Hobbies - Poetry - Anonymous
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    you sit on the rocking chair,
    naked... of course naked,
    have I ever seen you but naked
    but depleted of humanís unnecessary contributions and retributions
    to beauty,
    your beauty?

    your legs crossed, your fingers crossed, your eyes probably crossed too
    under those endless eyelashes
    fringing the flesh shutters
    imprisoning the blue.
    I wonder,
    why would your legs be crossed Ė is it invitation or denial,
    your fingers - are these wishes or dreams,
    eyes... maybe touring all over for me and now transgressing each the otherís boundary
    in distrust of the not finding me fact reported to a central brain watch-dog?...

    you rise
    barefoot soles slapping marble tiles
    knees here and there creaking
    hair swishing behind you, a butterfly flapping against your right shoulder,
    moon rays drawing your shadow in flowing, noiseless brush sweeps
    then erasing it as fast,
    you touch your breast... no, itís not me
    and for a moment you stop and bend in pain
    wishing it was,
    wishing it was the one inflicting the pain spreading from your nipple
    to your lips
    to your loins
    to naked insides waiting for me to dress them.

    you drink the water,
    you return to the chair,
    you rock,
    and the only caress to your skin
    the air sliding back and forth back and forth back and forth upon it,
    like sand paper,
    like cutting glass.




    How do you do it? I asked,
    admiring not so much the acrobatics
    as the sights your skirts revealed as they hung around your head.

    You were hanging upside down from the rock,
    the views far down blurred in ever rolling mists,
    mysterious, alluring.

    I nailed my shoes to the rock, you answered,
    your voice muffled by the cascading textiles,
    Iíll never fall, I promised myself.

    Interesting, I commented, still riveted by the sights up here, not down there.
    Such a waste, considering you wear no underwear,
    how will you make love this way?

    Quiet. You were obviously debating with yourself. Who are you? you asked.
    You know better than ask stupid questions,
    the only one you allowed to see you this way. Your lover.

    We never made love. Hey, I always make love to you.
    You never think of me. Hey, I never stop thinking of you.
    So what do you do letting me hang like that? Hey, you never asked.

    I pulled you up, I tore your clothes, I loved you.
    Now youíre my lover. Now put me back in my shoes.
    I did it the other way around, I put the shoes back on you.

    Why? Because there is always a chance the nails may tear away from the rock.
    One may think you suddenly love me. I never stopped.
    Because of the sex? Because of the first.

    I spent the rest of my life balancing glass marbles one atop another atop your nipple.
    Pity. What pity? That the rest is not longer.
    I did not mind. As long as given was already something.




    at the bus station.

    The last station, one bus one passenger.
    Several buses passed, I refused to climb. Some even insisted,
    I threatened them with puncturing two wheels so they rushed away.

    A noisy group arrives, each got his own bus.
    Yes, men all of them.
    Maybe women are segregated?

    I wait for you.
    I sit on the bench and refuse to leave
    until you arrive.
    Even if you return there where I cannot.
    Call it whatever you want - fuck, make love, rape, caress, touch, invade...
    A woman arrives. Not you. She leaves in her bus. No segregation.
    You arrive.

    You arrive, you cut my clothes away,
    you ram me into the benchís planks
    and you fuck, make love, rape, caress, touch, invade me.
    The bench breaks,
    splinters pierce my flesh, mercifully.
    You drag me to another bench
    and you fuck, make love, rape, caress, touch, invade me.
    I drag myself to another bench. There are many benches around.

    The bus can wait. Or go to hell.




    She finished dressing,
    everything except the panties.
    Then started the car, shot forward
    and while on the highway opened the window and let the panties fly away.
    I did not comment.
    ďPanties are strictly for sex,Ē she offered the unasked for explanation.
    ďAnd in between?Ē
    ďPantyhose will do.Ē
    ďIsnít it irritating?Ē
    ďStimulating, you mean,Ē she laughed, the pedal sinking deeper.

    She watched the road. I watched her.
    Mosquitoes and gnats and a variety of UFOs kept splashing upon the windshield
    the wipers just smearing the sticky goo,
    unable to remove it.
    ďSticky,Ē she stated the obvious.
    I let my hand slide under her skirt,
    further up,
    ďSticky,Ē she repeated, this time a smile spreading on her face
    together with a slight spreading of her legs.
    She drove the car.
    I drove her spirits, both of us had a job to do,
    we did it conscientiously, full dedication,
    if only factory's worker would show the same consciousness
    the economy would not have been where it was.
    Silence. Splash. Wipe. Silence.
    I pulled the hand away from the heavenly haven
    and smelled her evaporating pleasure.
    She did not complain. I became aware of Splash, Splash, Splash
    with no Wipe in between, no speed reduction either.
    Got the hint,
    the hand returned and so did Wipe and at least partial vision.

    ďHow many panties lately?Ē I asked. No answer. ďBusy counting?Ē No answer.
    ďYou mean the last five days?Ē
    ďI mean the last five years.Ē
    ďZero.Ē My hand almost pulled out, then self preservation took control
    and my fingers curled. I wondered if it was the motor purring next to me.
    ďYouíre joking... arenít you?Ē
    ďDo I look like one to joke with the fate of the world, sex included?Ē
    No, she didnít. Some things were sacred.
    She slowed down and pulled over.
    The key was waiting for us, the door clicked shut, the lock clicked shut.
    I panted heavily, managing to drop the heavy suitcase on the bed.
    ďWhat do you carry here, the family gold bullion?Ē
    She snapped it open and let the lid fall.
    Flowers. Hearts, bunnies, verses... tens... more like hundreds of panties
    silk, lace, satin, mesh, nylon...
    She smiled, seeing me first pale then blush then burn...
    yes, it promised to be a long, long session...


    ď... a brawl involving several dozens drivers on the NW Highway, police made several arrests. A hysterical police spokeswoman mentioned something like fighting over a... pair of panties...Ē

    I woke up in a pool of sweat,
    ďI hope it is a nightmare, I hope it is a nightmare...Ē
    I kept mumbling to myself,
    wishing I had my praying beads with me.
    ďWhatís the matter, love?Ē she yawned
    turning towards me and landing a lazy nipple in my mouth
    while her hand started crawling towards the suitcase.
    It probably was not.

    Lazy? Who said lazy?...



Castles... Again?...

    Is this real? she asked, touching,
    I thought it was only poetry.
    She knocked lightly with her knuckles,
    with the tips of her nails,
    she even tried knocking with her teeth.
    Glass is brittle, why not plastic.
    Plastic? Not poetic, plastic does not break.
    Exactly, I emphasized, hitting a flower
    and watching it disintegrate into millions of pieces.
    It is real.
    If we are not careful, it breaks. It dies.
    Do you always build castles, of glass?
    I laughed.
    I know, boring. All the time castles and glass and us in it...
    I did not say it.
    You donít have to say it. I know. I say it. And I donít care.
    Reality, this is what I care about. Castles. And glass.

    I took her by the hand,
    not that I knew the place better even if I created it,
    just that somehow I felt responsible for it
    for guiding her through it...
    for her.
    And if I walk on the second floor you can peek under my skirt?
    And if I shower, you can watch me?
    And if I want to use the john?
    I can watch you too.
    I want some privacy.
    I will cover my eyes with my palms.
    You will peek between your fingers.
    I donít mind.
    I know.

    Is this the bedroom?
    A bedroom. There are many bedrooms here, didnít even count.
    Opportunistic approach - you need one, you find one
    or reach one before the need expires. I chuckled.
    She stepped inside carefully,
    testing the floor for solidity, after all she couldnít see it,
    then she hurried in
    her heels clicking like castanets worn on professional fingers.
    She jumped on the bed,
    guessing its position by the light reflection deformations
    and started hopping up and down on it.
    Want to make love?
    Huh? Or rather Ha!?
    I make it all the time. What do you think this poem is, an ode to jellyfish?
    I mean physical love, you moron.
    I mean physical love, you beauty.
    How do you think I survived all those years?
    I mean physical love, you moron, here, now, on this bed.
    I just donít know if I want it in... public.

