and language academies...
    close unopened parenthesis.

    Ha, brilliant sheep minds,
    Ave Magister, ovis te salutant.
    Yes, other humans as well.

    And then I met this creature.
    Female of gender. Intoxicating of word.
    Free roaming of mind like a swallow rushing up and down a congested street
    like a drop of water chasing cascade after cascade
    like a geyser spewing sufficient diamond dust to block the sun
    and cast upon humanity an Armageddon of enlightened beauty.
    Upon me too. Words. Sounding so different within her scribbled thoughts
    and unexpressed wishes that I have to hear. And harken. And heed.
    Beating the best and worst out of me
    and forcing me even farther away from any academically forged fogged path
    as it compels me to thread magical spherules and tread magical landscapes
    seeded with incongruities and lexicalities and syncopations
    and lots and lots and lots of [sic]s.
    And lots and lots of flowers.
    And butterflies.

    Oh, ye sycophantic inexistent followers of mine
    with your inexistent obsequious servileness
    and your inexistent slavishness catering to my paltriest of emotions
    Thank You! for your non-stymieing inexistence
    allotting me with the assubjugated flights of imagination
    enveloping this wordity [sic]
    and deviatority [sic]
    and unrestrictity [sic]
    of mine.

    Oh, ye tenderly worded and gently whispered muse of mine
    with your inexistent inexistence
    and your impenetrable impenetrability
    and rolling silences chained to each following other the way morning chains to night
    and day chains to morning
    and evening to day and night to evening and midnight to lost heartbeats
    and butterfly to pupa
    and my poem to your breath
    be it before you go to bed or after you wake up from sleep or in between smiles.

    Ave Puella, verbis te salutant.
    Mine especially. Yes, one day others will appreciate you as well.
    But until then
    let me lay this layer of vociferous nonsense at your feet
    and may each of your steps tangle it into as many multitudes of garlands
    as songs there are yet unsung
    and poems there are yet to incise fortuitous intaglios into humanity’s cerebral cortex.

    did I mention butterflies already?
    Oh, so unforgivably corny of me.




    Push your nose, mouth, face
    in that enclave between my neck and shoulder
    while your arms clasp the other enclave between same neck and other shoulder
    and inhale me, imbibe me, absorb me

    your stiff nipple this side of my body
    drilling itself in the intercostal space between my third and fourth ribs with each heart thump
    the way of a nail into wood
    a moil point into asphalt
    a fist into flesh

    the other nipple screaming in dissonance its rage at being abandoned to orphanage life
    until I give in and molest it
    with the tenderness of a mother molesting its baby
    of a bitch molesting its puppy
    of a snowflake melting on your face.

    Don’t move,
    let glowing coal’s rigor mortis settle upon you
    and as you slowly burn your way into me through cloth
    and muscle
    and bone
    my yielding corpse turning squirming snake
    for that moment’s insanity

    when my mouth totters against yours and reaches into its consuming furnace
    seeking the solace embodied by the divinity of cocooning pain
    and tiny drops of saliva
    gluing our tongues

    when the grapple of my fingers grabs the roots of your hair
    and the grapple of my knees grabs the roots of your life
    leaving nothing for the world
    but the envy of not being you
    not being me
    not being us.

    Don’t pull your nose, mouth, face
    from that enclave between my neck and shoulder
    while your arms clasp the other enclave between same neck and other shoulder
    and inhale me, imbibe me, absorb me

    your nipple this side of my body finally asleep
    melted between my ribs
    the way of a nail bending
    a moil point collapsing
    a fist turned palm

    the other nipple tuned into the softness of lullaby
    under the twitch of those fingers that once belonged to my hand
    playing it with the tenderness of a mother humming to its baby
    of a bitch licking its puppy
    of a snowflake courageously insisting on riding your face
    until death do you part.



I am

    a snowflake, willing to live
    only if it can die on your eyelash,

    a poppy petal, its red suffusing into your cheek
    until it falls to the ground whitened and withered,

    the Beast, waiting for Beauty’s loving kiss
    before falling into the beauty of tormenting severance.

    I am

    summer’s choice, tenderly rejected
    after it tenderly adopted your blossom to embosom my leftover stains,

    oh, the sublimity of rejection...




    The campfire was hesitating between life and death,
    flames dwindled to flares
    with tiny novae shooting into air each time the glow hit a resin filled pocket
    some landing on my eyebrows, scorching,
    some landing on your eyebrows, scorching,
    some landing on the page I was reading
    creating tiny, star-shaped black craters,
    the perfume carrying smoke

    You cry?
    My eyes smart, I half lied
    and threw another log into the small hell.

    You were alone inside your own sleeping bag, wishing you were not.
    I was alone in my own sleeping bag, wishing I was not.
    I turned the page.
    I was reading you poems from my self-published book, enjoying it,
    the flashlight bobbling like a tiny dragon’s mouth between the lines
    sometimes disappearing when the contact disconnected.
    You listened to me reading you poems from my self-published book, enjoying it,
    sometimes even sighing. Or maybe it was snoring.
    Why self-published? you asked once,
    and I did not answer.

    The moon kept laying layer after layer of silver cobwebs upon the meadow
    never quite satisfied with the previous layer
    and I felt like an orator in ancient Greece reading love decrees
    to an accompanying choir of cicadas... or was it grasshoppers? or crickets?
    with a lower toned choir of croaking frogs throwing in its own impersonation of romance
    and the baritone of a lost wolf punctuating each poem’s ending,
    strange coincidence, I know.
    Strange concert, I know.

    At which point did you fall asleep?
    I kept reading, making sure the moment you woke up the sound would be in your ears
    as if it never stopped. Which it did not.
    Did you read aloud all night? you asked.
    Yes, I answered, crawled out of the bag to re-kindle the fire
    and crawled back again. I am at page...

    You crawled out of your bag
    crawled into mine
    and lay silent.

    When did we leave?
    Probably when the fire died. When the cicadas or grasshoppers or crickets turned silent.
    When the wolf gave up its monologue to the moon.
    And the frogs?
    When the frogs all turned princes.
    I did not know you were once a frog.
    The greatest compliment anyone ever gave me.
    When I ran out of poems.
    No, bad joke, I never ran out of poems,
    I never ran out of muse, how could I ever have run out of poems?



And when I’m gone

    And when I’m gone, and when I’m gone
    and mornings roll unhindered
    through willows kneading night to dawn
    upon a mead encindered,

    And when I’ve left, and when I’ve left
    into my last tomorrow,
    my flesh asleep, my soul bereft
    of happiness and sorrow,

    And when the words, and when the words
    I carefully commanded
    succumb like flocks of dying birds
    between my pages stranded,

    And when beneath, and when beneath
    a crumbling stone, forgotten
    lie rhymes I never will bequeath
    of poems misbegotten,

    And when old Earth, and when old Earth
    falls into its hell’s conclusion
    and nothing’s left of poem’s birth
    not even an... illusion.



My poetry (or Rant, x)

    No, not big words really, neither the my nor the poetry
    and nor the collation of the two into this brazen declaration: my poetry!
    After all
    the world might be partly infused and partly infested and partly inflicted with poetry
    but I prefer to think of mine as inflaming.
    Thus worthy of presumption. And proliferation.
    Infuriating, ain’t I? Maybe also... ahm... infantile?

    I do categorize it into four levels, mind you.
    Masterpiece. Great. Nice. Shit.
    Of course, I could increase the resolution and include extra levels such as splendid,
    wonderful, extraordinary, magnificent, superior... hey, calm down, just joking
    but yes, it would be possible to classify it with, say, ten levels of quality.
    The only thing that wouldn’t change would be the limits.
    Masterpiece top. Shit bottom.
    Each with its adepts out there in the world, I guess the majority going with the shit
    however also the masterpiece is not an empty group,
    it has at least one member – myself. No haha, haha.

    As any of my hugely trifling number of followers, largely incommensurate with my ego
    can easily state
    my poetry is mostly dealing with the irrelevancies of life: romance, love, erotica
    and other members of this shamed, outcast family
    shunned by do gooders, do badders, high nosers, officially publisheds, bitter critics
    double diplomaed double breasted double minded others.
    Hey, even Bill was a sucker for love... so why not I?
    Of course – perfect rhyming is perfect
    and imperfect rhyming is imperfect
    and line lengths depend on full idea lengths
    and not on the millimetric precision of a ruler placed on the screen
    ensuring that all line ends align to a part of a micron, give or take a few atoms.
    And of course – no extra inflating spaces
    neither horizontally nor vertically contributing mostly to obfuscating the view
    and contributing to the poem looking more like fly shit
    then like word shit.
    And of course here and there big words, if they fit,
    and of course here and there ecological/political/social points, if I feel like it,
    and of course here and there breaking my own rules, if I consider it appropriate
    or inappropriate
    or anything in between.

    There are other sorts of categorization possible, capped not by masterpiece-shit
    but by insightful-idiotic (one could add ‘mighty’ before each)
    or by useful-useless (one could add ‘mighty’ before each)
    or by entertaining-depressing (one could add ‘mighty’ before each, yes, said it already).
    All applicable to my poetry with, certainly, a change in the poems’ list falling under each.
    I do not mind whichever is used.
    Probably I do not mind also if none is used because, after all,
    they all fall for me under the top category.
    Unless if the top category happens to be equal to the bottom category
    with the bottom one baptizing both of them.
    Which could apply. In certain circles. With certain minds.
    Well, as the saying goes, you can bring them to the water...

    On one aspect, please allow me to insist,
    a creed I hold onto with the tenacity of a Carcharodon Megalodon
    or at least a Crocodylus Porosus if for corroborative evidence you insist
    or at the very least a Crocuta Crocuta if for a neighborly character you insist.
    I write intelligent poetry.
    Please, make an effort to understand it.
    Then I won’t blame you if you don’t. Thankfully, not all are born equal.
    Thankfully, neither I.



Making Love

    oh, the Panglossian locution,
    the in nubibus equivocation pouring the rose of roses upon the sub rosa moment
    when two bodies entangled in the inmost of grapples and burrs and ripping claws
    steamroll petals into abysses of asphalt asperities
    into crenations of bedsheet creases
    into ridges of broken hazelnut shells consumed way before contumacy turns consummation
    and contortions erase minds of pain and of duty and of God,

    the metaphor fed to babes in arms
    alongside with birds and bees and flowers and seeds and sexless dolls and storks
    up to the moment when the babes grow too heavy to be carried
    and too knowledgeable to care about metaphors
    and rush out into the world looking for the hammers
    and the pincers and the sickles and the screws and the anvils and the nails
    and whatever contraption they deem necessary for the deed of making love
    only to find out the only tools ever needed were words sleeping ignorant in their brains
    and heartbeats wasted unused in their chests,

    the immixture potpourri omnium-gatherum pasticcio farrago medley gallimaufry
    of equivocation and metaphor and consummation and words
    all of which salmagundi is too heavy to swallow
    and too uninteresting to disentangle into its atomic components
    driving the perpetrators into empirical fields lined with mines
    leading through gruesome deaths towards magnificent awakenings
    where love rhymes with nothing yet experienced
    and making it rhymes with nothing to be found inside human’s tool box
    and the only tralation coming to mind is a kiss between corners of lips
    after an interminable century of separation.



A Different Kind Of Legend

    You are a princess

    your white skin all the way from Eden’s Clay
    and your silken dress all the way from China’s Wall
    and your satin ribbons all the way from India’s Ganges
    and your cobweb lace all the way from Belgium’s Brugge
    and your glass shoes all the way from Italy’s Murano
    and your golden bracelets all the way from Colombia’s Eldorado
    and your pearl earrings all the way from Philippines’ Sulu
    and your smile all the way from Earth’s Sun.

    I am a frog

    I was never a prince and will never be a prince
    eternally rhyming with myself each time I open my mouth
    with the perfect rhyme dual syllable poem
    ribbit ribbit ribbit
    or in its various dual or single syllable translations
    kerokero kerokero kerokero
    guo guo guo
    op op op
    vrak vrak vrak
    and not far from the (rather successful) species-gap duckish translation
    quack quack quack.
    Could do also for doggish woof woof woof.
    Or in tenderer birdish chirp chirp chirp.
    Or in quieter fishish mum mum mum.

    You will never kiss a frog

    irrelevant of relevant legends or curses or nightmares
    with you securely set to your ocean
    with your laces and bracelets and etceteras
    and I securely set to my pond
    with my ribbits and vraks and etceteras
    I guess translation from my species into humanish inexistent
    and ever.




    your nakedness in the block of air between my eyes and the wall facing me,

    the molecules one by one, slowly,
    emerge like a magnificent David from under the hands of a Mickey
    slightly faster, slightly quieter, slightly cleaner,

    let me regard
    the nascent outline still coarsely hidden under layers of decorum
    as the displaced molecules of air crackle, frizzle, sparkle into a deformed corona,

    chisel away
    with delicate tips of fingers
    the rough chunks of evolutionary propriety clinging to the emerging masterpiece
    and masquerading as a rabble of cotton, leather, silk, buttons, clasps, rubber,

    the way of Edgar’s Dancer of Auguste’s Kiss of Thutmose’s Nefertiti
    you, the first and last self-sculpture in my life
    born in that block of air between my eyes and the wall facing me
    so soft, so enticing, so far away...





    all these old people you laugh at today
    were once young

    were once strong, beautiful, proud, needed,
    had beating hearts,
    had sparkling eyes,
    made love like hyenas and sang like nightingales.

    Remember it,

    when you get old one day
    and others laugh at you

    forgetting that you were once strong, beautiful, proud, needed,
    had beating hearts,
    had sparkling eyes, made love like hyenas and sang like nightingales.




Vignettes, one

    ...and suddenly

    I’ll flare that rage
    that comes with age
    then sit and rhyme
    my worth of dime
    a poem sweet
    thus obsolete
    a winter’s gray
    in search for May
    with flakes of white
    and tufts of night

    and when you’ll read
    the words I knead
    with sparkling eye
    and riving sigh
    with wishes laced
    through dreams unchaste
    I’ll learn your heart
    bleeds round my dart
    I’ll know my breath
    has vanquished death.