    She glanced around, hardly any visible obstacle between here and... eternity?
    Are there many others here?
    No, just us two.
    What do you mean, there should be billions, trillions...
    I made it just for us two. And even if there were million trillions
    I donít give a... hmm, have to be careful with this one,
    I donít know if I can use the D word here
    without getting transported to the other department.
    Never tried it yet. Maybe I could use the F word instead?
    I knocked on the wall, testing its solidity,
    knowing it would not count when matters... mattered.
    Or the S word?
    What about Ďdonít give a pennyís worthí? she offered.
    It didnít mean much in a penniless world but it was worth a try.
    I donít give a pennyís worth, I said, waiting for cataclysm or something.
    Nothing happened. A sudden attack of carelessness invaded me,
    I donít give a damn! I shouted
    and she grabbed my mouth before the íaí hit my vocal chords
    biting my lips sewn
    biting my tongue rent
    biting my teeth dust...
    I just found you. Donít want to lose you so soon.
    Maybe later?
    Maybe never.

    I hit the hi-fi button
    choosing meaninglessly Paul and Artís
    Live in Hyde Parkís
    Chuckís Maybellene
    and I hit her... then I hit her... then I hit her again
    glass buttons exploding... oh, glass butterflies...
    glass skirts exploding... oh, glass snowbells...
    glass satins exploding... oh, glass rainbows...
    my fist grabbing a long, sharp shard and hitting the pillows, the mattress,
    listening to hissing air leaving the comfort of protective walls...
    I want to make love to you
    on the floor,
    crush your back to the rough, hard, mean surface of sharp clumps of glass
    and as you bite close my eyes
    I bite open your body
    and seed
    inside you

    I pulled out. I pulled away.
    She rested on the floor, bleeding.
    You bleed, she said, watching my heart.
    I dressed her with the glass butterflies, glass snowbells, glass rainbows,
    then dressed myself in the dry ink of past words,
    let her hook her elbow into mine
    and left the bedroom.
    Will someone clean after us?
    No need. Impossible.
    There are endless bedrooms here.
    Memories cannot be cleaned.

    You lied, she said.
    About not wanting to make love. Physical love.
    I lied, I admitted.
    I did not lie though about something else.
    Glass. The reality of glass.

    We kept treading on the smooth, invisible surface,
    bits of glass crunching form time to time under our soles,



Castles Again... Again?...

    Bedroom eighty-three.
    How many years?
    Earth years?
    Whichever years.
    She kept on dressing, knowing I liked undressing her.
    Itís irrelevant.
    Maybe for you. Iím a woman.
    She looked critically at her clothes,
    mainly her stockings.
    I saw nothing wrong with her stockings, I wasnít a woman.
    And if I said I needed to go shopping?
    It did not surprise me.
    I wrote for her a shopping center -
    shoes parlor, clothes parlor, even an ice-cream parlor.
    The din real, the people real - children, grannies, hot-dog stands,
    end-of-season sales in the high percents, invalids, beggars...
    she smiled. BIG.
    Oh, you can write it off, now I know I canít. Or wonít.
    I wrote it off. I didnít write anything instead of it.
    Donít you write us making love?
    Take me to bedroom eighty-four, then weíll discuss it.

    There was nothing to discuss.
    I recovered between her breasts - wet, stinking, sticky.
    Write yourself a shower, will you?
    I had to write it a bit longer,
    she insisted on joining me.
    You know, this is not poetry, this is shit.
    No one will buy it.

    I gaped, horrified,
    looking around for a fiery sword, a fifty ton crane, an atomic bomb...
    she said the S word in a place with no S words.
    You said the S word, I whispered.
    Donít worry, I used an inoffensive font, she laughed shrilly,
    dragging me in again, my hysteria complete.
    I know, I said once I could, later,
    and I donít give a... I looked carefully around, then whispered... a shit...
    No sword, no crane, no bomb.
    I used the same font, I whispered further.

    I was ready for bathroom eighty-five,
    I was ready to try some other words there,
    maybe other fonts as well.
    Life, manner of speaking, was beautiful.




    I wrote once smiles,
    I write now glass

    whatís the difference? she asked

    both are beautiful
    both are brittle

    then why? she asked further

    because Iím flesh,
    brittle, I answered

    yes, glass is beautiful, she said,
    picking the hammer

    I kept writing glass

    even glass rain
    is eternal



Seventeen Times Seventeen...

    The season.
    The childhood season, once again.
    Your season.

    Do you walk?
    Do you drive, do you ride a sled drawn by flying oxen, or moose, or reindeer?
    Maybe even flying kangaroos?
    Or you just sit in the snow,
    your ass soaking wet
    and your mouth hanging wide open
    with bees (yes, all is possible with you, even in winter) buzzing around your lips
    and your eyes alight with thousands of electrical bulbs climbing,
    cascading over trees, roofs, windows, pathways...?
    Your blue, blinking.
    The year-round sky home to thousands of colorful, glittering stars
    and for once the Milky Way wavers in envy, maybe in anger...
    for once? for once always?

    I watch you from afar.
    No, from the other afar, beyond the other side of the street.
    If you had laser eyes you could see me.
    I have. Laser eyes. Of the mind.
    I shoo away the bees.
    Mentally. They are mental, anyway.
    Also the kangaroos, just in case.
    I watch your skies with my mental field-glasses
    wishing they had cloth penetration power,
    wishing they had thermal transmission power,
    wishing they had sensory amalgamating power,
    wishing I made love to you.

    Wishing... yeah, wishing, the cousin of wishing-would,
    wishing-could, wishing-should,
    the horrible stainless-steel words
    standing in for horrible stainless-steel locks.
    Seventeen locks to each word
    seventeen keys to each lock
    each key melted to ore,
    burnt to ashes,
    spread over oceans to end midway between waves and bottom
    specks in the bellies of dolphins or the bellies of sharks
    or the hearts of pearls.

    My hand on your breast,
    would, could, should
    seventeen times seventeen.




    Letís die,
    Then, letís talk about it.

    When you closed around me like a fist
    suckling drops of life into the womb of humanity
    before you turned sane again
    licking me clean, like a tigress caring for a pup astray
    back into the safety of deadly nails.

    Elvis croons about a blue, blue blue blue Christmas.
    Bing croons too, about a white one. With Marjorie Reynolds.
    I donít croon. I crave. For a pink one.
    Pink, like your tip of tongue,
    like your tip of breast,
    like panties leftovers torn away from a pink fist
    taking me in,

    Letís die,




    the size of baseballs,
    my hand turned sieve
    the marbles drop out of it
    and start rolling down the stairs...
    glass, porcelain, crystal
    bouncing, flying down attic ladders,
    underground escalators, schools, public toilets,
    public libraries, public temples of prayer,

    I catch some
    before indifferent shoes crunch them to shards,
    to dust, to powder
    only to see them roll out of my hands again,
    then again,
    the last one...

    I tape it to my hand, I tape my hand to my heart,
    I tape my heart to my body,
    I tape my body to... what do I tape my body to? memories?

    I wait.
    One day the marble will bloom
    into a marbles shrub
    with marble flowers
    and little marble seeds.
    No, I donít want speeches or nosegays,
    just throw some marbles in after me,
    glass, porcelain, crystal...



Conjugating To Be...

    Not again. Finally.

    We didnít even stop to count the wrinkles,
    the miles under our soles
    the sunrises.
    Or the balance seen versus will see. Sunrises.
    We were teenagers. Finally.

    We ran away.
    Sneaking away from the world of adults into a ball of rolling glass
    behind glass doors, glass windows
    glass floors
    glass ceilings,
    Hiding from the adults, stopping to finally count up wrinkles
    running again
    hiding from the adults, stopping to finally count up minutes, sunrises,
    to count snowflakes, shivers
    running again
    hiding from the adults, starting to finally count down inches turning mils,
    buttons turning broken nacre hanging on to torn threads.
    Then counting down. Further. Unfortunately.
    Minutes, again. Sunrises, again. Not the same, other.
    Hatefully other, few, few and failing. Dying,
    all the while the elephant called life approaching
    and we waited, knowing it will barge upon our glass hideout,
    smash it.
    Cutting us. Deadly.

    In love.
    Not again. Finally

    We didnít care about wrinkles,
    about miles, soles,
    about the flesh in the hourglass.
    Or the balance top bulb versus bottom bulb, before versus after. Flesh.
    We were in love. Finally.