Vignettes, two

    I feared the river’s mighty flow

    Until you dipped your little toe
    When all its might and all its plight
    Turned into murmurs of delight,
    The river braces, gently slows
    Defying gravitation’s laws
    And for a moment eons long
    It bathes your toe with love and song

    The moment’s dead, the moment’s gone
    The river dons its primal brawn
    To roar its mounting rage anew
    The toe returns to warmth of shoe
    Yet both, forever, now will miss
    The magic of that moment’s bliss.



Love Movie

    I saw a love movie, yesterday,

    of the kind where love returns eyesight to the blind heroine
    where love extinguishes a forest fire
    where love prevents a war between two neighboring countries,

    of the kind where love is responsible for all humans born
    though I call this act copulation and I see it as the one transcending humanity
    and common to all known and unknown species
    including and not exclusive to fishes, amphibians, reptiles, birds, mammals, insects
    and... plants.
    Hey, I guess it included dinosaurs as well, though it sounds a bit complicated.

    And yet, I sat down and watched.
    Maybe because I once loved fairytales?
    Maybe because I still love fairytales?
    Maybe because I... write fairytales?

    Wherein I grudgingly admit to paint things pink
    and dress things flowers
    and surround things butterflies
    and copulations is re-baptized love...
    at least for a few moments

    before I give in to that irrepressibly irrepressible impulse of realism
    which drives fairytale out of the window
    and forces my hand to grind and grate and gravel my words into the paper
    until it shreds into complete illegibility.
    And only I know what I have written.

    And then I forget.



Winter. Scene.

    The crows, in relentless competition with the magpies and swallows
    attack the crumbs of food I keep throwing in my garden
    then fly away, hiding from the evil eye while they munch whatever they scooped.
    Or swallow. Or whatever crows do with food.

    I just called them again, hoping the neighbors won’t call the police
    or maybe the medical services responsible for cases such as mine,
    oh, such a failure at learning foreign languages, mainly crowish
    not so much the lexicon as the accent.
    I guess even the crows have a problem understanding me
    this being the reason they wait for five minutes before falling upon the prey.
    Followed by said magpies, letting the crows take first risk.
    Followed by said swallows, letting the crows and magpies take first and second risk.

    Today there was also a cat. Black. A newcomer.
    Though I guess it was more interested in the flying food then in the lying food.
    Leaving hastily soon after,
    after all one does not play games with a murder of murderous crows.
    Plus magpies. Plus swallows. Even frogs but there were no frogs in my garden
    too coldy, too whitey, too snowy.

    I lie down in a lounge chair on the balcony,
    a thick blanket over me
    a thick hat to my head
    thick socks
    and wait for birds to come to sing,
    they don’t. Probably don’t know how. Or too scared to.
    I wait for you to lie in the lounge chair next to mine,
    you don’t. Probably don’t know how. Or too scared to.
    Or maybe because of the thick blanket and thick hat and thick socks
    and dark sunglasses that I forgot to mention
    you don’t recognize me.
    It’s irrelevant, the result is the same.

    Crows come for my food crumbs. Also magpies. Also swallows.
    You don’t come for my word crumbs.
    Even when I do not hide under blankets and hats and socks
    and dark sunglasses I forgot to mention.



Like a dream

    I sit on the window sill, balancing myself delicately
    so I do not drop the two floors down on the pavement
    and strumming just do-re, sometimes re-do than back to do-re
    which are the only accords I learned to play on this second hand guitar
    bought just for the occasion
    to impress you. Not expecting to impress you.

    You sit on the window sill across the street, balancing yourself delicately
    so you do not drop the two floors down on the pavement
    and listening to my do-re and sometimes re-do cacophony
    knowing I am just trying to impress you.
    Not getting impressed. Or maybe getting impressed, not sure still.

    A breeze flips your skirt higher up on the thigh
    you don’t pull it back down.
    A breeze blows your blouse slightly away from your chest
    you don’t pat it back down.
    A breeze tousles your hair.
    You allow it. Do you have a secret plan?

    This night I will write you a poem
    telling about the white horses I will tame to carry us away
    about the white hacienda I will buy to lead you to
    about the white bed I will gently lay you on to rob your innocence from
    about the white butterflies I will summon to dance a crown around your head
    and then cover our nakedness against night’s chill.
    Like a shield.
    Like a song.
    Like a dream.

    Tomorrow I will not send you a poem
    telling about the white carriage that will carry you away
    about the white house that you will be lead to
    about the white sheets that will rob your innocence from
    by another’s hand.
    The butterflies dead.
    Never born.
    Like a dream.



Live, here, now

    Live, here, now,

    Pit your glimmers of light against your glimmers of darkness
    and take sides in a battle that is not won until you decide elsewise,

    Prefer ugliness of beauty and foolishness of wisdom
    over the beauty of ugliness and the wisdom of foolishness
    when mind joins heart in decision,

    Regard me,
    through that temporary hoop created by thumb and forefinger
    joining in the perfection
    of a peeping hole,

    Try to follow your regard
    with your body
    the way of a banshee following her keening
    a swath following its scythe
    the bliss of quiescence following the bliss of commotion underneath sheets,

    Forget the paradox of physicality,
    forget the impossibilities of reality
    and make place for the wonders of poetical circumlocution
    pouring over your forms alongside your cottons and your linens and your silks
    dressing following undressing following dressing
    finally leaving you bare of covers and words,

    Read me
    with a mind allowing words sculpt the gyri and sulci of the brain it will inhabit
    ingest me
    with the mind of a newborn full of hungry emptiness
    understand me
    with a mind one hundred years old in a body one hundred years younger

    then you’ll love me.



Complexities of Love

    I remember a girl
    my age, at the age when age didn’t matter
    I was madly in love with her
    she was madly in love with someone else
    someone else was madly in love with someone else else...
    complexities of love
    devastatingly innocent.

    I remember a woman
    twice my age, at the age when age started mattering
    I was madly in love with her
    she was madly not in love with anyone
    anyone else was madly either in love or not in love with anyone else else...
    complexities of love
    devastatingly beautiful.

    I remember a girl
    half my age, at the age when age mattered infinitely
    I was madly in love with her
    she was madly in love with someone else
    someone else was madly in love with someone else else...
    complexities of love
    devastatingly demeaning.

    I remember girls, women
    above under around my age, age mattered, always
    I was madly in love with them all
    they were madly in love with various others
    various others were invariably madly in love with other various others...
    complexities of love
    devastatingly devastating.



Love Glove Above Poetry

    ...yeah, back to my favorite subject,

    i.e. perorating or sermonizing or haranguing or so on
    about poetry and its endless hanging-on minions
    if on the doing side or on the undoing side
    constantly shooting morbific mordacious morbid diatribes
    Just because they own a soap box.
    Just because they own a license.
    Just because they own a written mouth.

    They call erotica porn,
    no one called Francisco’s La Maja Desnuda porn

    They call romance schmaltz,
    no one called William’s Romeo and Juliet schmaltz

    They call nakedness filth
    no one called Auguste’s Andromede or Anguish and Ecstasy or Danaide filth

    I guess it’s because everyone has access to a pen and a piece of paper
    yet not many have access to a brush or a stage or a chisel
    thus everyone is a poet
    yet none is a painter or a playwright or a sculptor
    thus everyone is allowed to open their mouth in depreciation of poetry
    yet none dares open their mouth in depreciation of painting or playwrighting or sculpting.
    They think they know.

    Strange world. Modern world. Diseased world.

    Thank you, illustrious predecessors
    for paving a way round humanity’s mephitic tar potholes.
    I will keep poetrying,
    If need be then love-glove-aboveing.
    If need be eroticaing romanceing nakednessing
    the way of those others I appreciate and adore and admire
    and applaud
    and venerate.

    After all, I also do not know a brush from a stage from a chisel.
    But I do know my way around a pen and a piece of paper,
    oh, by God, I do know my way around them
    and those flames you see rising hungrily from around my desk
    are my pen rending the piece of paper
    with thoughts of erotica and romance and nakedness.



On the subject of LUCA

    There is a bit of LUCA in your cat.

    There is a bit of LUCA also in your amaryllis
    in your gold fish
    the pigeons family you saved from annihilation last winter
    the gecko
    the corals
    crocodile’s deceased ancestors

    in the president.

    In you.

    One ancestor to us all.
    Way beyond Octogenarian
    more likely Hadean
    more likely brainless sensesless genderless.

    But... oh, what a legacy
    oh, what genealogy...

    *LUCA – Last Universal Common Ancestor



almost rhyme of almost life and almost death and vice versa

    and when in the evening
    the sun dies anew
    and melts in the dew
    that will birth it with morning

    and when in the forest
    a doe births a fawn
    and wakes in the dawn
    mid of wild andromedas

    and when summer’s fountains
    are filling the valley
    aware the finale
    is summertime’s drought

    and when pebbles trundle
    like miscasted diamonds
    and mixing with almonds
    are steamroller fodder

    and when snow dispenses
    temptations suavely
    and innocence bravely
    defies it or dies

    and when rusty trumpets
    deliver a dirge
    yet flowers will surge
    from within travertine

    and when lovers argue
    and senses are torn
    the memories mourn
    their children unborn.



Parallax View

    Nobody’s fault. Uncalibrated expectations.
    Uncalibrated wishes.
    Like incompatible bucket lists from various periods in a life –
    the plastic of old, the silver of young, the real of never.
    Parallax view. Daydreaming. Flight of fancy.
    Psychology could define a new sub-science and call it Antinomis Oxymoronis
    to provide it with the necessary Latin justification and academic rationalization
    to be taught the world over.
    Also in my classes of once.

    I thought we’d have a Cleo and Julius relationship, though not so historic.
    I thought we’d have a Liz and Richard relationship, though not so tumultuous
    a Marilyn and John, though not so tragic
    a Lady and Tramp, and maybe so yes and they lived together forever
    unchanging irrelevant the number of times I screen it
    oh, the eternality of cartoon beauty.

    I measure relationships in poetry units. This is one dimension.
    Of course there are many other dimensions
    and seven volumes of it do not necessarily mean better than one poem of it
    but, still, it is one measure.
    I’ve had relationships with hundreds, I’ve had relationships with a single
    I’ve had relationships with zero.
    And if I do not define ‘relationship’ any measure is of course meaningless
    yet I persist, with no specific reason... well, maybe with creativity as reason.
    And this one was rich,
    deep large fervent fomenting
    but, now I know, not Cleo and Julius.
    Not Liz and Richard not Marilyn and John not Lady and Tramp.
    Parallax view.
    Antinomis Oxymoronis.
    So sorry.
    Such pity.



10 x 10, eleven

    I wish the days of love forever gone
    Would turn to waste into La Parca’s womb
    And as my nights the lure of passion don
    You be my bride, and I your mortal groom.

    When morning lures the gullible young sun
    To choose a death in wait at end of sky
    You’ll sing me life until my days count none
    And never answer my beseeching why.

    I join the womb, beneath La Parca’s scythe
    You join the sun, and other hearts ignite.



10 x 10, twelve

    While Jupiter was busy hunting skirts
    I hunted words to build your beauty’s reign
    And scribbled rhymes to paint into refrain
    Upon the cuffs of my discarded shirts.

    While Jupiter was busy waging wars
    I waged a spree of interlacing runes
    Dripping the trills of larks into my tunes
    Into my garbs upon your naked floors.

    While Jupiter was busy chasing oaths
    You dropped your eyes, you dropped your pride and clothes.



10 x 10, thirteen

    I thought I would compete with Bill today
    And challenge gold with some inspired clay
    But then I found myself trapped in morass
    His gold stays gold, my clay turns kind of crass.

    And yet I know, this ten times ten old art
    Will forge the key to your desiring heart
    So here I trudge with a renewed élan
    And braid my words into insane rattan.

    I’ll never win, he’ll always stay ahead
    But I’m alive, and... sorry Bill, you’re dead.



10 x 10, fourteen

    The blades, awake in your smoldering sighs,
    The grass, ablaze in your flickering eyes,
    The skin and the fingers aglow with crave
    Your breasts my subject of poetry rave,

    I came to you days and I parted nights
    Obsessed with the shimmer of raw delights
    You came to me nights and ravished my days
    My body at war with mutinous haze,

    We cleaved parting reason with lips and nails
    And watched, bereaved, as the love season sails.




    Innocent bystanders, we, lovers,

    watching impotently as morning forces night into submission
    before murdering it with color and sound and movement

    our fingers clutching at each other’s flesh like tentacles of warring octopuses
    loving octopuses
    doomed octopuses.

    Let me dress you, I begged.
    You let me.
    Let me dress you, you begged.
    I let you.

    We dressed undressed dressed five more times in the following hour
    until time decided we used up our entire time credit.
    One more time, time?
    But time refused.

    A jarring buzz at the door told us the taxi had arrived.
    The taxi had arrived, I said, unnecessarily.
    Let me undress you, you begged.

    I had no idea how I got to the airport, on the plane, off the plane.

    And afternoon killed morning and evening killed afternoon and night killed evening
    and I lay in my bed waiting for morning to kill night anew,
    my fingers curled into a fist, like a dead octopus.
    And all that sea water streaming down my face
    drowning me.



Almost Legend

    We were drifting into the sun

    you, a goddess therefore alive
    I, an adoring disciple therefore alive in your embrace

    we, lovers, running away from prejudices of humans
    and gods

    much deadlier than the sun.
    We knew it.

    Do you love me because I am goddess? you asked.
    I love you because you are human, I answered.
    Do you love me because I am human? I asked.
    I love you because you see me human, you answered.

    The sun embraced us willingly,
    protecting us from world’s jaundice, partiality, misogyny, bigotry, xenophobia
    and rest of beautiful names to horrible evils
    infesting humans and gods alike.

    Do you think it can do it forever? I asked, eyeing the sun with wondrous fear.
    For as long as we wish.
    And does it ask anything in return?
    This time you eyed me, with the same wondrous fear I eyed the sun earlier on.
    Nothing. As long as we wish together.
    I see. Forever.

    I finally dared take my eyes off your big brother and look into the eyes of my sweet lover.
    I was melting, much faster than I would have melted alone in the sun.
    Would he mind if we make love?
    He would be terribly upset if we don’t.

    The solar flare rested unexplained for eons to come.
    Not until jaundice, partiality, misogyny, bigotry, xenophobia
    and rest of beautiful names to horrible evils were expunged from humans and gods.
    Then they found my poetry book
    and you inside of it.
    And they understood.




    you lie on the snow
    on your back

    there where I laid you down

    your feet joined
    not in shame but in defiant waywardness
    your arms stretched both sides of your chest
    not like a Raphael transfigurating Jesus but like a Rodin uncurling Danaide

    your breasts flattened by gravity
    you nipples hardened by desire

    rivulets of color excommunicated from your skin’s flowers
    slowly flowing both sides of your inert forms
    and dripping in reds and blues and greens
    growing gnarled roots into the snow like an amassed forest of veins
    dissipating into the invisibility of needle thin fingers, ends, nothingness...

    you sing, your voice barely audible
    when I kneel next to you ready to pick you up
    you repeat as my motion continues
    don’t! wait!
    and I don’t and I wait until the snow soaks in the hues
    turning to the frozen palette of spring’s flowers to come
    and day’s deaths to evanesce into sunsets
    and tree’s greens to err on their dissonant ways to turning buds

    and you turn pale, aquarelle, beautiful
    do! I am cold!
    you murmur, your colors finally ready to explode into the world
    and I scoop you into my arms
    into my skin
    into my life
    like you were a leaf
    like you were a feather
    like you were a rune...

    I carry you home
    I cover you seven layers of colors
    I cover you seven layers of covers
    I cover you seven layers of compassion
    please, cover me one layer of love! you whisper

    and I cover you seven layers
    of love.




    We have just scratched the surface of the single-X domain.
    When insufficient time had passed.

    The one comparable to elementary school relationships
    when we hold hands
    push each other on swings
    chase each other
    here and there scratch, bite, cry, make up
    peek curiously at the different way the other pees with no real understanding
    kiss on the cheek
    then hide
    then rush to kiss again then hide again

    almost innocent
    almost comparable.

    I guess we will not reach the double-X domain.
    I guess insufficient time is left.

    The one comparable to adolescent relationships
    when holding hands is not sufficient anymore
    and brazenly we try to brush breasts, to brush cheeks, to brush lips
    with thighs squeezing under tables unseen
    and from time to time chests pushing against each other boldly
    and hips clashing shortly
    and fingers venturing where none had ventured before
    at least so we think
    some pictures daringly revealing a bare shoulder
    some sentences daringly using L words
    maybe even some poems borrowed from some recognized masters
    but dedicated to each other
    an open mouthed kiss
    a touch of tongue followed by disgust followed by restive push and pull and fire

    not innocent anymore
    beyond comparable already.

    I know we will not reach the triple-X domain.
    I know insufficient time is left.

    The one incomparable to any other relationship
    when all limits dissolve
    and all clothes rip away
    the hesitating hands of yesterday become the clawing hands of today
    with the teeth of yesterday becoming the fangs of today
    bodies rolling and reeling and roiling
    while the mattress screeches its terror as fire envelopes it
    its straw entrails bursting into the consummating flames
    consuming the trinity of man woman bed
    and incinerating it into the apotheosis of a relationship
    that only an act of God can terminate
    and an act of God terminates when they rest panting and sweating and smoldering
    in each other’s embrace

    innocence dead and buried
    incomparable to life or death.




    You are not virgin

    The sun rises in the east

    Eyes are green

    We will make love

    the way you are virgin still
    and the sun rises in the east sometimes
    and eyes are green always


    My only refuge is statistics,
    it allowing the probability of a lone 1 trailing several trillions 0s after the decimal point
    that any or all above inconceivabilities
    may turn conceivable.
    Including the never.
    This is a different kind of lottery than the one I never won
    and therefore it leaves me...
    Irrelevant the trillions.



Strange Seasons

    Spring, probably.

    Mine or yours?
    I guess it matters, but not really

    birth and death mixed,
    the primal scream starting a rolling stone down from the top of the mountain
    gathering speed, momentum
    jumping skipping crashing all on its way
    oblivious to miles and years and tears lining its path
    and the inevitable end awaiting at mountain’s foot
    be it a soft landing in a swamp’s mud
    or a hard knock out against a waiting lump of iron,
    crocodiles and stars optional.

    I, playing with wooden swords and terrible monsters about to eat me
    many years before you,
    you, playing with silver dust and pink clothed fairies
    many years after me,
    as out of sync as hiccups to heartbeats
    and yet we knew that letters gather in storm to words
    and words gather in storm to sync
    and one day we would gather in storm
    to us.

    Did we?

    Summer, probably.

    Mine, when?
    Yours, when?

    Your music yours
    my music mine
    my dances not yours your dances not mine
    experimenting with life
    and body parts
    and cracks grew in the mountain and flowers grew in the cracks and bees visited the flowers
    eyes of various colors and shapes abundant
    finger touches of various demand insistence and permission need abundant
    and I kept losing my virginity so rarely
    and you kept finding your virginity so determinedly

    and we tried to identify why the hell is humanity so obsessed with virginity
    and with hymen
    when elephants and pigeons and mosquitoes aren’t
    (with the obvious conclusion it’s another means of menfolk subjugating womenfolk)
    both of us experimenting with our own versions of sometimes virginity
    occasional virginity
    as per need virginity
    statistical virginity
    and an olla podrida of various virginity levels as demanded by the situation at hand
    and by words passing temporarily through our minds at that specific moment
    coupled with invading dreams, wishes, expectations.

    Never supposed to meet. We.
    The gigantic gaping mouth of uncle Chronos
    carving an abysm the size of Grand Canyon between us
    with no mules hanging-bridges helicopters hot-air-balloons to help the crossing.
    Not even stopping my watch and advancing yours helped.

    And yet, it was coming. Poor uncle Chronos.

    Autumn, probably.

    Mine passing.
    Yours looming.

    And yet the mixing of the smells
    of crushed fruits
    and crushing leaves
    and crushing drops of rain and crushing dry grains of wheat
    with cranes hesitating between going and coming
    and the sun undecided as to its zenith location
    and me finding you before you losing me and us finding us before the world ends
    whatever was left and whatever will ever be left
    masked underneath heavy layers of blue mascara dripping on pale pages
    shaped as letters and syllables and almost poems and never poems

    I inhaled an entire ocean just to sense your provoking femininity
    and you exhaled an entire lungful and bodyful just to ensure my senses are overloaded
    those seven seas and thousand years away
    waiting for me to choke
    and come begging for more
    and I came begging for more
    asking for your heel to step over my chest
    and your grip to clench around my wrist
    and your breast to smother the leftovers of humanity and sanity once given to me
    and now prey to your womanly whim and delicate charm
    and maddening perfume
    pulling clouds down over my head to my shoulders
    and grass up over my shoulders to my head
    and cocooned I inside that impenetrable fortress waiting for your body to liberate me
    from the tyranny of metaphors
    into the republic of reality
    where lips are lips and teeth are teeth and hips are hips
    and grunts are divinity allocated to humans by any number of gods that there might be
    or might want to share
    or might want to smile, grudgingly and enviously
    upon us humans.

    Is it all real?

    Winter, imminently.

    Mine. Past looming. Past knocking on the door. Past friendly nosey neighbor.
    Wrapping seven tons of bricks around my ankles, each,
    and little does it matter that the bricks are made of years
    they could have been made of gold for all I care.
    Yours. So uncle Chronos does own a debatable sense of humor
    turning your looming autumn into budding summer
    with garlands of butterflies dressing your skin and braided in your hair
    and hanging five inches long from your ears in a fluttering frenzy of living earrings.

    Break off a piece of your summer, love.
    Send it to me.
    So that I can carry your warmth underneath that marble comforter soon to dress my bed
    while I join the sociopathic and poetry despising society of worms
    to their various forms and languages and habits and habitats.
    Hey, do you think that various voracious sounds nice as part of a poem?
    Do you think that macabrity should make it to whatever academy list of to be created?
    Do you think that I making love to you would be like you making love to me?

    Do you think you could love me?




    Pretty maiden, pretty say
    what you’ll dream about today?

    I will dream of itching hay
    and of you between my cherries
    crushing grapes and rotten berries
    telling me I’ve born you May.

    Pretty maiden, are you happy
    when we play mammy and pappy?

    Mainly when you get all yappy
    as you chase me in the pillows
    under May’s enchanted willows
    with your words so sweet and sappy.

    Pretty maiden, what’s your rush
    when I touch your bristling plush?

    I just heard a trilling thrush
    singing May into my morning
    and this gripping lust aborning
    when my blush turns into flush.

    Pretty maiden, will your fire
    be my most deserving pyre?

    As my passing Mays respire
    and your hands seed me with flowers
    while the yours and mine turn ours
    time your words beget my choir.



Metaphorical Layers

    All this shit
    that I write
    is I metaphorically kneeling in front of you
    and proposing

    which can happen, unfortunately, only metaphorically.
    And does happen.

    All these metaphors
    inside the metaphor
    is I making love to you
    in that undefined no-man’s-land between consent and rape
    trespassing borders between undecidedly and unwillingly and their counterparts
    and hoping for the clemency of a jury composed of a single member


    The metaphors
    inside the metaphors inside the metaphor
    is you disregarding any metaphors and accepting my proposing
    and my love making
    and taking it all one step further into the Tierra del Fuego of your craving,
    no metaphor intended,
    that undefined personal no-man’s-land
    where you demolish whichever borders or limits or conventions may exist
    and drag the metaphor ensemble into its reality

    borders or limits or conventions may they go to hell.

    the innermost layer
    of metaphors.




    We bought one waffle,
    one, for both of us,
    one bite you one bite I

    yet once the waffle ended, the munching did not
    and we continued with tips of fingers
    then with roots of fingers
    then with other parts of one or other anatomical significance
    for demonstrable reasons of selfless contribution to a wasteless sustainable ecology
    on a locally global scale.

    Care to be more specific?
    Culinaristically or corporealistically?

    I bought another waffle. Still one for two.
    Then I paused each step
    explaining (hastily)
    demonstrating (eagerly)
    breathing deeply (out of necessity at a certain stage and beyond).

    If I didn’t know better, and probably I don’t know better, I would say you are horny,
    you said,
    using the H word abhorred by any medieval or classical or modern poet
    and thus banishing any chance for a Pulitzer or similar out of the equation,

    I mean you could have used Halberd
    or Heuristically Programmed ALgorithmic Computer, aka HAL 9000 in short,
    or Hallelujah
    but you chose horny, leaving me with no choice but investigate further the matter
    hoping, now that any hope for Pulitzer & co. turned to smithereens,
    that you minded the Pulitzer even less than I did.
    Are you? I asked, keeping nevertheless the H indecency out of my question.

    I kept buying waffles,
    having incidentally discovered that I had an unknown-of interest in anatomy
    and had lots and lots to learn about it
    and the waffles supplied me with the necessary energy and rationalization
    and (most importantly) excuse to visit your various end-of-waffle areas of interest
    your own enthusiasm little by little evolving as well in symmetrical opposites.

    The end of three days found us with unexplainable stupid grins carved upon our cheeks
    verily more knowledgeable in several non-disclosable matters
    and emaciated to the point of hardly leaving a shadow in our wobbling wake
    irrelevant the number of waffles we wolfed down.



When 45 was king

    When 45 was king
    and I its devoted slave and servant and helot

    shuffling and sorting and flipping through my hundred odd deck
    faster than a seasoned cards player through his 52 pieces of painted cardboard
    having the time to sleeve-out and place-on and start-push and cheat-select
    before the one momentarily in my arms had the time to gather her wits
    and rebuke my insistence
    and powder her nose... powder can wait, Paul Anka cannot...

    and then to the next one
    both the 45 and the one momentarily

    some allowing the squeeze
    some resisting the squeeze
    some squeezing till my spine was about to break and my chest about to cave in
    at the onslaught of hands and thighs and breasts

    and then someone else would shuffle the 45s
    and another one momentarily would hang on to me, or I to her

    and I would curse or bless according to who was free and who was taken
    while the rock or rumba or cha-cha or twist or whatever was forcing us to unglue
    letting us chase the devils in our souls
    and those in our pants
    and those underneath our one momentarily’s skirts

    and thankfully another slow Elvis or Adamo or some unpronounceable name’s 45
    would send us all screaming to look for the light switch off position

    with the war of the sexes taking place anew
    under the protecting blanket of small blinking neon eyes
    (...hey! somebody cover those neons!)
    with a preferred one
    or an unpreferred one that was “giving”
    or an unchoiced one who was the leftover selection on the chairs
    the rest being captured if you crawled instead of rushed

    some even married the preferred or unpreferred or unchoiced one momentarilies

    The end of every battle
    always finding me greedily collecting my 45 kings, and queens, and jesters, and pawns
    caressing the dust off them
    apologizing for the rough treatment inflicted
    sliding them to a well-deserved sleep into their inner sleeves
    and outer sleeves
    and external protecting nylon sleeves
    and kissing them to good rest
    until next battle.
    Until the last battle.

    I don’t remember the last battle.

    I slide a 45 carefully out from its multiple protection layers
    (I don’t remember you acting so carefully with our babies, says my wife)
    handle it with the reverence due to a king
    place it with surgical precision on the turntable
    let it start rotating
    let the needle drop...

    hey, do I really cry? I ask myself
    as Elvis follows Paul Anka
    and Adamo follows Elvis
    and unpronounceable name follows Adamo

    and I feel sorry for my kids
    and their kids
    and their kids’ kids
    and so on

    hearing myself saying the way each generation before me said –
    they will never know what we knew
    they will never have what we had
    they will never feel
    the way we felt.

    Only that, in my case, I believe I am right.



or so I believe

    I don’t have much time left

    so I’ll climb up the mountain
    to drink from the fountain
    that nurses new youth
    to all creatures uncouth

    or so I believe.

    I feel the end nearing

    so I’ll roam my first ocean
    purloin its commotion
    since swagger and sway
    keep tomorrows at bay

    or so I believe.