    We ran away.
    We let the rolling glass decide our whereís
    with us busy discovering the whatís and the howís and the how muchís
    and in which few ways boys are different from girls
    and in which many different ways flesh can burn
    and in which singular ways all differences can be used for creative dying.
    I didnít know mouth, before.
    I didnít know nipple, before.
    I didnít know virgin, before.
    I didnít know animal, before.
    I didnít know life after death after life, before.
    Who said it? Thought it? Created orchards and butterflies and autumns leaves
    the way of a God?
    We ripped the cloth, ripped the flesh, ripped the soul, time knocked on the window.
    The elephant called life barged upon our glass hideout
    smashing it.
    Cutting us. Deadly.

    I wake up. Eyes swollen. Muscles knotted. Mouth putrid. Fingernails bleeding.
    Lips bleeding.
    Thoughts bleeding.

    Dreamed about you.
    Not finally. Again.




    I read again.
    I read a long time ago, now I read again.
    Those words I wrote that long time ago
    before I read them first time
    before I understood
    what it was I was writing.
    A boy.

    Was this the way you saw me
    when you read them after I wrote them
    before I understood them
    before I read them the first time
    much before I read them again?
    A boy
    culling flowers and seeding stars and trying to impress you
    with words. Raw. Crude. Uncouth.
    Like burning timber, exploding, sparks, blaze,
    forest fire.
    Meaning it. Like a man. Growing up, just for you.
    Did you smile, then?

    I hope you did.
    Would you smile now?
    I hope you would.
    Did you believe then?
    I know you did.
    Would you believe now?
    I know you do.

    The pages keep turning, by themselves,
    I donít have to make any effort,
    they are part of the magic
    my eyes read the last line, the page turns,
    my eyes glitter, the page turns back until the glitter turns haze
    and I see no more
    to glitter.

    I donít think I could write the same
    No. I didnít lose the touch,
    no, I didnít lose the heart.
    I lost the innocence.
    I forgot being a boy
    and writing forevers.
    Now I write almost always nevers,
    sometimes maybes.
    Yet sometimes I forget I forgot
    and I am a boy and you are the queen
    and we make love on a freshly plowed field
    and you ride me in most unqueenly manner
    reading to me all words I once wrote
    and I am surprised.
    Nothing has changed.

    Except, maybe, the key to the castle.
    I wonder - why do you send your hand to the pocket of that discarded, queenly dress?




    No more glass castles, I said.
    No more glass castles? she said.

    I looked at my flesh,
    rows and rows of ruts plowing beyond skin, beyond bone,
    beyond... what is left beyond bone? Memories?
    Memories to pass, memories to not come?...
    I looked at my palms.
    So many the life-lines paralleling or crossing the old one
    that none could be recognized anymore
    for its value,
    if it ever had value.
    I looked at my lips, I look at my lips, I will always look at my lips
    the smoothness of virginity
    awaiting the grooves of incisors
    to never lacerate,
    the caves of canines
    to never pierce.
    I looked at you. The need. The wait. The wish

    OK, glass castles I said.
    You did not say, you smiled.
    I accepted the sun, I accepted the rainbow, I accepted the rain
    and picked the shards awaiting in indifferent patience
    and placed the next layer, smoothed it with my palm, the next layer...

    No blood on my lips, yet.
    Maybe when the castle is finished?
    I picked the shards
    and placed the next layer, smoothed it with my palm, the next layer...




    Once upon a time there was a prince and a princess.
    This poem is not about them.
    So about whom?
    About us.
    And I am not a princess.
    It was a statement, a complaining one.
    You are.
    You just said...
    You know I am very accurate in my statements.
    You are not a princess, you are my princess.
    She got it, if to judge from the mmmmm
    and the irreverent actions accompanying it.
    And you are not a prince, you are my prince.
    I didnít like her taking over,
    it was my poem after all.
    No I am a frog.
    She had some healthy ideas about this statement.
    And now?
    Okay, I was trapped.
    Now I am a prince. I wish I was a frog, though.
    She pulled a long face.
    I donít give a damn about the result of the transformation
    but I liked the way it happened,
    now it cannot happen anymore.
    She proved me wrong.
    You proved me wrong.
    She proved me wrong again, though there was no need...
    actually there was a need. A desperate need.

    Make love to me, frog.
    Ribbit, ribbit.
    I need to pee first, I need to pee first.
    Itís very efficient the frog language,
    and she sprinted towards the bathroom, ribbiting as well.
    I beat her to it, but I was a gentleman, I let her do it first.
    Stop jumping on one leg, do you want to join?
    I would if there was place. Women have a habit to take it all.
    I kept jumping until I stopped jumping
    else I would have had to mop the floor.
    It was not a voice from under the covers, it was a song.
    Someone had to pull the water.
    Someone had to turn off the light.
    Someone had to close the door.
    Someone had to light the fire inside her body just to have something to extinguish.
    I wished I was a frog, less responsibility,
    I wished I was a frog, another go at transformation,
    I wished... stop mumbling, or I turn you to stone.
    This was a myth.
    So was the frog.
    This was a legend.
    Whatís the difference?
    I could have opened my laptop and start looking for the definitions on the net
    but I was slightly afraid of the stone thing.
    There was a way back from frog, I was not sure there was a way back from stone...

    I tore the cover to ribbons
    I turned her body to fire
    I extinguished the fire
    the windows exploded around us followed by cats meowing in the neighborhood...

    mmmmm... this was the good news.
    mmmmm... still good news.
    Soft snore. Regular breathing. Great news.

    I started washing away the leftovers of me, the glass pieces,
    I couldnít wash the blue spots, I covered them with petals,
    I took a chair next to the bed and just stared.
    She did not wake up. The lamb trusting the wolf.
    I wondered if the word was rather love.
    Probably beyond.
    Ribbit, ribbit, I tried.

    I think I have to do something about it. She didnít even sound sleepy.
    She did.



I Donít Dream Of You Anymore...

    I donít dream of you anymore.

    Why should I,
    Iím with you, most of the time.
    Or, rather you with me
    on the passenger seat
    in the supermarket trolley
    lying down on the sofa in front of the TV
    riding my shoulders while I cut live lilac branches and pull down cherry laden boughs,
    behind the...


    Behind... aaah... eeeh... what?...
    the rude interruption cut off my line of thought and expression
    and muddied my mind with perfumes known,

    Most? the invisible entity repeated its monosyllabic oratory
    and a fist carrying an arctic wind
    squeezed my heart into irrational vibrations.

    M-most... I stuttered, catching up with my lost self,
    there are the personal, private, intimate moments
    like when I shower...
    like when I pee...
    like when I make...
    Luckily I was interrupted before I finished the sentence myself and avoided the...
    Damn, I didnít avoid it, the embarrassment
    and the unmistakable giggle somewhere between my ears made me blush.
    Made me crave.
    Made me rave.
    Miss me?

    Miss you??? The triple question mark audible even inside my mind,
    it was my turn to ask her embarrassing questions.
    She was. She knew.

    I walked the empty corridors of my deserted glass castle,
    I removed my shoes not to frighten myself
    with emptiness.
    Looking for... what? Hedgehogs?
    Scared rabbits? Imprints of her bare soles when she was roaming the halls
    and the cellars
    and the bedrooms
    while I was dragging a kite too big and heavy for me?
    It took off, remember?

    I heard soft footsteps, first behind me
    then ahead of me,
    she wasnít there, of course not.
    a pair of lips brushed mine.
    I went right through a wall, breaking it, cutting myself.
    So stop kissing me.
    Donít you dare!
    I went through another wall, same. Then through another one.
    She didnít care.
    I didnít either, as long as she kept kissing and there were walls...

    I reached the last wall.
    If I break this one I fall into nothingness, you know.
    Then turn around.

    I left destruction, everywhere. It didnít matter,
    my mind was going to repair it back to its proud, earlier self.
    Found myself a corner,
    sat down,
    fell asleep.

    I didnít dream of you, I said, waking up.
    She knew. I was as transparent as my castle walls.
    And as broken.


    I am leaving, said the sensation.
    We didnít even make love this time.
    I am leaving.
    You left already.
    I am leaving.
    Will you return?

    A hedgehog scuttled by,
    then fell asleep against my foot.
    Time to start the repair, it is getting chilly.



before after...

    we lay,
    side by side,
    tubes and needles and monitors and various torturing instruments
    designed to extend mortalís agony and hospitalsí bank accounts
    encasing us like a spiderís web.

    where the hell is that spider and his scythe shaped mandibles?...
    bite! you bastard.

    his? I heard the wheezing whisper to my left...
    smartass to the end, huh, woman?

    how the hell did we end up together
    in that ante-chamber of next and forever and maybe?

    lots of hell lately, wheezed the same voice, still to my left,
    this time sneaking in some kind of cackle, I guess supposed to be a chuckle.

    of course we ended up together,
    side by side,
    even if this was not anymore my glass castle it was still my imagination
    and my poem
    and my death, no one was going to steal any of these away from me,
    and I cackled slash chuckled myself.


    say something, I prodded, trying to turn my head left
    and hearing something plop out of my mouth.
    say something, woman, I tried again with my last half operating lung.
    you called me smartass.
    proof that I love you, only someone you love you call smartass
    and then make this side by side arrangement.
    quiet. I knew it wonít last long, she had to say something,
    delectable smartasses always have to say something
    even if they had less lung than me by now.
    youíre an idiot.
    finally. a statement I liked. there was more coming, I knew.
    if youíre so smart and with no ass extension
    and if this is your imagination and poem and death
    you could at least have put us in the same bed
    and given us some more lung
    and less tubes and needles and monitors.
    we could have even fucked. I wish I had your talent.
    donít forget, after all I am part of this entire arrangement.

    hell, yes, another one, yes, she was right.
    I thought she would have preferred a respectable setting.
    respectable? the shrieking laughter worried me,
    it might have been my poem but I might still lose her before...
    before what? it was a wheeze, sure.

    it was also a plea, an orison, a claim, a command.

    hell, yeah, she was right, she was the smart and I was the ass
    I thought
    and started tearing out of our bodies the needles, the tubes,
    I let the monitors crash to the floor and armor plated the door
    and steel meshed the windows
    and covered the floor with red roses and invaded the air with monarch butterflies...
    I hope that, sometime soon, you are going to use the word fuck...
    ...before we die, yes, I know,
    and the two beds were one
    and our flesh turned fire
    and our ravenous bodies monster ogres feeding on each otherís life
    and lust
    and love.

    is this what you meant? I asked.
    she helped me extract myself from herself, licking me clean,
    humming stars spangled banner forever
    and finally cuddling upon my quarter lung
    like a puppyís tail having found its puppy.
    I wondered if we were supposed to die of a heart attack, then decided against it.
    good, she murmured, all wheeze gone, all crumbling flesh gone, limber.
    thereís pounding on the door, she added.
    I thought it was my heart, I answered wittily, knowing that not even an atom bomb
    would knock down that door before I agreed to it.
    is this what you meant? I repeated,
    remembering that I received no answer.
    again that quiet, heralding the ominous answer... almost.

    I waited.
    I knew there was going to be continuation,
    I knew what the continuation was going to be having run it in my head for hours now,
    I wanted to hear her saying it, asking it, commanding it.
    could you... we, repeat that... ahm... word?
    fuck, you mean?
    ahm... meaning yes.

    I repeated it,
    we repeated it
    until the bed springs turned limp and the flesh turned meat
    and death fell asleep, exhausted, despairing.

    do you love me? she asked.

    I didnít answer. I did not want to break magic
    with fact.



The Memory Of Glass...

    Iím your girl, you said.
    You were something like sixty, less or more.

    Iím your boy, I said.
    I was something like sixty too, less or much more.

    You have a great body, you said,
    though I was sixty, less or much more.

    You must be joking, I said.
    Your body is divine, I said,
    though you were ageless.

    You are joking, you said.
    Let me show you, I said, starting to unclasp anything that was clasping you inside
    reaching to the innermost layers
    and fearing there would be no more layers and I would be blinded
    so I stopped.
    Why did you stop? you asked,
    starting to unclasp me.
    I fear blindness, breathlessness, death before making love to you, I said.
    Why did you stop? I asked.
    Fear you will turn stone? I asked.

    Waiting for glass, you said, finishing. You did not turn stone.
    Waiting for glass, you repeated.

    I finished. Blind, breathless, dead. I knew.
    You called me back to life, speaking through my mouth with your tongue,
    never knew it possible.
    You are beautiful, I said,
    pushing your tongue away and finding renewed usage for mine.
    Keep you tongue for my life, again, I said,
    with my tongue speaking through your mouth.
    Waiting for glass, you repeated,
    pushing my tongue away and finding renewed usage for yours.
    Keep your tongue for flames, again, you said.

    I seeded in the grass
    painted slivers of glass
    I cut ruts long and thin
    across your ribbons of skin
    I filled dozens of jars and a thousand cups of brass
    with sin...

    I dragged you through the grass
    I wringed your body until your sin filled first my mind then my ocean
    and the ruts across your body filled with inebriating snowbells
    then I started singing Elvisí blue blue blue blue Christmas,
    but itís not yet Christmas, you said
    though you wanted to rather talk about swallows slicing the skies into twelve seasons
    and about weaving lost sun rays into a scarf to tie to my wrist
    and about the diamonds that grew inside our desperate palms-hold,
    itís always blue blue blue blue blue Christmas, I said
    as the palms-hold broke
    letting diamond dust join the slivers of glass inside your eyes, your skin,
    and at your mouthís corners.

    Iím your girl, you said,
    though you were ageless.

    Iím your boy, I said,
    though I was ageful with oceans of miss youís never said,

    never said enough,

    and tongues reached back to their originally designed mouths
    and clasps clasped again at ends of tatters
    and doors kept slamming between us until all there remained
    was a wall of doors.

    You looked at the cut on your nipple,
    and the memory of glass, you said, and the memory of glass.




    Oh, tired. Oh, so tired.

    You drag your mental feet from mind corner to mind corner,
    sometimes missing the corner and hitting the wall,
    the ruts deep
    mud filling the ruts
    and your feet sloshing, sometimes mud overflows to your physical eyes
    and runs down your cheeks
    you claim it is mascara,
    you know better.

    You pick the broom from that dark mental room you hoped to forget about
    and start sweeping about.
    You cannot sweep the mud, so you donít even try,
    you just sweep the glass dust, some bigger shards clinking along
    as you move the pile from left to right
    then back
    then strew it with an angry move just to have something to do again,
    tired, you do not mind the glass
    and from time to time you guide the sweep towards the eyes
    and listen to the glass clinking far down on the stone tiles,
    almost like music.

    You sit on the floor,
    you spread your skirts about so that your flesh feels the penetrating chill
    maybe a shard bites the thigh to blood
    maybe a shard bites the leaning palms to blood
    and you wait for my mental hand to spread your thighs
    and reach for the loss
    found again,
    to pull away the shards and the dust and to wipe the blood
    and drive you from tiredness to sudden frenzy
    as it scorches your insides with memories
    and later wipes you clean
    with your own clothes. Or whatever is left of them.

    Though for a moment you escape and the smile that drips from your lips
    leaves smoking craters behind you.



Losing You...

    Losing you,

    Centuries together, in mind,
    fatigue setting in, habit,
    dayís routine multiplied by hundreds of years
    like a rustless plastic cocoon
    resistant to time,
    decay... a friend, inexistent.

    Centuries away, in body,
    passion finding suicidal paths
    for a self-preservation that dies with each passing hour
    the flesh worn,
    further wearing out into final rigidity, desert settling down in veins
    and cactii flowers turn tumbleweed
    and all that will be left is the silica
    of glass... unborn orphans dissipated with tinted vitrage siblings
    imemorable times ago.

    Losing you,

    Minds cemented into mindless fusion.
    Bodies cemented into ethereal memory.
    Centuries trailing us,
    just ahead.



Corporal Theory Of Relativity...

    Kama Sutra,

    a first graderís collection
    of bed-time stories
    and fairytales weak of spirit

    when next to your


    a toddler
    building castles in wet sand
    with a broken plastic spoon

    when next to your


    a lump of dough
    boneless and muscleless and shapeless
    thrown in a sac

    when next to your



let me tell about...