    Practically I’m done here

    so I’ll join masses mining
    some swearing some whining
    for nuggets of time
    hidden deep in my rhyme

    or so I believe.

    You’re a dimwit

    oh these humdrum and boring
    excuses for snoring
    my breasts playing tease
    will get time playing freeze

    you better believe.



The reasons, though no reasons are necessary

    I want to make love to you
             because you exist.
    I want to make love to you
             because I exist.
    I want to make love to you
             because we exist.

    Now, let’s define exist.
    One may say breathe. Ha!
    One may say eat sleep move. Ha!
    One may say think feel love. Ha!
    One may say whatever one may say and it will still be Ha!

    You and I and we fall outside the definition, any definition.
    I want to make love to you because dinosaurs once roamed the Earth.
    I want to make love to you because Pi is an irrational number
    I want to make love to you because there was once a guy called Michelangelo
    because man walked on the moon
    because dogs love humans
    because earth is round and sun is hell and in a few billion years the solar system dies.

    I want to make love to you because we are one single point node event
    on this infinitely thin single points nodes events randomly tangled skein which is existence
    leading from minus infinity to plus infinity mathematically said
    or previous big-bang to next big-bang astrophysically said
    or ever before to ever after poetically said
    and if this single point node event which we are fails to occur the entire skein falls apart
    losing its continuity
    and reaching from minus infinity to the miserability of no infinity
    from previous big-bang to the miserability of no-bang
    from ever before to the miserability of never after

    and this can never happen.

    The laws of mathematics. Immutable.
    The laws of physics. Immutable.
    The laws of life and its subset, poetry. Immutable.

    I want to make love to you because we are so fucking unique.
    It happened already
    we just don’t know it yet.

    you better believe.




    I woke up to sounds of Dvořák’s “Songs my mother taught me”
    wafting from your phone like perfume from a lilac freshly blossoming,
    too tired to tell you to turn it off
    you, probably as tired as I was, disregarding it entirely.
    It was only after the jingle reached the end of its natural life
    that I felt your hand crawling out from under the covers
    and fumbling with the phone’s functionalities...
    a few seconds later Dvořák was blessing us again with his mother’s stuff.
    Aha, she likes it, I thought.
    Aha, you like it, I mumbled.
    Uh-huh, you mumbled back your consent,
    you talk too much, you mumbled back your discontent
    turning on your side and pushing your bare ass into my no less bare hip
    wedging me into sphinxlike immobility and almost panic. Almost, mind you.
    I found one hand free, it was mine
    and decided to turn the embarrassing moment into an instructive one
    by letting it wander freely somewhere
    trying to find whatever items of interest there
    or elsewhere
    I found items of interest everywhere.
    I had to focus
    and at the end of a couple minutes’ focus I started scaring
    watching the fire-alarm overhead, afraid any moment now it would go off
    and within seconds get us inundated by shapely muscular bare-chested firemen...
    aha, this was probably your plan all along, wasn’t it?...
    Huh-uh, you denied, unconvincingly.

    Found anything of interest? your mumbled mumble followed your denial mumble
    and following impenetrable feminine logic
    you rotated round your longitudinal axis one hundred and eighty degrees
    now wedging me for real.
    I had suddenly one of those momentarily momentary moments of human weakness
    and I opened my mind in respectful yet blasphemous reproach to God
    contending the fact that he created humans with so few hands and so few mouths
    when the job at hand was so momentous,
    I bet, God, you were out of clay
    though, with due respect, you did not seem to be out of clay when you created the octopus
    not that I envy the octopus, mind you (I did envy the octopus)...
    You mumble too much, you mumbled again
    and soon it became irrelevant the number of hands and mouths
    and whatever else was of interest for the job at hand
    so glad that I had whatever was of interest for the job at hand.
    I wondered if you asked God the same question at the phase that you could still ask questions.

    I lay over you like a deflated tire.
    You lay underneath me like under a deflated tire, eyeing the fire-alarm plastic box critically
    and fumbling again with the phone’s controls, making sure I did not slide down.
    Dvořák blessed us again, good boy Dvořák,
    did you ever dream to become a phone jingle for a dream creature?

    We decided to change hotel.
    We did not want to risk a regular fire surprising us because of a defective alarm system
    irrelevant your repressed firemen mentals.
    It was clearly defective, if to judge by the smoke ascending slowly to the ceiling.



Volunteering ditty (ditty, not duty)

    I volunteer to love you.

    I volunteer to adore you, worship you, cherish, treasure, adulate, idolize...
    ok, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok...
    sing you, praise you, serenade you...
    ok, ok, ok...
    cuddle, caress, hug, embrace, deflower, devour, empower, prize...
    ok, ok, ok, ok, too late, ok, ok, ok...

    I volunteer to undress your overwear and innerwear and underwear...
    careful with buttons, careful with zippers, careful with clips and clasps and chinches...
    to be there every moment of your life, enjoy everything you cook, hear everything you say...
    no need to exaggerate, doubt it, ok but I prefer listen...
    make love like a man possessed...
    try like Brad Pitt, maybe a wig would help...
    dream of you every night...
    can you really control it? can you really prove it?...
    dress your underwear and innerwear and overwear...
    you mean like a drag queen?...
    no, I mean dress you your etc...
    oh, so again careful with clips and clasps and chinches, careful with zippers, careful with buttons,
    reverse order, see?...

    I volunteer to stop volunteering to anything but your cause.
    I don’t have a cause.
    Then we’ll create a cause.
    Which kind of cause?
    One that will be dear to your heart’s cause.
    I believe you’re a lost cause.
    Because pause clause applause...
    Also this but way in future’s jaws.
    You killed the ause.
    But kept to rhyming laws.

    Our romance ended (see above) we went our separate ways,
    I stayed in the past (not too much future for me to look forward to)
    she moved in the future (not too much past for her to hang on to).
    I did, though, keep my volunteering oath
    see this ditty,
    I wonder if she’ll ever know I loved her so (used past tense, just in case she reads it too late).



Strange art

    Strange art, poetry,

    the odd child,
    the only personal art in the kingdom of arts
    truly and fully and absolutely so in essence rather than style
    which easily explains its zero mercantile value for whatever masses one may think of

    as personal as someone’s eating ways of their asparagus and cucumber and tomato
    and tell me who would pay
    for seeing someone’s eating ways of their inner asparagus and cucumber and tomato?
    Not to mention the additional effort involved in reading rather than seeing.

    Strange art, poetry,

    effortlessly finding its sister art in that odd place called infants drawing pictures
    those raw humans
    still lacking the much needed words to express torments and joys and wants.
    One picture tells a thousand words, yeah,
    says the professor,
    proudly regarding an auditorium full of the right bovine nodding ignorami.

    One word tells a thousand pictures, yeah,
    says the poet,
    dispiritedly regarding an auditorium empty of the wrong bovine nodding ignorami,
    oh, if they but were full of the wrong bovine nodding ignorami
    those with the right set of eyes to see. Or read, mind you.
    One thousand words then tell one thousand thousands pictures, yeah.

    Strange art, poetry.

    See, conversely yet,
    it takes the full seven volumes of a poet’s collected word-art to paint one single picture
    though, it is the one picture science was never nor will ever be able to draw,
    all sciences confounded.
    The picture of a human’s soul. Or, in this case, a poet’s.

    Strange art, poetry.

    Stranger still, those strange people who dare grapple with its scribbled bricks.
    The poets, I mean.



Let Melody

    Let your shoes, with soles and laces
    dragging memories of paces
    liberate those wriggling toes
    rollicking in freedom’s throes,

    Let that horrible invention
    born in spinsterly dimension
    pantyhose its dreaded name
    let it rip and burn the shame,

    Let the shirt with pearl button
    hiding treasures for this glutton
    tear along the hidden seams
    carrying unspoken dreams,

    Let the skirt with all its trimming
    as my mind approaches dimming
    fly away into wind
    feeling utterly chagrined,

    Let your bra, so thin and lacey
    driving me befogged and spacey
    disappear into the naught
    left beyond my dwindling thought,

    Let, oh let your grinning scanties
    knickers? or culottes? or panties
    melt under the leering sun
    waiting there since time begun,

    Now, let me, your heart’s pretender
    wallowing in all this splendor
    I, coveter of your skin
    let me habit you with... sin.



Lethe-al ponderings

    I have made it to the river
    In my old and battered flivver
    Once a mighty fearsome body
    Time’s grim minions turned it shoddy
    I lived twenty thousand sunsets in the arms of love and glory
    Watching wrinkles, pains and sorrows sink their claws into my story
    Now the reaper calls my number
    Slinging white into my umber,

    At the gates of naught and nether
    I will drop my resting tether
    One-way pilgrims fill the ferry
    To forever’s sanctuary
    Lost upon the banks of Lethe I’ll play ferryman’s affection
    Offering no coins but records, poems, or my stamps collection
    Guess I’ll play it kind of chancy
    If it’s cash his only fancy,

    Say he doesn’t stop to ponder
    And I make it over, yonder
    Will there be elated heaven
    Or just boredom all days seven
    Will I curse from morn to evening that which none escapes its halter
    And the noisome tropes encasing a divinity’s sad altar
    Or I’ll smile... I touched you... once,
    It was worth now turning dunce.




    When I got to the Gates of Heaven
    (that’s how “they” prefer to call it, not Heaven’s Gates or something else)
    someone there at reception said I was not on their list
    so I should try my luck with their unsavory neighbor
    they called Gates of Hell
    but their neighbor, once I got there,
    insisted on Hell’s Gates... sounds sexier, they winked
    yet didn’t let me in, nevertheless, even when I called it their way.
    You’re not on our list, they claimed, checking also with the head office.
    So where do I go? I asked, pissed off at this time wasting bureaucracy,
    not that time mattered anymore.
    What about back on Earth, until we all sort our shit out? suggested the sexless guardian
    almost cutting my nose off as it (haha) speedily closed the gate.
    I did not see any complaints box around
    nor any ramming rod to ram any of the neighborhood gates down
    so I decided to follow its advice
    and floated back to Earth.

    No one was waiting for me, no one knew anyway that I left
    so I got down from bed
    donned my slippers
    scratched my head
    ate a piece of stale Belgian waffle, still tasty
    (all this wandering up and down and sideways got me hungry)
    and sat down to write this missive to my lovely.
    Will count as transitory Chapter X in my biography.

    I tried to get you rid of me
    but it didn’t work out.
    Better luck next time. All this yo-yo up and down is kind of deprecating
    (to them, not to me)
    so I believe next time will be the good one.
    BTW, all is in black & white “there”
    so when you follow me, many years henceforth, no need to bring lipstick
    just bring your body, please.
    I’ll sneak it in, even though it is against regulations (I read their brochure).
    PS. Any hesitation you may have had heretofore... forget it!
    Let’s just fornicate the way God intended, OK?
    With variations, OK?




    before the wheel,
    before the knife and the metal and the fire,
    I would have combed your hair with thistles
    and washed your skin with snow
    and laid your lair with dried grass and crumbled bark and lost feathers.

    and food?

    squashed overripe pears into your mouth
    and stolen honey between your lips
    and goat milk in my cupped hand for you to slurp,
    and loved you into toothlessness.

    after the wheel,
    after the knife and the metal and the fire,
    pithecanthrope once again
    I will comb your hair with phosphorescent fingers
    and wash your skin with heavy water
    and lay your lair with radioactive ash.

    and food?

    sweep exploded pears into your mouth
    and volatilized honey molecules between your lips
    and my breast’s milk for you to slurp,
    and love you into eternal radiance.




    Give me your flesh,

    Let it wrap itself around me
    with the tenacity of a hunger driven piranha
    carrying in its belly a one hundred days stretch of fasting
    with the knowledge of one hundred days of fasting to follow,

    Let me wallow inside its annihilating embrace
    admixing the human wonders of goo and goop and gunk
    with the inhuman wonders of groan and grate and growl
    until gates that could only be appertained to heaven
    close behind the artistry of our convoluted bodies,

    Give me your flesh,

    And I will re-apportion the bones lining it inside and throughout
    until you will get as shapeless as a splash of mercury
    sloshing mindlessly around a wobbling fistful of gravel
    ever looking and never finding the form it would contentedly settle into
    for the rest of its unnatural life,

    I will paint into it colors of spring upon blandness of winter
    followed by summer robbing spring of its achievement to burn ripeness into color
    twig exploding into bud, bud exploding into flower, flower exploding into fruit
    autumn pending and before re-conquering winter drags me away
    you melt
    the way of the very first and very lonesome flake of snow
    fallen on the blushing cheek of a maiden
    touched first
    kissed first
    loved first,

    Give me your flesh,

    the essence of beauty
    the essence of love
    the essence of life.



Dying Leaves

    I walk the narrow, empty street
    The leaves are dying round my feet
    As autumn dawns into my wake
    And whiffs of rot my nostrils rake.

    My loves collapse from drooping eaves
    Awaiting death among the leaves
    My poems sing the inching curse
    And gild in black the waiting hearse.

    Some leaves remember better days
    And rustle whispers in the haze
    Some leaves beseech my crushing shoes
    To plead against divine abuse,

    And yet, some seep into my heart
    And beg to join my dying art
    Alongside loves and souvenirs
    And cheers, and fears, and years, and tears.

    The autumn catches with my stride
    And all that dies, and all that died
    My heart, my mind, the leaves gone rust
    Will turn to ever, lasting dust.



Good Bye?

    How does one say Good Bye even before saying Hello?

    How do I say Good Bye before taking a sip from your glass of wine
    before impatiently biting into a piece of food you impaled on your fork
    before drinking a bowl of soup with one single spoon
    with you
    one spoon you one spoon I one spoon you one spoon I...?

    How do I say Good Bye before knowing which side of bed you sleep on
    which is your preferred toothpaste
    which TV program you’d rather kill than miss?
    Before washing your hair drying your hair dyeing your hair combing your hair?
    Before finding which song on the car radio makes you scream and gesticulate
    almost hitting every other lamp post on the road
    without ever hitting every other lamp post on the road?