    ...your breasts,

    green apple sized,
    between flower and loverís bite
    not heavy enough to dangle
    not big enough to fill a mouthful, together, you could still fit in a toe,
    like a chickís down
    like a cobraís strike
    like resurrection denied,

    ...your nipples,

    luckily not green apple sized,
    not even grape sized,
    space between thumb and index sized
    gap between teeth rows sized
    distance between hanging breast above to tip of nose underneath sized
    sculpted in brick
    the red of dying fire
    the density of depleted uranium
    the lethality of enriched uranium depleted of neutron poison
    the temptation of blood
    to sharkís hungry senses,

    ...your thighs,

    just rightly sized
    to tear me to pieces
    and spread the resulting junk around the equator waiting for me to fall together
    years later
    just to tear me to pieces again
    and spread me again around the equator
    while your insides delight on whichever leftovers you chose
    to suckle
    and keep
    and assimilate
    before you writhe into a five dimensional crumpled ball of comatose bliss,

    ...your lips,

    at your ogre end
    sized to camouflage those horrifying, deceitfully white incisors
    readying to battle my cotton
    my buttons
    morsels of my uncovering flesh
    after the promise of lips blinds the last scraps of reason
    and your muscular Trojan horse sneaks beyond my own shivering gates
    to tease my tongue into dance
    my mind into convulsions
    my loins
    into the death wish of a moth,

    ...your flesh,

    the canopy
    to your passion,
    hanging on bones too brittle to carry the eruption of need
    you use me to support it
    with everything that is muscle in me
    hurt in me
    ignorance and desire and eternity in me
    and for a moment too short I am your scaffolding
    your flesh the drape engulfing my rusted nakedness
    and as the universe solidifies back into its one moment before the big-bang
    we know,
    the only ever living creatures
    to know
    of that moment
    when I



Zebra Crossing...

    ...over me,
    right to left, tail dangling,

    got worse with a giraffe,
    right to left as well
    tail dangling,

    I prayed it was the last
    knowing it was not as I watched an elephant near, then cross over me
    right to left,
    tail dangling

    then a herd of elephants
    approaching from the left this time, tails dangling...


    I wasnít aware I was screaming
    until I woke up, screaming,
    finding you crossing over me right to left
    then left to right
    then toe to head and diagonally and vertically
    tail... I did a supreme effort to stop screaming
    my confusion diminishing,

    no, didnít look like tail at all, wrong position, wrong shape, wrong quantity

    ...incubus? reverberated a question anew, subtly mocking, I guess.

    I finally stopped screaming,
    started grinning...

    ...daydream, I answered the first question.
    ...succubus, I answered the second question.


    No, definitely no tail, I stated, finishing my investigation.
    No, definitely no tail, you stated, finishing your investigation.




    Do you remember the first time?

    She looked at me, cross-eyed.
    At this distance she had no choice but be cross-eyed.

    You mean the last time.

    I mean the first time.

    I mean the last time.

    It was the last time, until this time. This time is going to be the last time.
    It is an assumption. Noses almost touching.
    Positive or negative?
    Last is always negative.
    Not if last until next last takes over the lasthood.
    Also impertinent. Noses touching. Eyes crossing further.
    I wondered what I looked like with crossed eyes,
    my right looking at her right
    my left at her left.
    My right palm raised, somewhere in front of her left breast,
    not yet touching,
    not the way it should be.

    There is a lot of glass between our mouths, I said,
    crossing it will be painful, bloody.
    The way it was last time.
    First time.
    Same time.
    Always time.
    Painful, bloody?
    Hurting, bleeding, passionate, alive.
    There is also a lot of glass between your palm and my breast.
    So she saw it hovering there, uncertain.
    And barbed wire.
    And bounding mines.
    And alligators, and tarantulas, and blowpipes laden curare tipped darts.

    No atomic bombs?
    Yes. One. Needs a fuse, though.

    I waited for a sign. It didnít follow the words, the warnings.
    It might be worth the alligators, the ripping flesh, being blown to pieces, I said.
    The sign.

    The mouth crossed the glass.
    The palm crossed the wire,
    crossed the mines, alligators, tarantulas, curare tipped darts...
    she bit in my lips the same time her nipple bit into my palm
    her thigh bit into my thigh
    her womanly perfume bit into my senses
    and I started bleeding all over her
    knowing the price to pay, the trophy at the end of the pain road,
    she was drowning...

    I drown, she said, not meaning my blood.
    Time to die, I said, meaning the atom bomb.

    We woke up, on the other side of hell, on the other side of infinity.
    Is it whatís called heaven? she asked.
    It is whatís called you, I answered.
    She snuggled against me,
    her body wearing a wet blanket covering her outsides, her insides,
    smearing into me all that is woman, all that means.
    Means what?
    She snuggled, further, deeper,
    a bit more and she would pass on the inside side of my skin.
    Now, it was the first time, and it took me some moments to comprehend the message.
    Is this the last time?
    I didnít want to know. I was looking for assurances.

    I swept the glass dust.
    I pulled out the barbs, the teeth, wiped the atoms, neutrons, memories...
    You will never be able to wipe the memories.
    She did not know.
    I was going to guard it all in my personal sanctuary.
    Sanctuaries have a direct link to eternity.
    That other time. Unending.




    We were lovers. We are friends.
    Not that we are not lovers anymore. We assumed life.
    Life with its tricks, callousness,
    groceries shopping, lavatories overflowing, tooth aches,
    rude awakenings,
    drudgery, skirmishes, fatigue.

    Open door! Close door!

    Fingertips touching, taking hold,
    lips touching, taking hold,
    teeth gnawing, biting, tongues licking, soothing.
    Skins meshing, gripping, welding
    On your bared nipple, one.
    Hanging down from your ear, one.
    Fluttering, not daring, one, waiting for me to liberate... you laugh.
    Leaving pollen dots on your eyebrow, one.
    Our world, the other world, our world.
    A sun gyrating around Earth, our,
    a shower of stars inside your eyes, our,
    a finger editing your nipple, mine.
    A poem. You.

    Open door! Close door!

    The door always there, whenever needed.
    Life, groceries, laws.
    From time to time you close your eyes and you peek behind the door,
    just a momentís need to get you through the day,
    back to life.
    The door always there. The garden tended. Whenever needed.



That Season Again...

    I drive behind a truck,
    my windshield slowly filling microminiature drops
    probably thousands, or is it trillions?... more than stars...
    one wipe and it is clean again
    filling up again, maybe I should have left them there
    reflections of white and red and halogen breaking into rainbows
    the rainbows dragging down victims to gravitation
    a splash of mud and wiping becomes mandatory
    and a new generation of sparks is born
    as the car to my right honks
    and the one behind me turns on its high beams
    and the one above me... no, this is a police chopper
    hurrying home for a late breakfast.

    All these stars, sparks, liquid rainbows
    and a little girl sits next to me
    pointing at one, then at another
    chiming with her blue eyes
    her smile a rainbow of the other kind
    and telling me of the woman she is now
    but the girl she will always be
    collecting lights from tops of roofs and frozen snowflakes
    and my windshield.

    Where is my snow? she asks... her snow,
    as if by birthright
    and I do my best to paint flake mounds climbing around her feet
    and flake stains melting on her cheeks
    and balls of flakes gathered in her tiny fists ready for a fight
    or a broken window
    or an ever growing snow man with its frozen carrot and glowing coals
    and she accepts my present
    the way she accepts the little girl she once was
    and the woman she now is
    and the empty seat next to me where she is not
    but ever will be.

    It is that season, again.
    We tumble under the blanketing white
    and while she dresses my nakedness with her body
    I tell her stupid dragon tales
    cuddled in between its smoking wings
    as we rise above the smoking chimneys and the white boot-sole imprints
    and the deserted stork nests
    and we make love again...
    ď...I never made love between a dragonís wings...Ē
    and I look for storks carrying babies, knowing itís too early for this
    ď...look, a falling snowball...Ē she shrieks, delighted, ďmake a wishĒ
    and I make a wish
    inside her mouth and inside her body
    watching her sparkle like a thousand snow-covered pine trees
    with fireflies... ďfireflies in winter?...Ē at the end of each needle
    like a thousand rolling blobs of sweat
    next to the furnace where we finally lie down to catch our breath
    covered with each other
    and a single dragon wing.

    The truck is not there anymore, donít know even when it moved away,
    or stayed behind.
    It is another car spraying my windshield,
    I lower the wipers' speed.
    The dragon is gone.
    The little girl is gone.
    The woman is gone.
    Are you sure?
    I am not sure... who asked it. But suddenly I feel better.

    I start slaloming around the highway looking for a truck.
    I need a lot of sparkles, I have a lot of hearts to satisfy.




    Maybe I will touch your breast again. Maybe.
    Maybe never.
    Probably never.
    Maybe I will hang my memories on a nail-head
    and tie a pink ribbon around the middle
    with a barely discernible word called dream threaded through it
    that only my fingertips can read
    and believe.
    Dreams never come true.
    Maybe? Sometime?
    Probably. Never.
    Maybe it did not happen at all.
    Maybe your breast was never at eye height,
    maybe the humming engine was the sound of falling stars
    maybe the glint was not in your eyes
    maybe the fire was just a match lighting a cigarette, a candle, a rare stamp.
    Though I will never understand my calcined eyelashes.
    And the never healing scabs at the tips of my fingers.




    hordes of oxen
    pulling away, persistently,
    wayless mindless rageless.
    Rage, was bred out of life.
    As it keeps pulling asunder handholds, steel chains, lives.
    Ha, life pulling asunder lives. Not even an oxymoron.

    Pulling apart. Us.
    Ending somewhere.
    Maybe you in Tasmania. Maybe I in Greenland. Maybe the other way around.
    Maybe no way around.
    I wish Earth was round.
    Then maybe my oxen would meet your oxen, there, on the other side
    where people hang upside down
    if Earth was round.
    Maybe on Venus, if our oxen had wings.
    Maybe in Limbo. Big L or small l?
    Maybe before.

    Our oxen grazing in mixed bunches,
    leftovers of me luring leftovers of you into a waltz of leftovers
    which can end only one way
    with those leftovers rolling on the trodden pasture
    beating the ground to dust as we rip bite claw crumbs of life off each other
    before oblivion engulfs us
    and we mingle to one shapeless mound,

    We donít even mind the oxen tails
    whipping our skin
    again, and again.




    Send me
    your body.

    Slide it in an envelope.
    Sit it on an airplane.
    Cram it inside an intercontinental ballistic missile
    mightier than any kilotons or megatons or teratons of atomic warfare.
    Your kilotons, megatons, teratons of lust. Of liveliness. Of life.

    Hey, you do exaggerate, slightly... I could hear her thoughts,
    neither disputing nor displeased at the disproportion.
    I guess she took it as a compliment,
    blushing. Shamelessly.

    Yes, I do, I answered her thoughts, not willing to contradict her.
    No, I do not, I thought, when she wasnít listening.




    The sparkle
    has gone.

    The spark, lingers.

    Hungry, patient, a deceivingly slouching predator
    shabby of hide and steely of muscle


    Was it when the eyelash clicked close? Or when it didnít yet click open?
    Before the snarl or after

    I peel off shapeless glass blobs slowly freezing into renewed immobility,
    the fiery holocaust shrinking reluctantly back into a lingering spark
    that licks its wounds
    and curls,
    its tongue carrying traces of blood from the healed lacerations adorning my flesh
    and glass splinters.

    The sparkle
    may have gone.

    The spark. Wallows. Eternally.
    In that irrevocable dimension of dementia
    spelled at times



The First Kind...

    I watch the night sky. A lot.

    Looking for new stars, star clusters.
    Not that I know anything of the old ones,
    not that I know anything of life
    not that I can say anything that has not been said before.
    I wish I was a philosopher, not an engineer,
    not a human comma in the long sentence that started with the creation of the universe
    and will end with the end of it. Factual or religious.

    I think about you. A lot.

    Looking for the stars you created,
    you created a lot. Stars, life, memories.

    What happens when lover turns friend?
    What happens when friend is as precious as the stars friend created,
    more, much more?
    What happens when body, the whole of it,
    turns heart, the whole of it
    and no, this is no alien, no monster, merely human?
    Folly, misery, happiness, nostalgia, weakness, love...Yes, love, of any kind.
    Even of the first kind.

    Counting grains of sand is meaningless. I count.
    Counting autumn leaves is meaningless. I count.
    Counting stains of happiness, is meaningful. I count.
    On the white canvas of a limited forever, there are a few, countable
    and I cluster them in my mind by color, shape, thickness,
    even resistance to the abrasive powers of damn master time,
    I even try to cut them out and rearrange. Futile. Of course. Human. Certainly.
    Lover turns friend. Love never dies. Love of the first kind.

    I find them, all those stars you created.
    Easily. The sky is cluttered with them,
    it rains with them, itís even astronomically possible.
    After all I define my astronomy.
    After all smiles are eternal.
    Love too. Of the first kind.




    Iíve combed your hair,
    counting the times.

    Iíve touched your heart
    under your shirtís cotton
    underneath your braís lace
    times I stopped counting.

    I made love to you.
    Countless times.

    I flash a sexy smile your way
    and I am Bogie and you Ingrid Bergman
    and I am Trevor Howard and you Celia Johnson
    and I am Bourvil and you MichŤle Morgan...
    no, not all of them movies youíve seen,
    all of them movies Iíve lived.
    Movies I live. Again. Then again.
    The countless impossibilities.
    The counted moments.
    The singular moments.
    The singular moment.
    Like the night just lost in following morning.
    Like the sun.

    Close your eyes,
    donít worry, it is just for a few instants,
    see the stars?
    Then you see everything you seeded in my eyes,
    count them
    though you canít.
    You cannot count an ever expanding universe.
    You cannot count
    You can though count
    Yes, I know, hard to follow,
    too many,
    damn hard to count so many too many.



Time Machine...

    Look, a flower, I said, trying to take her mind off for a moment.
    Off what? she said.

    Look, a butterfly, I said, trying to take her mind off for a moment.
    Off what? she said.

    Look, a memory, I said, trying to take her mind off for a moment.
    Oh... she said.

    She lowered the needle on the record,
    then lifted it and moved it slightly forward, frowning,
    then lifted it and moved it way backward, smiling,

    Strange, she said, a time machine,
    and I can play with it at will,
    she said, moving the needle forward again.

    I took her mind off, for a moment.

    Then I crawled back to my lair
    and lowered the needle on the record, the only other original.
    Oh... I said.




    Why should I remember
    if I cannot forget?

    The boyish breasts
    the girlish nipples
    the feline bestowing thighs ending in womanly offerings
    dispensing perfumes I never knew existed
    and forever will know

    coyly imploring
    watching hypnotized the wish of a lifetime blossoming into flower,

    coiling in greed
    suckling hungrily drops of screaming life and nectars of desire,

    fluttering wildly
    sparkling like hanging stars with beads of consumed lust and boiling sweat.

    The before.
    The while.
    The after.
    The forever first.

    Why should I remember
    if I cannot forget?

    Many orchards we slept under
    many springs we counted passing
    many smiles we smiled, ached, wrote, painted.
    One, we donít remember.
    We didnít forget. We live.



Who Said It?...

    I wrote other poems.
    This is probably a better suitable one. I think.

    About Christmas.
    Your Christmas, I think,
    sure. As usual. Who else?
    Not our. Your.
    So what? Great!

    You look behind,
    the sledge leaving traces to other years,
    Before some of the bulbs broke down.
    Before the snow got slightly grey, the pines slightly bent,
    the soles of your feet slightly cold... nothing that couldnít be repaired with a pair of socks
    a few economical-long-life-low-energy bulbs,
    some layers of latex,
    a beam tied tightly tightly tigthly with ribbons ribbons ribbons, almost cracking.
    Ribbons... did I say ribbons?
    Like ribbons in your hair, at your wrists,
    around your ankles.
    Around my eyes waiting for the wafts of perfume to guess your approach
    touch. Touch! Who said it?