    Before smelling and tasting and hearing your perfume
    your contortions and contractions and convolutions
    once the preliminaries are over
    and the soup finished
    and the side of the bed defined as irrelevant by tailing events and actions
    themselves followed
    by that period of absolute contentment and contemplation and congeniality?
    Yours. With me carrying the onus of admiration and adoration.

    How do I say Good Bye before even saying Hello?

    How does one skip Hello right into Hell
    with the tiny o that would otherwise mask the ripping sounds of a heart




    between the linens and me
    dislocating the bond between flesh and matter
    and replacing it with the bond between flesh and flesh
    and when vacuum cements the vibrating borders and seals them into inexistence
    make certain your intentions are as dishonorable as mine
    or else you will never understand
    why the smile on your face for the rest of your life.

    between the cottons and me
    disregard objects objecting to your advance in a most non-objective way
    and rather than retreating
    embrace the challenge
    and find grounds of mutual interest before losing interest altogether together
    in that giddiness sinking its roots between dying elysium and resurrecting reality.

    Let me slide
    between your flesh and you
    leaving no leftovers of forgiveness in your mind
    no explorables unexplored in your body
    no doubt as to what a valley scorched by crawling lava feels like in your souvenirs
    and once your poetry ends being written
    ask me to write it again.



Pretending on matters of high importance

    You close your eyes
    and I touch your breast
    and then you open your eyes and we pretend that nothing happened.

    You read the menu
    and I kiss your ear
    and then we order and pretend that nothing happened.

    You give me the key
    and I unlock the door
    and then you lock the door and pretend that nothing happened.
    Which side of the door are you when I lock it?
    You decide.
    So I decide if something happened rather?

    You say good bye
    and I say good bye
    and we pretend that nothing happened.
    Like we pretend that spring follows winter?
    Like we pretend that the earth rotates around the sun?
    Like we pretend that we pretend?

    Sadly. Yes.
    I wish we pretended.
    So do I.

    We parted. Pretending eternal friendship.
    Pretending that spring follows winter? Or pretending that winter follows spring?
    You decide.

    You decided.



Love Cycle

    like any living entity
    gets born.

    It screams its first days into the unknown
    then it stumbles its first steps until it finds its footing
    it learns
    it grows
    it believes
    it becomes big love.

    like any living entity

    It falls into habit
    losing the spark and the sparkle and the glitter and the glint
    and gaining the wrinkle and the crinkle and the crease and the crimp
    it becomes old love.

    like any living entity

    It needs to be fed
    it needs to be groomed
    it needs to be healed
    and unlike any living entity it can bloom
    for the ever of a life, of two,
    or, like any living entity unfed ungroomed unhealed
    it dies
    it rots
    it putrefies
    it becomes dead love.



Strange Philosophy

    I know how I should be read
    by others.

    The point is I am not read the way I should be read
    by others.

    Why does it matter I don’t know.
    I keep saying that I do not care so I probably lie when saying so.
    I wonder if Michelangelo cared.
    I wonder if Tennyson cared.
    I wonder if Mozart, Rodin, Chaplin cared.
    Of course they cared
    vanity stalking the most noble of souls. They were also paid, but this was secondary.
    Of course I care.
    Of course I see myself aligned with them artists, else, why do I write?
    Of course I know why it matters, noble soul that I am not.

    Others includes you
    and if I am not read by you the way I should be read
    then why do I write?
    Probably in the hope that above ‘if’ is dysfunctionally embedded in this text
    and that I will one day learn of it.
    Doubtful but...
    we all know we die,
    hope is what keeps us alive until that moment.

    Strange philosophy.
    I was never a good philosopher.



Strange this, life.

    I leave no emptiness
    behind me.

    I wasn’t there, anyway,
    so how could I leave anything – smell, pheromones, emptiness?
    Certainly no thunderclap
    the way the sudden removal of a car
    a tennis ball
    a needle
    would have created, left,
    the way the sudden removal of a kiss
    would have created, left.
    Kiss?! What kiss?

    Some idiot screams on the radio.
    A crow picks some leftovers from the asphalt, was it once a burger?
    A guy... no, a gal throws a smoking stub from a car window.
    One may call it life.
    I call it random events based on some universal law of functionality
    no one formulated yet.
    It will be formulated in a million years,
    once everybody would have forgotten me
    and the emptiness I didn’t leave behind.

    Strange thing, life.
    Strange thing, butterfly effect.
    Strange thing, entropy.
    In the end nothing means as much as the moment
    any moment
    this moment
    when I write to you
    when I miss you
    when I wish I was kissing you, instead.




    Leave on the lights.

    I want to watch you.
    I want to watch your every detail

    be it cloth disposed of impatiently
    or fingernail broken in anger
    or indecent position unintended yet assumed with pride and vengeance

    after you throw me on the bed
    extracting me miraculously from all habits in one single move
    and then parade in front of me with female-cock pride

    peeling slowly away pieces of that bane humans call attire
    pausing at the delicate parts of it and pulling them away from the skin
    and treacherously cutting in it another tiny vent and another tiny vent

    slowly revealing another gorgeous piece of flesh and then another gorgeous piece of flesh
    my torture incomplete my humiliation beyond complete
    as I lie there on the cold bed awaiting the penknife the sickle the scythe to strike

    until with no intervening hiatus you rip all leftovers away from your body
    and descend upon me like a vulture
    my purpose in life suddenly clear since Adam bit that apple to be your rag your mattress

    you sit down on me
    you sit up from me

    and breeze turns wind
    and wind turns hurricane
    and emerging cataclysm gulps world gulps solar system gulps universe...

    are you alive? you ask worried
    I hope not, I answer feebly
    asking forgiveness from the enveloping womb of darkness I pull away from

    as two soft arms gather me protectively to a soft bosom
    and there between breasts and breastbone and sleeping nipples
    I suckle my way back to the horrors of life outdoors and the beauty of you indoors.

    Colors glide from the tapestry sewn into your skin
    and ebb into wave after wave of rainbow enchantment around us
    upon a bedsheet that witnessed the birth and death and resurrection
    of me.



Erotycon, two

    We lay on our backs, panting
    like horses that just finished a two miles race
    foaming, frothing, neighing... well, everything except neighing but not far from it

    what’s that on your body? she asked, looking down at it.
    I followed her gaze
    to the Dalí’an landscape of reds and blues and greens and blacks
    slowly rolling away from the crests of my body into the crevasses of my body
    and bed
    and floor...

    your tattoos, they boiled away with the sweat, I exclaimed awed.
    Impossible, she giggled, uncertain, embarrassed,
    what was the temperature... there, you think?

    I have an idea, I smiled back, mischievously
    and rushed as horizontally as I could to prevent losing more ink to the floor
    pulled out a drawer
    pulled out an old pen, fitted to it an old nib, pulled a piece of paper
    and rushed back to the bed, still as horizontally as I could...
    What are you doing? she asked, puzzled, beautiful.

    I sat down
    scooped with the nib as much of the crawling ink as possible
    and started writing.
    You are writing what? A poem?
    You are a poem.
    I write memories.
    You mean you have to write what just happened to remember what just happened?
    I want to make it unforgettable.
    You mean you have to write what just happened to make it unforgettable?
    It was the wrong hour of the day, the wrong moment, the wrong position
    to answer stupid questions
    so I kept scooping and writing and scooping and writing
    pulling additional scraps of paper as necessary
    and scooping and writing and scooping and writing
    until there was no more to scoop
    and the last scooping movement was trailed by a thin, bleeding cut.

    Here, read it!

    She took it, slightly curious, slightly frightened... It is... just one word?!
    Over and over again.
    Over and over again...
    In all possible sizes and orientations and languages, at least those known to me.
    In all possible sizes and orientations and languages, at least those known to you...
    In all possible colors, no, scratch that, in all your colors.
    In all my colors...
    One color missing.
    I took the nib, scratched her skin until I drew blood
    and pushed my finger against the wound then fingerprinted my paper scraps, all of them.
    Now it is complete, all your colors.

    She wasn’t persuaded, I saw it in those gigantic green eyes she raised towards me.
    Then she scratched my tiny cut until she got it bleeding again
    dipped the end of a finger in it
    and fingerprinted all my scraps of paper as well.
    This is ours. Now it is complete.
    Now it is complete, I concurred.

    The word, was of course love.

    Two miles later we lay there panting
    and foaming and frothing, and neighing,
    yes, and neighing, why not, life is worth living, life is beautiful.
    You are beautiful.




Beach? Cloud? Cave?... decide, woman!!!

    TAKE 1: Ready for the beach event?


    tickle the soles of your feet.
    Or maybe these are the tiny crabs I saw congregating
    deciding your fate between the various toes of your various feet...
    yes, I am aware that various does not apply to two
    but I kind of lose my bearings while watching you in that bikini...
    wait, is it a monokini?
    wait, is it a nokini?
    wait, is it a biped or a monoped or a noped writing these lines
    (same counting method applicable to this bi/mono/noped’s brain)
    while tickling the soles of your feet
    with the tip of my tongue and picking single grains of sand incrusted there.
    Sorry, apologies to the multi crabs nation for such infamous blame as previously inferred
    sorry, apologies to the one female nation for such fake news as previously proffered
    sorry, for not really being sorry.
    Please don’t forgive me and punish me
    with being the shadow between you and fire of sun
    with being the towel between you and drops of sea
    with being the silks between you and layers of cotton following,
    later on,
    above the silks.
    And I will count the grains of sand your heels displace while walking the shore
    and I will brush your hair while the wind willfully undoes my work
    and I will carry you on my arms waiting for your fingers to clasp the nape of my neck
    and whisper in my ears all the words I ever wrote you
    reminding me
    of love. And you.

    TAKE 2: Ready for the cloud event?


    is not the barking of the electricity in the clouds
    but the barking of that uncontrollable muscle in my chest
    as we are half way up to the first cloud
    about three thousand ladder steps beneath us
    about three thousand above us to go
    and you parading your paradables there, above me
    as you insisted to climb first
    your skirt beating every which way
    my eyes fixed one way and one way only
    up, straight up,
    I guess you knew what you were doing when you proposed this vacation.
    Effort involved?... nothing, meaningless,
    mental control involved?... thunder, told you.
    Love, I’m a bit tired, you meowed
    voice girlish smile impertinentish regard devilish.
    Yeah, tired my ass, I muttered to myself, or rather tired your ass, I muttered to myself
    as I closed the few steps upwards
    one hand clutching the ladder one hand pushing afore mentioned paradables upwards
    softness so welcoming
    perfumes so welcoming
    sighs (mine) so welcoming
    the way to the bottom of the first cloud so blissfully remote.
    Until you suddenly rushed upwards
    leaving me there cursing my ungainly shape
    and my forgotten binoculars down there, on Earth.
    Ready for the next cloud? you bit my lip drawing blood
    guided my fingers a heavenly nanosecond long under your skirt
    and then shooted upwards the ladder again.
    I knew what awaits me, us, me, once we hit that promised seventh cloud
    that thunder in my chest turning God’s trumpet
    as I rushed after you,
    pausing from time to time to inhale heaven
    from my fingertips.

    TAKE 3: Ready for the cave event?


    grazing my head
    and stalagmites drilling holes in the soles of my bare feet
    as I rushed about that hidden from sight cave
    making soft bed for my woman to lie on
    piling sweet fruits for my woman to chew
    carrying carcasses found outside for my woman to feather herself in
    fur herself in
    hide herself in,
    invite me in.
    I would never force myself in.
    I was quite advanced for a primitive he-hominid
    she was quite feisty and capricious for a primitive she-hominid
    with bones woven in her hair
    and white chalk images artistically scrawled upon her body
    and black charcoal stains drawn around her eyes
    and tiny drying red lines of blood leftovers smeared on her mouth.
    What will they call these things in a two hands’ count millennia? Lips? Lipstick?
    (Please forgive me for using words I was not supposed to know, ok? Inclusive ok.)
    I was born to hunt and love her.
    War and love her.
    Protect and love her.
    She was born to hunt and war and protect me and love me.
    Told you, quite advanced for a pair of not-so-far-from-monkeys.
    Lover (or whatever combination of grunts meant ‘lover’),
    make love to me (or whatever combination of grunts meant ‘make love to me’).
    I did not let her repeat herself,
    last time I did it I lost her for a full moon to another full moon.
    Never mind stalactites, never mind stalagmites, never mind quartz as sharp as tiger’s tooth
    I rushed her way all bleeding and all panting and all relieved of my habits
    and she welcomed me inside her feathers and furs and hides
    and black fingernails cut ruts all across my spine
    and black teeth cut pieces off my face
    and green... green? where did I learn this word from?... eyes
    shone like wet leaves in a storm lighted by burning trunks fallen prey to sky’s anger
    as we rolled beneath above among stalactites and stalagmites and quartz
    and I ripped her open and she crushed me broken
    and I guess it was the first time ever a hominid woman whispered inside a bitten ear
    I love you.
    Also the first time ever a hominid man wrote a poem to his mate.
    It was short, just three words, three stanzas,
    but what a symphony of feelings was sung through these words.
    You understood. I knew you understood when you bit off another piece of my ear
    and crushed me broken once again.
    Ah, the beginnings of modern romance...



Weaker sex? Ha!

    Re-live your ancestry.

    Re-live your yesterday.

    Re-live your yesterdays

    when you cut the hair of the mightiest
    had the empire’s emperor hold on to your hem
    launched a thousand ships
    turned a holy king into a murderer
    were assassinated to prevent a revolution
    wouldn’t give up your seat in a bus
    flew to no return
    provided a face for chicanos and feminists
    prophesized in poetry
    nursed the wounded under fire
    warred for the rights of beasts at the price of your life
    and etc.
    and etc.

    Don’t you kind of... idolize women a tad too much?
    No. Not at all.
    I know also all the bitches, I can count also all the bitches.
    That’s why I started with a ‘your’ indicator, first line. And second. And third.
    When my mind pulls you to the forefront
    these are the ones that rise above all the rest.
    Whatever the reason.



The Artist

    Time decided to take on the art of sculpture
    not as a profession mind you, but as a hobby.