    You remove your glove
    fingers sinking in the snow gushing backwards
    the horses rushing onwards, unaware,
    it was nicer with the filament bulbs, somehow.
    You remove your hat
    watching it join the glove rolling way behind
    until the sleigh turns the corner and you lose sight...
    you never lose sight.
    They are always there,
    the filament bulbs, the white snow, the hat
    on the inner side of the eyelids after you lower them,
    on the inner side of pages.
    You remove your socks, laughing wildly,
    wiggle out of your panty hose
    you almost remove your coat.
    You stop. You return to smile. You return to Christmas, your Christmas. Girl.

    The camera films the reflections in your eyes
    the flickering colors there inside
    the bells, there inside,
    the bubbling fermentation, inside.
    As you are busy creating wine
    and pouring it into pitchers
    and sculpting strangely shaped flakes and sticking them to windows,
    one to your nose that I lick away before you know I was there, I was never there.
    You wonder... who pulled back the glove up your hand and the hat down your head
    and the pantyhose, and the socks, and the white rose in winter.
    White rose, fine. White rose in winter? Hmm.

    Girl. Red nose. Pinching fingertips. Wet shoes, inside. Beauty. Once.
    Beauty. Now.
    Beautiful. Now.
    Just a white rose and a red thorn and blood unseen, inside your glove.

    Iím alive, in color, you say.

    So much color in white...




    The bellsí tinkle died, long ago.
    Same as the colored bulbsí sparkle
    oxen-pulled sledges
    fresh snow balling to my height
    and my childhood.
    Died, long ago.

    We sat hand in hand, I aged thirteen you aged... what age?...
    I wondering at what you were hiding underneath your skirt
    you wondering what kisses would taste like
    and both strangers to love. Be it even first.

    Until I met you again, many decenniums later
    to ask about that first love and find it.
    Alongside with what you were hiding underneath your skirt
    and your first kiss and first love. Maybe. Surely mine.

    Carelessly dropping the hammer from my hand
    and the glass-cards castle shattered
    into another kind of tinkle and sparkle
    and bare feet leaving a thin trail of blood all the way from then.

    My eyes close.
    Bells tinkle, dead did I say? Bulbs sparkle, dead did I say?
    I chase visions of a first kiss and a bared nipple
    as I hang on to that long dead oxen-pulled sledge
    and childhood
    and my fingers pull shards from bleeding soles
    knowing that a castle it may never be again
    yet the kaleidoscope is drowning me
    in its beauty.



Twined of a Kind...

    Itís long since I wrote you a rhyme,
    quite some time
    As troubling as it
    may be
    for me
    or you,
    Horrendous and more would be to assume
    that I lost my tip of plume,
    that I do not carry still the light
    you seeded in my sight
    that your nipple doesnít burn
    with every turn
    I turn in bed.

    I played with snowflakes once a game of fame and shame and wild acclaim
    and told them of my secret dream
    your bodyís flame,
    then fell asleep.

    I open my fist
    effloresces from life-lines remembering your skin
    I let it settle
    my flesh like a flagellating whip held between delicate fingers
    that later smear ointments into gashes
    and lashes
    metamorphose into shivers of ecstasy.

    The butterfly
    upon your inner thigh
    and essence,
    The rainbow
    upon your breastís snow
    and sweat,
    The rose
    your bodyís fading throes
    its roots.

    I pull the laces tight, my belt, I button up my shirt
    I watch you glide with zephyr grace inside your rumpled skirt
    And when the open door slides back to cut me from your breath
    The floor absorbs my crumbling shape and lulls me back to death.



Forever... Never Again...

    We will never

    Ride broom handles with wooden swords in our hands
    and death wish in our shrieks
    until scratches inflicted got infected and sword splinters bit under fingernails
    when me made peace and went to piss together
    in the muddy creek
    my pants torn, your skirt dirty,
    our eyes shining
    with nescient innocence.
    We will never.

    We will never

    Ride mustangs until rocks turn dust and manes turn grey and mountains turn molehills
    never to reach the sunset,
    never to lose it,
    rhyme turning banjo and banjo turning rhyme
    and bare knees colliding with neighing hide overtaking neighing hide
    then the other way around
    then the other way around
    and pouring words maintaining our ride into an infinity
    we knew
    will end. When we do reach the sunset.
    We will never.

    We will never

    Ride the stinking diesel cabin with its screeching wipers and noisy gear
    fuel fumes intoxicating our lungs
    while thoughts of about to come intoxicated our minds
    all the way there stealing kisses
    stealing bites
    stealing hand touches when the risk of leaving the steering wheel seemed mitigable
    by the empty road ahead and its fairly remote turn and misty minds
    caring not but for the moment ahead
    making all risks equal and worthy
    of death.
    We will never.

    We will never again ride the flesh,
    each otherís
    then bothís
    then noneís and ours and again and anew
    writing our past in cuts of skin and our future in scarred lips
    the bonfire of wooden swords and mustang manes and diesel buckets
    enshrouding the moment
    with our bodies imprisoned inside
    until our fists opened, turned to palms, twining in the tenderness
    of melting
    We will

    The brooms carry spatters of blood tainted sweat
    And rot with the likes of despondent regret,
    Yet nights, now and then, dolor pierces my heart
    I guess itís a splinter maturing to dart.

    The mustangs have long joined the kingdom of dust,
    The stirrups are wearing the mourning in rust,
    We reached neither sunset, nor word mantled lea
    Yet stayed ever anchored at hip, and at knee.

    The windshield is cloven, the headlights are torn,
    A pitiful howl lies asleep in the horn,
    Forlorn clucks the truck down its memory lane
    Remembering sweetness of wishes insane.

    The flesh... still aflame, between wrinkles and scars
    Remembers that moment, when bathed in stars
    It died for a first... and a last... nevermore,
    Away flies the raven... forever... no more.

    Forever. Never. Again.




    glass, oh, glass,
    catching up with you.

    woman, oh, woman.
    once steel.
    now steel. maybe brittle yet Ė steel.
    still there with you.

    both, I guess.

    like glass
    when you break and catch the sun on a splintered rib
    turning it into blinding rainbow brush
    to paint butterflies between linden boughs,

    like glass
    when you open the gates to ungenessis
    turning the tide of time's crawling bulk
    and yourself into grains of sand, to measure it,

    like glass
    when you contort into shapes unbecoming
    turning me into flesh devoid of will and mind
    before holding my hand while I try to sing glory,

    like glass.
    cutting. at touch.

    like steel.

    and I wonder at the unclearness of dissimilarity
    letting you prove once anew
    that steel like glass like feather
    are another definition
    of caress
    of woman
    of you.


    you smile?

    you probably do.
    the glass thaws, the steel thaws, all that is left is burning feather
    the stank horrible
    the passion insane
    the pain metamorphosing for a lone moment into orgasmic ecstasy
    to carry you through...

    until the next smile.




    OK, making love to you,
    Itís that time of the year.

    Hmm... again?... did we ever stop?

    On the street, in the garden, on a bench, under an umbrella
    on the john, seat up, seat down, seat wood or plastic or broken...
    they shouldnítíve made it so flimsy, shouldnítíve they?...
    in the car
    on the car
    beside the car
    behind the car
    under the car with oil and mud and dead mosquitoes dropping on our naked skin
    rolling in broken glass
    and rusty nails
    and thorns clipped off a dead cactus forgotten on a dump downtown...

    It snows.

    I watched your eyes, impossible to watch your eyes
    as they were raised towards the alighting flakes
    some melting inside those blue lakes... you did not blink them away
    you didnít even smile,
    you hiccupped.


    I pulled you behind me, dragged you rather
    and the five feet high snow seemed to melt around us
    as we advanced
    closing behind us
    as we advanced
    turning to thousands of tiny flickering lamps
    as we advanced
    I stopped,
    you stopped,
    we stopped.
    The clothes melted to the icy floor, we werenít cold, we were fiery hot.

    Hey, stalactites, I wondered
    as those rosy nipples erected downwards from above me.
    Hey, stalagmites, I wondered
    as those rosy nipples erected upwards from underneath me.

    Hey, a stalactite... you said as I loomed above you.
    Hey, a stalagmite... you said as you loomed above me.

    Hey, shut up! I said, irrelevant who was on top of whoever was under
    and biting my way into your flesh
    like a hungry, carnivorous tiger... as if there were any other kind.

    I heard them first. Tinkling bells.