    Of all the arts it could have chosen from, it is sculpture it chose.
    It could have chosen poetry, pottery, clowning,
    writing ghost stories and competing with the Rowling dame (this is where the billions are)
    ...no, the stupid critter decided to compete with Michelangelo
    and compete with Mickey’s David. Idiot!

    And who of all of Earth’s population did Time take as its block of marble, so to say,
    to chisel on?
    Guess! The one other critter that never won any of the state lotteries
    with their ridiculously high odds of a few poor billions to one
    having tried them all all his life (double all is not a mistake),
    and yet he won Time lottery’s first draw with its impossible trillion trillions to one odds
    the prize being acting as Time’s block of marble, so to say.
    Me. Is this the right way to say it or would I be a better choice? As if it matters.

    So one day I wake up to find Time chiseling away layers off my muscles.
    Then chiseling on additional layers to my fat.
    (How does one chisel on? Trust Time to find a way.)
    Then chiseling some artistic holes in my teeth,
    some artistic ruts to my eyes and at second thought also to my mouth,
    some stains to my skin
    some hair off my head
    some fine strands on to my ears (that I have to keep shaving off daily)
    some hair extensions on to my nose (that I have to keep snipping off daily)
    some ingrown nails
    some hanging skin
    some less erections

    it chiseled away my spagat
    and it chiseled away my forehead to knees
    and it chiseled away my 100 meters in 10 seconds (I never had it but feels good saying it)

    and then Time took some time (haha) off and it wasn’t even the seventh day
    and decided to try some improvements, with David all the time on its mind,
    in the internal layers of its block of marble, so to say,
    gory details of which I will save you from
    since I do not want to have you puking your breakfast/lunch/dinner/snack/etc.
    over this poem/blog/story/essay/etc.
    in whatever form you may be reading it paper/screen/microfiche/roentgen/etc.

    Great job you did with this block of marble, so to say, Time.
    All of this effort did not get you any closer to above mentioned David
    but it did get you farther away from above mentioned original Me.
    And now I bet you planted your undefinable ass (apologies, all the under 18) in some bar
    or bodega
    or night club
    sipping your cold Belgian beer
    and thinking of additional ways to improve on your creation, after your beer of course.

    Well, let me be clear on this one, Time. Fuck you (apologies, all the under 18)!
    Next time I will allow you next to me
    will be when all you’ll be able to do is chisel my flesh away from my bones
    in atomic size particles, no more sculpting allowed.
    Mickey beat you! David beat you! I beat you!

    One million years from now, in the future, a then-hominid
    ten times farther away from the today-hominid than we are from our ancestor-hominid
    with head the size of three watermelons and eyes the size of single watermelons
    and feet the size of watermelon seeds
    and balls and tits the size of no watermelon
    (by that time hominids would have all become hermaphrodites, oh, poor devils)
    will gently lay on a table the recently excavated bonily leftovers of Me
    will caress them with thin long watermelon tendril fingers
    and will mutter to itself (hermaphrodite, remember?)... shit, what a magnificent specimen!
    It will not know what shit means, of course, therefore it will not apologize to any under 18,
    but it will use it anyway the way we don’t know what ok means but we use it.
    MAGNIFICENT! Hear it, Time?

    THIS will be my revenge, you Time scum, you sculptorial failure for all eternity
    (eternity being longer than you, I presume, hahaha).
    Fuck you, Time (apologies all the under 18, recidivating, this time triple exclamation-marked)!!!
    ooIoo ooIoo (this being my typographical attempt at a double middle finger) Time!!!



For a dime

    A poem’s lines rhyme
    Like a caroling chime,
    The do’s and the la’s
    Wedding silver to brass
              every time...

    The poem’s lines rhyme
    Like a caroling chime,
    The do’s and the la’s
    Wedding silver to brass
              every time...

    My poem’s lines rhyme
    Like a caroling chime,
    The do’s and the la’s
    Wedding silver to brass
              every time...

    This poem’s lines rhyme
    Like a caroling chime,
    The do’s and the la’s
    Wedding silver to brass
              every time...

    A poem’s last breath
    The obdurate death
    My verse for all time
    This song for a dime.



Absurd Analogies

    You mean AA?
    No, your AA has nothing to do with my AA,
    yours has to do with me being the brain
    and you being the alcohol masquerading as blood
    flooding me into a state of pure

    No, I mean other analogies.


    You the mouth
    and I the bee gathering all that sugary existence from your lips...
    Bee? Are you going to sting me?
    Do you prefer me butterfly?
    No, stay, bee,
    I like the feeling of danger
    vulnerability you deliver to my lips...
    You will not sting me, will you?

    You the scabbard
    I the sword.
    Oh, do I hear some sexual inflections?
    You hear wrong. No, wrong, you hear right but you’re wrong in your interpretation.
    Intimate. Not sexual.
    We are virgin to each other
    never knew each other
    never will know each other
    until that moment that I slide into you
    to cuddle there safe from the wraths of the world
    rust and dents and atomic bombs...
    ...to wrap myself around you
    safe in my knowledge
    of your sudden penetrating slash
    and soft, feathery protection...

    virgins to each other...
    virgins to each other...
    (Moment’s hesitation. Yours.)
    Say, and if I was the sword and you the scabbard in this analogy?
    (Moment’s hesitation. Mine.)
    Oh! (Here I roll my eyes CW.) Oh! (here I roll my eyes CCW.) Oh! (Cross-eyed.)
    This opens up unimaginable possibilities,
    and since they are unimaginable I cannot imagine them.

    You the sea
    I the swordfish.
    You used already sword.
    This is different, this is swordfish.
    You used already Oh.
    (Here you smacked me the way Muhammad Ali smacked whoever was in the ring.)
    You. Unfathomably deep, unfathomably startling, unfathomably mysterious beguiling warm.
    You. Unfathomably talented unfathomably creative unfathomably imaginative.
    I get it, what about you?
    I. Unfathomably lost in all this depth mystery creativity
    and stabbing every which direction trying to hit your thought
    hit your soul
    hit your body
    failing again and again, sea, so vast.
    I.E. trying to hit on me.
    I.E. yes, shamelessly, humbly, violently, gently.
    And other xly’s.
    I like your xly’s.
    I want you to love my xly’s.
    Thus I keep swimming times blindly
    other times blindly as well,
    after all you are woman, I am man.
    You are sea. I am swordfish.

    You Jane
    I Jackass.
    And this leads?...
    No idea, skip.
    You volcano.
    I soda pop.
    And this leads?...
    No idea, skip.
    You my end of time.
    I the one who called you my end of time.
    This starts interesting. Not even a hint of sexuality, though, knowing you... Let’s see, go on.
    I found you somewhere at my many percent from start time mark
    and my few percent from end time mark
    and you but a lass where percents are meaningless
    and nights are long but not long enough
    and days are long but not long enough
    and the sum of it all is threaded with the sparkle of silver and the flicker of gold
    and opals
    and amethysts
    and jades
    Hey! I shouted your way, almost falling from my top tree branch
    where I was feeding birds
    Hey! you waved back starting to climb my way
    carelessly letting your stockings tear away and your skirts tear away
    (I knew it would arrive, eventually)
    and by the time you reached my branch there was not much left to cover your nakedness
    and I just wished it was even less
    I brought you flowers. And me.
    I fed the birds. I love your flowers. I love you.
    And somehow your flowers and my birds and you and I we all started mixing up
    ending with just you and me
    mixed up
    with so many beautiful flowers flying around us
    and so many beautiful birds blossoming around us
    I don’t really mind Jackass. I don’t really mind soda pop.
    I don’t really mind Jane. I don’t really mind volcano.
    I do. I do.
    The end of virginity, not as the world knew it. As we knew it.

    You Penelope.
    You Odysseus?
    You Eurydice.
    You Orpheus?
    You Desdemona.
    You Othello?
    Hm, let’s try some that don’t necessarily belong to the O family.
    Iseult. Tristan? Guinevere. Lancelot? Beatrice. Dante? Juliet. Romeo? Delilah. Samson?...
    (And on and on we went through the night, through many nights,
    my head in your lap, just beneath the youth of your breasts,
    your fingers at the corners of my eyes, counting the age of my eyelashes).
    I wonder at the absurdity of all these analogies. And stories surrounding them.
    I guess there are more.

    I wonder at the absurdity of absurdity. In all these analogies.
    Yes, there are more. There are countless more.




    like every day preceding this day and for all the days that days remember me

    as your charm trickles and lingers
    I tie ribbons to your fingers
    tiny diamonds to your lashes
    round your nipples moon-rock ashes
    silver bangles to your feet...
    oh, my mind with you replete
              swoons and crashes.

    Every day
    preceding this day and for all the days that days remember me

    when the sun deserts its nisus
    with its sunset to surprise us
    I inhale the blissful glory
    of that damning purgatory
    that cherubic burning lea
    neath your dress’s canopy
              hell’s furore.

    This day
    and for all the days that days remember me

    you have danced on nail and nettle
    proud of heart and brave of mettle
    now I’ll swathe your lacerations
    those invading sweet temptations
    turning want to feral chase
    with my wild and muscled mace

    For all the days
    that days remember me

    I’ve roamed kingdoms populated
    minds aberrant, underrated,
    until life’s depleted ocean
    in a last, defying motion
    stranded me upon this shore
    swan and siren songs galore
              lover’s potion.

    remember me

    they may call me misbegotten
    yet remember the white cotton
    guarding the forbidden borders
    that my hands, your nipple hoarders
    ripped away from flesh and skin
    then bedizened you with sin
              fuck life’s warders.




    You should have been born
    somewhere in the wilderness
    in a farm,
    with cows and horses and chickens and wheat fields and vegetable beds
    and dogs, of course dogs,
    next to my farm.

    I should have been born
    somewhere in the wilderness
    in a farm,
    with cows and horses and chickens and wheat fields and vegetable beds
    and dogs, of course dogs,
    next to your farm.

    And as kids I would have pulled your pigtails
    and you would have scratched my eyes
    and we would have loved each other, oh, how much we would have loved each other.

    And as guys and gals I would have taken you to dances and touched your breasts
    and you would have let me take you to dances and blush when I touched your breasts
    and we would have loved each other, oh, how much we would have loved each other.

    And as young adults I would have married you and given you five children
    and you would have married me and given me five children
    and we would have loved each other, oh, how much we would have loved each other.

    And as old adults you would have sat in my lap with fifteen grandkids on the porch
    and I would have sat in your lap with fifteen grandkids on the porch
    and we would have loved each other, oh, how much we would have loved each other.

    And as old people I would still sneak upon you in the meadow and steal your delicate offering
    and you would still allow me to sneak upon you in the meadow and steal your delicate offering
    and we would have loved each other, oh, how much we would have loved each other.

    You were not born somewhere in the wilderness.
    I was not born somewhere in the wilderness.
    And we love each other, oh, how much we love each other.



definitely NO! sex

    I’ve taken you to the beach.
    I’ve taken you to the clouds.
    I’ve taken you to the cave.
    I’ve taken you past present and future.
    I’ve taken you nowhere and somewhere and everywhere
    and each and every place and time
    I’ve remodeled you tatters
    I’ve revealed you naked
    I’ve crawled every square inch of your outer and inner flesh and left prints
    etched down to muscle
    down to bone
    down to mind.
    You won’t remember, you were not there when I was there...
    or maybe you do remember?

    I’ve not taken you yet to my balcony, though.
    Among flowers.
    And butterflies and bees and parrots and no crawling fingers.
    I’ve taken you to my balcony. No crawling fingers.
    I laid you down upon a bed of mixed petals
    asked gently butterflies to fan you cool
    asked gently bees to drip your lips honey
    asked gently parrots to offer you nuts of all sizes and colors

    and while you lazed under the transparent canopy separating life from dream
    I started reading you poetry.
    Some of it mine.
    Well, honestly, most of it mine
    I did not know of any other that would do justice to the moment
    to the woman
    to the woman’s senses.

    And you listened, and you napped, and you woke up to the birds, and you napped,
    and you turned over peeking from under eyelashes making sure no sex
    and I there making sure against all biting instincts no sex
    and you asking meekly no sex?
    and I answering hoarsely no sex
    and you listened, and you napped, and you woke up to the birds, and you napped
    and I kept reading until there was nothing to be read anymore that wasn’t read already
    and starting anew
    from chapter one, poem one, word one.
    Feeling every bit like an antiquity god
    building a heaven
    for a goddess.
    And no sex?
    And no sex.

    You wake up... did I fall asleep?
    Then you feel the flutter of butterflies and taste the honey of bees and munch the nut of parrots
    and... hey... is this your voice, still reciting poetry?
    I believe it is. I believe I could go on like this
    Can you please define forever?
    My voice. Then my writes. Then memories of me. Forever, the human way.



Do you dream of my body?

    Do you dream of my body? she asked
    her voice intonation as factual as someone asking the time of the day
    as someone reading a rental contract’s endless clauses
    as someone reciting a grocery list for the twentieth time.

    Do I dream of your body? I echoed
    my intonation so different that it might as well have been a different dimension,
    the rhetorical quality to have made a Cicero proud
    the musicality of sound to have been accepted as a neologism
    the underlying temperature to put global warming to shame without the inherent risks
    and yet with all the doom quality of a tumble into the sun.
    Do I dream of your body? I reiterated
    harmonizing a different amalgam of intonations
    yet keeping the same set of abusive statements that the first set placed on her ears
    drilling mercilessly through the labyrinths of her ethereal mind
    and the convolutions of her physical brain.
    Please re-think,
    not the words but rather the music.

    She re-thought,
    not the words but rather the music.

    Do you dream of my body? she asked.
    And this time
    the sun tumbled into me.

    I wonder how I keep writing,
    makes one believe in ghosts.




    Wedding rings, studded with tiny emeralds.
    Grinding discs, studded with diamond dust.
    My poetry, studded with morsels of heart, mine,
    size of weasel bites
    size of searing sparks
    size of stiletto punctures with atom sized knock-outs.

    even with the thorns and the broken glass and the razor-wire fragments
    it is still
    try it,
    drag it softly along your cheek downwards, sideways, in circles,
    drag it softly upon the back of your hand downwards, sideways, in circles,
    drag it softly underneath your breasts, between your breasts, around your nipples
    and as the inflammation between your thighs threatens your life
    let it soothe, placate, tame that harras harassing your insatiable gluttony for fire
    for smiles
    for peace underneath the poplars
    with my hand braiding roses in your hair
    and your sighs mingling with the buzz of bees
    and the flutter of butterflies
    and the rustle of leaves slowly covering your nakedness
    with autumn.

    Don’t shy away from telling me of occasional thorns and glass and razor-wire
    piercing your skin unintentionally, if mine,
    maybe intentionally, if not mine.
    I will gather you in my words
    lull you all the way into the worlds of ataraxia
    and as white lace ties to your ankles
    green consonance ties to your eyelashes.




    I cup your flesh.
    Which part?
    If you so wish...
    And while your shoulder finds the right nook against my shoulder
    I will tell you the untold, unabridged and true story
    of Ulysses and Penelope’s first night together
    after his return from his unfortunate pilgrimage.
    Is it an... erotic story?
    It certainly is.

    I cup your flesh.
    Another part?
    If you wish.
    Ahm... elbow?
    If you insist...
    And while your foot finds the right positional angle between my feet
    I will tell you the untold, unabridged and true story
    Of Othello and Desdemona’s first night together
    after the pomp of marriage and guests left them in the bliss of lone togetherness.
    Is it an... erotic story?
    You bet.

    I cup your flesh.
    May I choose?
    Didn’t you until now?
    Ahm... let me think... breast?
    (there I stuttered, coughed and choked, in this order, for a few moments)
    And while your hand cups my flesh...
    May I choose?
    You may.
    (you chose and I stuttered, coughed and choked, in this order, for a few moments)
    ...I will tell you the untold, unabridged and true story of Romeo and Juliet
    and their only night together after and before mayhem and death.
    Is it an... erotic story?
    There isn’t any more so.

    I finished telling you the stories.
    Those are stories.
    Do you have also a story about... us?

    My cupping firm.
    Your cupping fearsome.

    I hope so.
    I hope so.
    I will tell it when...
    You will tell it when...

    I will tell it. When. If.
    Yes, definitely when. Definitely if.
    Like waiting to be born. More.




    I look at them,
    admiringly, lovingly.

    Some timidly designed, yet gorgeous
    some so intricately designed that gorgeous would be insulting
    and the correct word to detail them was not invented yet,
    can never be invented.
    Splendrous? Magnificent?
    All but pale synonyms to gorgeous and none encompassing the totality of the thrill
    those indescribable ampersands entail.

    I couldn’t imagine a Romeo & Juliet without such a one.
    I couldn’t imagine a Ulysses & Penelope, an Othello & Desdemona
    without such a one.

    Lover, you seem to be stuck on your pairings, always R & J, U & P, O & D...
    Oh, but I have others as well... I have...
    She blocked any following words with a pair of lips
    that would be the envy of any ampersand design.
    What about... You & I? she smirked. Which ampersand design would you use here?

    She got me there.
    By the balls, if I be allowed a bit of pardonable yet germane pertness here.
    Never thought of us in terms of ampersand design, and now that she said it...

    Oh my God, was all I could say
    as she converted the inherent meaning of above pert expression from figuratively to literally
    and literary ampersands became just blurs
    upon the endless canvas of those ampersand eyes
    and the rest of ampersand she.



That moment of glory

    That moment of glory

    when I undressed you naked
    in the rain

    and streamlets
    and runlets
    and rivulets of purified water cascaded from ends of hair and ends of fingers
    exploding in tiny rainbows around your feet

    human you disappeared
    and aery you birthed the way of a water lily
    the way of a diamond grain
    the way of a nova thankfully billions of light years away
    thankfully falling into my arms.

    That moment of glory

    when you blossomed all around dying me
    in the rain

    with streamlets
    and runlets
    and rivulets undergoing a process of contamination by salt erupting from skins
    and blood particles blessing the birth of another sun

    human us disappeared
    with the rest of us hewing a way out of bodily knots
    and bacchanalian collusion
    and howling wings stretching our lungs into the ten-line staff notation
    so typical of our flesh’s plainchants.

    The moment of glory
    The moment of glory
    hiding in the interstices of watertightly




    I’m virgin, she stated
    and I spattered and splattered and stuttered my way back to sanity
    four days running.
    Yeah, and I’m 4th of July, I tried a flat and thin joke
    and flat and thin it stayed. Like single layer toilet paper,
    like peel off an overboiled potato
    like a drop of nail varnish diluted in a glass of acetone.
    C’mon, you’re usually more articulate than that, she teased,
    goading me into proving that she was lying.
    I couldn’t prove it was 3 o’clock (it was 3 o’clock at the moment)
    so certainly not that she was lying (she was lying... I thought... I think...).

    My memories of that defining moment in my life are blurred, still.

    I remember walking fluffy pink clouds covered imbricated petals
    I remember riding hummingbirds’ beaks deep into hearts of flowers
    I remember many other nonsensical offerings to my senses.
    I do not remember proving the debatable matter.

    I remember lying on my back (I think)
    on a sandy beach (I think)
    the red gate of hell receding from my gate of food (I think... no, I am sure)
    and emanating sounds that translated the cacophony in the world to a simple... So?
    So what? I retorted, the temporal blur I related higher up starting at that very moment
    to never let go again.
    She made it considerably harder
    laying her head on my chest
    her hair conquering even the most elementary of my senses,
    those I did not know humans possess until she uncovered the secret to me.
    Add to it the horrifying (to my sanity) combination of fingertips and nipples...

    I don’t know if you are... were virgin, I stated in return.
    You are certainly not human, I finished my statement
    hurrying to return to those hairs and those nipples and that... creature.

    I think she accepted the answer as articulate
    and converted any further mental tease she had in mind to a bodily one.
    She succeeded.



Autumn Colors

    The autumn colors
    are preparing for the big invasion,
    that much is obvious even to civilians like me.

    For now
    it is just a few patrols here and there
    a few skirmishes there and here
    the sharp edge of polar-cold bistouries cutting erratically through the air
    killing a few leaves
    frightening a few mice deep down burrows...
    nothing serious yet,

    the onslaught is yet to come

    It comes.

    It finds us with all the abruptness of a snapping dry twig underfoot
    unleashed hysteria suddenly channeling our primal senses through narrow gaps
    cracking beneath splinters of flint stone
    and tree trunks
    and dry bones yellowing with age
    as we roll and rave and rage among wooden benches
    underneath wooden benches
    between the planks of wooden benches
    sometimes making love
    sometimes plain fucking

    a torrent of leaves burying us three feet underneath the never ceasing deluge
    where our humanity shed of its cloth and inhibition
    gives in to the most tender of bestial ferocity
    and beauty.

    We pause,
    among the wooden benches
    underneath the wooden benches
    between the planks of the wooden benches,
    cupfuls of the other’s flesh still broiling inside clenched fists
    and as we shyly try to cover each other’s glowing skin with our own
    we feed each other crumbling leaves
    and whisper them down the settling landscape of lungs
    with mouths regaining momentarily the sanity of encroaching color
    decomposing inside the rapidly fading lull
    of in-between
    rampaging sallies.



The childhood of man, the finding of woman

    So we sit at the table,
    you drink your hot cocoa
    I drink your hot cocoa too, from your mouth.

    So we sit on the bed,
    you invited me to sit on the bed, yours,
    I hoped to be invited to sit on the bed, yours,
    I don’t know if to hope for more
    though I do.

    You hug.
    I kiss.
    We don’t undress,
    we rip rave rage
    all of a sudden
    all together
    all the two of us

    and as all that we just began just ends
    and as we grab the ending just a little bit longer
    by fingertips to fingertips to rest of us
    you offer me your cocoa again
    and it burns to blisters my lips my tongue my palate
    my heart.
    How does cocoa get to heart?
    The mysteries of life never cease to astound me.
    Of love too.

    I walked life’s deserts, hiked its mountains, crawled at the bottoms of its seas,
    I married your body without marrying your finger
    married your mind without your consent
    lined my mattress with words you wished to say but didn’t
    and sank into the chaos at the end of my time and the beginning of yours
    carrying with me ounces of happiness,
    trillions of them.



There are absolutes:

    I will die forever,
    I know.

    I will never step on the moon,
    I know.

    We will make love only on the silent white between my stanzas
    there, where reproaches just about to be born retreat into nothingness,
    I know.

    There are also inabsolutes, a word that doesn’t exist but should:

    If government ministers would be logical they would not be ministers,
    I think.

    If our ears would have had a band-stop to filter out the ‘mi’
    the music scene would have been completely different,
    I think.

    If someone would have stepped on a butterfly somewhere mid of Eocene
    we would have been born same time, same continent, same street,
    I think.




    We got there, finally.

    Took us the better part of a life but we got there
    at the feet of the Eiffel tower
    and holding hands we looked up... wow!
    another part of life, maybe not as better as the first, to get to the top of it.
    I squeezed your hand...
    to encourage you or to encourage myself?

    Are you ready? I asked.
    You squeezed my hand back, didn’t know it was possible to squeeze further
    and for a moment I feared for the sake of my knuckles, and thumb,
    and middle finger - its uses so ingeniously varied.
    This is where you wanted to be, right? I continued
    a note of uncertainty creeping in my voice.
    You kept looking up,
    your neck the neck of a swan
    your eyes the eyes of a birthing universe.
    And there we make love? you asked.
    And there we make love.
    You on top?
    If you wish.
    I on top?
    If you wish.
    You talk too much.

    We burst forward
    the tidal wave of humanity’s only two humans alive at that moment in time
    crashing through the frozen immobility of guards and gates and gawkers
    and climbing the forest of beams and bars and bolts the size of watermelons
    upwards onwards topwards
    first half of the way I helping you
    second half of the way you helping me
    third half...
    ...third half, what’s this, poetic math?...
    third half, I continued unperturbed, we holding onto each other
    like vines
    like burrs
    like thistles
    reaching the needle top
    clothes exploding off our skin
    metal around us turning incandescent blob
    leaving the following endless generations of city engineers wondering
    until Earth fell into Sun.
    As we made love
    madly, wildly, insanely...
    on top of whom?

    on top of we.
    And around? and underneath? and inside? and everywhere? and?...
    You talk too much.

    I spread my wings
    gathered naked you to naked me
    and started floating above a glittering Paris...
    ...see, this is la Notre-Dame
    and we made love...
    ...see, this is le Louvre
    and we made love...
    ...see, this is la Sacré-Coeur
    and we made love...
    seventy four times we made love caring not for frightened screams of passers by
    or challenges of gendarmes
    or the endless bickering of doves assailing us...
    ...oh, this is la Notre-Dame
    and we made love...
    ...oh, this is le Louvre
    and we made love...
    ...oh, this is la Sacré-Coeur
    and we made love...
    this was the second time around,
    you still clutching at my chest
    I still clutching at everything that was skin and flesh and bone of you.
    Drinking you in, inhaling you, absorbing you.

    Now? I cooed.
    Now, you chirped.
    And we swooped down on people in the cool breeze drifts
    feeling the freedom we couldn’t enjoy as wretched humans
    and we glided upon the mirror of the water
    watching the twin sky slide underneath us
    and we invaded the pavement eating yummy crumbs
    fallen from luxurious cookies
    and finally perched atop the highest and prettiest building
    watching the sparkliest and prettiest lights.

    May I now wake us up? I cooed.
    No, you chirped.
    And we remained hugging for minutes, for hours, for centuries.
    This doesn’t look like our gargoyles,
    kept saying the following endless generations of city engineers wondering
    until Earth fell into Sun.



idyll, one

    we walk
    hand in hand,
    mostly your hand in mine, at times mine in yours,
    head on shoulder
    on mine,
    thigh brushing against thigh as if by chance
    certainly by chance, sometimes,
    mostly intentionally by me
    sometimes intentionally by you, I hope,

    we find a bench
    we sit
    my arm wraps your back protectively
    and a left fingertip pushes against the round softness of a left breast’s side
    unintentionally, at begin,
    intentionally the entire rest of time,

    we stand
    we walk again
    the dogs running berserk around us
    chasing first imaginary then real squirrels
    chasing first real then imaginary skunks
    chasing each other’s tail while we kick the life out of mounds of dry leaves
    so that we can cough
    so that we can choke
    so that we can clean each other’s mouth
    with each other’s lips
    and tongues
    and breath.

    the sun falls asleep at the mid of the day
    its warmth beating softly neath smoldering hay
    I’m itching, you murmur delightful distress
    beseeching me kindly your need to address

    I open your button and open your clasp
    relieving your skin from the menacing grasp
    indebted, your gratitude voices its chime
    and offers your nipple till end of all time

    the dogs lie asleep round the knots of raw flesh
    that moments before seized the meaning of thresh,
    my hand on your belly, your head on my chest
    I start weaving dreams... at your gentle behest.



idyll, two

    the pines shiver lightly foretokening wonders
    about to bedizen the mighty expanse
    the bridal immaculate garment which sunders
    a world’s innocence into anguish and dance.

    the maiden steps slowly, engraving with garlands
    the glittering snow crunching under her feet
    a murder of crows cawing gaily engarlands
    the colorful figure they’re eager to greet.

    a black-and-white storm barks its way with a flurry
    a white-and-black storm follows thick on its trail
    the somnolent white turns rampageous slurry
    as wild shrieks of laughter yield hiccup for gale.

    the pines fall asleep, while the moon graves a crescent
    disparting the white from the hovering black,
    the maid falls asleep, flushing cheeks iridescent
    with trickles of dreams and a doggy’s wet smack.

    the morning erupts with a crows’ mighty bugle
    three creatures emerge from the crumbling white silk
    and life starts anew like a landscape by Brueghel
    infused with the warmth of a mother’s fresh milk.



I Wish

    I wish
    I could sink my body inside your body

    the frailty of stiff flesh burrowing roads and inhuming despair
    until, once reaching those unfathomable depths of woman and beast,
    it displodes like an army of glass bottles
    chasing the side of a building to the solid pavement below

    and once there
    the cur coils
    and curls
    and nestles
    for as long as the word eternity
    carries meaning.

    You lullaby me with daggers
    and squashed rose petals.



Love. Positive, gushing, cute, romantic, poetic love.

    It’s something I think I need right now, she said.
    Positive, gushing, cute, romantic, poetic love.

    Like this? I asked
    pointing to the starling murmuration that followed the wand of my index finger
    first shaping a pulsating side-lying heart
    then shaping the fluttering tail of a galloping stallion
    then thinning out to one single horizontal line, horizon to horizon
    before disappearing.

    Her eyes sparkled, tears exploding into a scintillating mist that enveloped us,
    hiding us from the world, from ourselves.
    Hey, did you really do it all with the tip of your finger? she wondered loudly
    taking the tip of my finger and letting it run all the way from the tip of her nose
    to the depression of her navel. Letting it rest there.
    Sorry, no murmuration there I’m afraid, I said.
    Are you sure? she asked,
    and suddenly I wasn’t.

    Or maybe like this? I asked further
    releasing my finger from the tirany of her hold
    and starting to draw shapes in the sand.
    Yes, suddenly we were swimming in a sea of sand, or rather walking atop it
    like that famous biblical character...
    If you wish.

    My shapes took form, then took life, then took their own lives...
    Butterflies! she clapped hands delightedly
    and with every clap another color added to the fluttering rainbow
    until my finger slashed the middle of it all...
    Fishies! she danced and pirouetted and fell on her behind
    only to bounce back to the tips of her toes and chase a school of sardines
    then be chased by a mean looking shark
    then leap with a glide of flying fish
    and then my finger stabbed the heart of the vision...
    Puppies! Kitties! Lambs!
    There were more kinds but she just lay on her back and let the biting
    battering multitude of miniature life inflict upon her body as much unimaginable damage
    and pleasure
    as imaginable in her mind.
    My finger struck out.
    Oh, no! her sides of mouth pouted in repressed sobs
    until I offered her the same finger to suckle, bite, torture, assuage.

    This? I don’t remember asking, probably I did.
    She looked around.
    I see nothing, she said.
    This? I do remember asking this second one
    guiding each of my right hand’s single fingers in between each of her left hand’s two fingers
    my thumb outside, her pinky outside,
    palm to palm
    wrist to wrist
    hip rubbing against hip
    as we started touring the world and its wonders.
    Also the Eiffel?
    Why not?
    Also the pyramids, the Norwegian fjords, mount Fujimori...?
    she kept enumerating and I kept us jumping
    until her head fell with a sigh on my shoulder... all this with the tip of your finger?...
    She was whispering, tired.
    And the warmth of your heart, I added,
    covering her with layers of warm night
    interspersed with layers of white snowflake
    interspersed with layers of broken flint stone sparking with every movement of her body.

    You know, this is the first time we fall in love where there is no sex involved,
    she giggled into my cheek.
    You know, this is the first time I offer you positive, gushing, cute, romantic, poetic love.
    Still love, no?
    No. Not ‘still love’.
    Simply... love.

    She yawned, content, and fell asleep.
    When she woke up I wasn’t there anymore.



Night, Follows Day

    Your heart entrances tips of mighty trees
    And leads them through the glare of morning’s sun
    To feed them life, until the day is done
    When it pulls back to sleep across your knees.

    Your fingers touch the earlobes’ gentle pink
    And gently ask the butterflies astride
    To part and fly, with morning’s ebbing tide
    And paint the night with stardust’s playful clink.

    Your breasts engulf my mouth into the fold
    I sing with words as meaningless as time
    The rapture in the bodies joined in crime
    I beg with night, my soul and life to hold.

    My day has ended with your breeze of mouth
    My night has started, and my cranes fly south.




    The letter lay forgotten, the pungent smell of mildew
    Pervading hollow innards of vowels huddling close,
    The bloated ink recalling within its tufts of shrill hue
    A fire once consuming love poems in their throes.

    All yesterdays forgotten, she dusts around the corners
    A tune escaping softly the prison of her lips
    Grim days of old forsaken along with clinging mourners
    Her mopping hand rejoicing in dust’s apocalypse.

    A flutter... What in blazes?... A yellow apparition
    Floats from beneath a drawer and lands against her shoe
    One corner bends... it offers conditionless rendition
    As scribbled lines sink slowly in the surrounding goo.

    She freezes, thinly choking, the sheet between her fingers
    Vibrates like frightened kittens afore impending doom,
    A sudden, long gone throbbing between her temples lingers,
    An eerie silence gathers and sails across the room.

    My dear... convulsing fingers gash wounds inside the paper
    My dear... convulsing rivers gash wounds inside the brain
    My dear... she drops the broomstick, the mop, the brush, the scraper,
    The world begins to wobble, her eyes begin to rain.

    An hour, two, an ever has seen her crouching, hollow,
    As she re-reads the stories, the lives, the matching rhyme,
    As she re-lives the moments in which she used to wallow
    Believing into stardust until the end of time.

    Enough. She stands. She wobbles. She steels her melting muscle
    Her fist crumples the letter reminiscing the lust,
    The awe, the crave, the fire... all gone with yester’s rustle,
    The brittle paper crumbles, and dust returns to dust.



Futuristic Nostalgia

    One hundred years from now
    and three hours,
    or so

    my grandkids would’ve had grandkids
    cars would’ve gone droneway
    food would’ve been 3D printed

    and my books would’ve rotten
    crumbled into dust
    become just another polluting factor.

    Where is he buried?
    no one would’ve thought necessary to ask
    relegated as irrelevant or not relegated at all

    a life lost
    just a life forgotten

    a love lost
    just a what the hell was once upon a time this thing called love about?

    And then philosophically I would’ve asked a question asked millions of times before
    what is the purpose
    of life for the living

    what was the purpose
    of my life
    into my death

    and why am I writing such gloomy lines
    at an unholy 3am on this unholy Sunday night
    when all I want to say is yet again I love you?




    Suddenly I feel old,
    not because I feel old but because others feel older.

    Sleepless nights
    keep me awake,
    as strange a statement as any older than itself

    keep me younger than older others
    my brain de-fusing itself from my body
    and dancing to tunes even older that those older mentioned
    a gush of youth hormones just engendered by my various systems at 3am
    doing its best to make me forget poles melting and sinews melting.

    Loves lost are loves never tried
    my hidden older self keeps goading itself into existence
    and finding philosophical reasons for a revivalists festival.

    This is a second gloomy body-refuse rejected by a brain this chilly morning
    while I console that hidden older self with ludicrous lustful thoughts of you.




    A poet
    can turn beauty into gloom,

    as dowdy a philosophical expletive as any,

    A poet
    can turn gloom into beauty

    as dowdy a philosophical expletive as any, in addition to the one above expelled,

    A poet
    can heal a broken bell
    A poet
    can grow a rose in hell,

    maybe dowdy in its own way, but honest,

    I wish I was a poet, my hundred thousand lines
    entwined with thorns and flowers, with bitter sighs and chimes,
    my words a swarm of locusts that drowns a helpless dawn
    and you my match of glory... a spark... and then I’m gone!...

    actually I am quite happy with it, I do not think it dowdy at all, personal parallax of course.




    I dream of moments at your breast
    When I assail the nipple’s crest
    And while the rapture storms sublime
    While critics bowdlerize my rhyme
    To feel your nail cleaving my flesh then fall asleep inside my chest,

    I crave the moments in the rain
    When begging lips cannot abstain
    From licking drops gliding upon
    The stretching neck till birthday’s dawn
    The brackish flood failing to cool the bubbling roar of fire’s reign,

    I crawl through moments in my mind
    No man or poet to their kind
    Has ever fathomed could exist
    Where tongues encroach and limbs entwist
    The only justice I can yield is blessing them with words maligned,

    I dress the moments with my ink
    Beneath a sky that fears to blink
    Afraid to lose those sighs divine
    When mouths get drunk on pouring brine
    The sleeping wolves growling to life before they leap and white fangs sink,

    The moments that you own, unique,
    The laws of obsolete physique
    Re-written with a master’s hand
    Besprinkled with your perfume’s brand
    I lie prostrate against your feet to drown in flakes of your mystique.

    The moments gone.
    The moment’s gone.
    Oh, lay your wing around me, swan.




    I wish I had time to read War and Peace again,
    I won’t. Oh, such pity.

    I wish I had time to read Don Quixote again,
    I won’t. Oh, such pity.

    I wish I had time to read again, so many,
    to listen again to so many to watch again so many to meet again so many
    many of which are not there anymore to be met or I don’t know if they are there to be met...

    My world ends
    and these
    and others like these
    and many others like these
    poison my thoughts my days my nights

    and then you send my way Spiegel im Spiegel
    and I hesitate between howling and smiling
    knowing none of my wishes will have the time to come true
    and yet the dagger smoothly gliding inside my heart somehow misses the target
    and exits the other side

    You hang your hat on the colorful arc
    remembering to remove your head from inside it
    and tell me that a world capable of creating such mesmerizing pain
    is a world worthy of the veneration of words nailed to it
    like icons,
    and I manage to decide on smiling

    and I thank you for alienating the poison,
    be it for just the interlude
    of first note
    to last note.

    There is magic in this world.
    You are only part of it.
    But you proved to me there is magic in this world.




    I can’t help but ponder

    why do people associate strength with iron
    with steel
    with concrete?

    Primitive people, I understand.
    But modern homo-sapiens?

    Iron rusts.
    Steel, even stainless, eventually rusts.
    Concrete crumbles. Eventually. Too.

    I understand why not wood, wood rots.
    Or stones. Give stones a couple hundred years of wind and they reshape. Eventually. Too.
    Diamonds are too rare to count and glass too brittle to even consider.

    But why not plastic?
    Plastic is abundant. Plastic is eternal. It will outlive iron, it will outlive us,
    if there were dinosaurs alive it would surely have outlived any of the species.
    So why not associate strength with the eternity of plastic?

    Could it be because it does not sound poetic?
    Or could it be because it is so close to a human plague easily beating any of God’s plagues
    that we are simply afraid
    of blasphemy.




    Give me
    a quarter of an hour of life, yours.

    There was a lot of life before, mine,
    there is a bit of life after, mine,
    there is the before the before and the after the after
    various lengths
    various knowns and unknowns
    various varieties of variations and I don’t necessarily mean to sound poetic,

    give me a quarter of an hour, yours,
    and we’ll make it last longer than the entire before and after and quarter
    including the undershoot and the overshoot and whatever other shoot there is

    and forget the quarter
    and live the infinity

    and fulminate.

    Not like a star.
    Like a party balloon like a soap bubble like a light bulb dropping to the pavement...
    and while our eardrums implode
    I will guide your eyes through the interstices of a hydrogen atom to watch the wonders
    I will travel with you upon the convolutions of a canine brain to see the love
    I will hold your hand while you shop around for sun flares tiny hair-ends singeing...

    while we make love
    while we make love
    while we make love

    until we don’t make love anymore
    quarter of an hour later.
    Infinity of an hour later.

    See?... I kept my promise,
    watch your wristwatch
    the molten blob of plastic embedded in your wrist is all that is left
    proof of all that was.
    The sacrificed quarter of hour embedded in time’s wrist
    like Venus de Milo’s nipple upon her right breast
    like red inside a poppy’s petal
    like a newborn’s cry of victory over the impossible odds of life.




    then, when the first light pierced my eye
    I burst into that primal cry

    that spawned my years of joy and pain,
    I swore aloud: never again!

    eagerly waiting that last breath
    to spawn my death.



magic and abyss

    at the end of magic
    there is an abyss

    when magic ends
    one falls into the abyss

    I have lived both.

    magic did not quite end, yet,
    I did not quite fall into the abyss, yet,

    looking forward to the second
    once the first ends.




    Harken, maiden sweet of lashes,
    To my mind’s benighted ashes,
    From an inkwell’s liquid quarry
    I have dug words wrapped in glory
    Verses famished with desire
    For a love encased in fire
    Tales of yesters laden sorrows
    Craving sun’s exultant morrows

    Then... oh gods of bliss cascading
    Just as life is set to fading
    You arise within the verses
    The encroaching mist disperses
    Tales and words enslaved by beauty
    Pledge to seal my tour of duty
    While a hymn to you unfetters
    In my adytum of letters.


    There’s a maiden, there, worlds yonder
    Time to time she stops to ponder
    Turns one page, and then another
    Moments few of utter pother
    Was it sooth or was it vision
    Heart to heart on rapt collision?...

    Then the moment gently fizzles
    Amidst laundry, pots and swizzles.



Good Bye, the rhymed

    Before we say good-byes fifteen
    And blue invades your tumbling green
    Ascend into your passions cart
    To rummage for your misplaced heart
              and let it preen

    Then watch it offer me your hand
    And lock my hopes into remand
    When after curtsying abashed
    To rhymes untold and pledges slashed
              it drowns in sand.

    The bell is cracked now fifteen score
    The weight of tempest’s clawing lore
    Has left it with a gaping gash
    The tinkle with remorse awash
              for evermore

    The ever after’s sole good bye
    Is crushing stars inside your eye
    And in the face of trothal death
    You glean those crumbs of passing breath
              that you descry.

    I guess it’s time to break my flute
    Arrest my drum disjoint my lute
    My line of reason to exscind
    My stanza reave my spark rescind
              my verse imbrute

    All you’ll remember is the gist
    Conjuring morning’s waking mist
    While in a corner of your mind
    Inside an ogre guarded shrine
              rots yester’s tryst.



Good Bye, the rhymeless

    Do you hear it?
    The thousand-head strong horse herd thundering its brutish way across the valley...

    or is it a cattle herd?...
    or a moose herd?...
    or a brontosaurus herd plummeting down the mountainside toward me
    ravaging everything on their passage
    before they blast through me
    the way of hot iron through a snowflakes blanket

    leaving not even splinters of my future writes
    not even dust
    not even a stain.

    The history of writing can be cut with a knife
    even mid of a sentence
    mid of a word
    mid of a punctuation symbol.

    My history of writing can be cut with a sound

    zero decibels
    would suffice.

    Did suffice.



Good Bye, the nothing

    Nothing good about it.

    Nothing bad either.