    Your hair ends touching each other
    and sounds of silver
    sounds of crystal
    sounds of icicles
    filling our imprisoning ice cavern,
    little white flowers dislodging from the shimmer of the ceiling
    and starting to rain upon you,
    first your toes
    then your belly button
    then your neck, mouth, nose... hey, itís only nipples that I see
    I didnít complain, until they disappeared as well,
    hey, itís also nipples that I do not see any more
    I did complain.

    Brush it off them, you suggested.

    Are you sure? I hesitated, knowing more or less what would follow,
    fearing the less versus the more,
    my palm approached...

    I brushed it off them.


    Finally ďtheyĒ decided to call it a miracle.

    Detractors proposed anything from a minor earthquake
    through a major supersonic boom
    and all the way to a North Korean failed plot to invade the country.
    A few isolated voices suggested an UFO, later found out to be a very identifiable Jumbo object.
    Supporters pointed to the church steeple just slid yet did not fall,
    praise the Lord,
    to a few cracked walls yet no victims,
    praise the Lord,
    to the snowflakes that for a moment turned blue before turning white again,
    praise the Lord.
    They won, the supporters.

    We listened to them canting Hosannas as we emerged from the wrecked lair,
    hardly more than a fig leaf to our fig-leafable parts...
    they were so busy canting that none saw us
    as we sneaked into your truck
    and used a few old rags to replace the fig leaf simile.

    You look ridiculous in my old underwear.

    You look wonderful in your old underwear.

    We were still panting, one hour after.
    Fingers twined,
    fingers clasped,
    fingers broken.
    Was it us? I asked, pointing to the leaking crack in the water tower,
    icicles forming already.
    The miracle, you answered,
    and I pondered on it quite a number of hours.
    Yes, the miracle, I repeated to my plane seat neighbor,
    watching him change seat in haste bordering on panic.

    The miracle. I love you, I shouted after him
    and gave him the finger.
    I was fined fifty bucks on arrival.
    You must be joking, I laughed at them,
    having had accepted prison, for life.



Of Love. And Sin. ...

    I stretched there before you
    counting the blisters under your left heel, three
    and testing the curvature of the sole of your foot, both.
    I couldnít inspect the toenails so I did not know the color
    of the nail polish
    but I did smell the whiffs of femininity between the whiffs of acetone.
    Yet did not look up,
    did not want to see the origin of love
    and sin.

    I clothed you
    and smelled every square inch of skin
    and absorbed every cubic inch of sweat
    and molded myself snugly against your hips and around your ankles
    and between the folds of the source of humanity
    waiting for you to sit down
    then to roll from side to side
    and finally to walk for miles, rubbing me thin
    with oceans of love
    and waves of sin.

    I was a bench, when you sat.
    I was an ice cube when you drank.
    I was a window pane, your nose pressed against me when watching autumn
    and your breath painting me with the cave drawings residing in your lungs.
    I was a bed, when you made love to others
    and dandled you into the bliss of sleep
    pushing slivers of wood under your fingernails
    and creaking
    never complaining as long as you sang to me lullabies of love
    and sin.




    of mind and body
    still kicking and squirming furiously mid of the putrefaction and desolation,

    Your hand softly following the seam of my trousersí inner leg
    from ankle upwards toward the knee, past the knee
    the pilgrimage ending within the shrine of the crotch
    where devout fingers grope for leftovers of life
    and incineration

    The rule of law abdicates.
    Logic disintegrates into debility.
    Iconoclasm questions life and ends in conclusions of futility
    while your skirtís hem pulls up to your hips
    with the rest of you galloping into a sea of nepenthe
    until oblivion

    What happened? you ask, resurrecting.

    You unsaddle,
    timidly, almost piously rearranging the folds of your garments around your body
    and failing to do so you let your hair tickle my nostrils
    as you fall asleep.

    I watch a sunrise
    that wouldnít have been born




    I donít close my eyes.

    Because I want to see you in the leaves,
    because I want to see you in the moths
    in the streetlamps
    in the floating dust
    in the boughs
    in the cars
    in the shoes I discard
    in the individual letters that build words
    in the bees
    in the tiles
    in the clouds.

    In the bench. On the bench. By the bench,
    Before I lie down on it
    and the narrow planks mark my face
    and my shoulder cramps
    and you are not there
    but still, I feel your breath
    when you pick my head and lay it in your lap
    and I smell your woman.

    I open my eyes.

    Not to see you
    but to forget that I saw you
    breathing into my throat
    humming a poem I never heard
    never will hear
    the leftovers of me left over in your mouth
    between your teeth
    underneath your tongue

    I donít know.
    I make love to you.
    Sometimes I know. Always.

    When you are an ugly bruise and I a horrible wound
    yet we donít let go
    and we donít let free
    and we traverse each otherís desert with a caravan of water
    and tired camels
    and plant shrubs of roses in between each otherís fingers
    seeding the seeds of butterflies
    and the roots of passion
    and the fever of lust unending

    until it consumes us, skin and bones and marrow
    and all.

    I donít know if I wake up
    I find myself curled up on your thighs
    and you cover me with the shreds of your skirt
    and you say it does not matter
    before you touch my forehead
    and plant there
    another memory.
    Of you.

    Oh, sometimes
    I remember.




    when your thighs
    start closing,

    when the gate to that laboratory of life
    makes a valiant, inefficient and doomed to fail attempt
    to hide its whereabouts behind fluttering curls
    and damaged (sorry) folds
    while my eyes chase it wildly
    followed by invasive fingers, and mouth, and...
    the building blush following newly defined gravitation lines from your cheeks

    when your thighs

    and the sudden downpour of that mixture of teeth and fingernails
    is a featherís caress
    compared to the vise of muscled vice
    tearing the unpaired limb from my body
    and chewing it until nothingís left bare disintegrating scraps of meat
    fit only to feed the cats meowing their desperation
    three floors down.

    when your thighs close again
    and cartloads of prurience recede into cartloads of prudishness, again,
    and you say I love you
    and promise to kill me again
    and again
    and again...




    Itís raining.

    Remember when we did not make love in the rain?
    I did not forget. How could I, how can I
    when all I ache for
    is the hair plastered to your scalp
    and the summery dress plastered to your curves
    and the transparency of panties plastered to your visible insides
    which I grope for
    and grab
    and grip to remove with one savage movement

    watching the rain cleanse you,
    before I dirty you, once again.

    Remember the scene, was it mid a daffodils field it did not happen?
    Scattered petals stick to your skin
    and crushed stems roll around your ankles
    witnesses to the debauchery that took place just moments ago
    in that delightful composition where you are the flower
    and I am the ogre
    and we are the art
    and the rest does not matter
    as we paint ourselves all over the canvas

    stains of doubtful origin mixing with the green of grass
    and the blue flooding your eyes.

    I donít remember.
    There is nothing to remember, there is no time to forget
    once your hungry breast turns beast feeding on my giving mouth
    and my flesh begs forgiveness off your imploring fingernail

    before time convulses perilously close to demise
    before I start peeling the torn petals I seeded inside you
    before I halve you with my running finger
    unaware, unashamed, unavailing,

    ďRemember the first time we made love in the rain?Ē you ask
    and I wake up to the reality
    of maybe.



Rain, two...

    Of course I asked already the question,
    the same question, exactly,
    probably the same spelling
    the same punctuation
    the same rhyme scheme, rhythm scheme,
    the same innuendo... ha... innuendo my ass
    as the whore said to the bishop stepping through his discarded attire
    with flashing, green toenails...
    the same intention, malintention, lustintention, loveintention,
    love... do you believe in eternal intention
    and love

    I awake from slumberís prison shaking cobwebs from my mind,
    Plucking drops of lilacís perfume from the wrath of years maligned,
    The eroded line of reason stammers through a momentís fear
    As, again, my finger lingers on that haunting, fading smear.

    Was it when I combed the thistles from your mane of knotted hair
    While my spine creaked a capella with the cabinís wooden chair,
    Was it when you drank my vigor like a marshlandís hungry leech
    Clawing nails between the sessions from my bodyís crumbling beech,

    When you rode the coiling muscle through the agony of lust
    Culling lifeís emerging blossom from my yearsí forgotten dust,
    When you baptized my numb finger in that lush, primeval swamp
    And accepted my submission with a victorís sneering pomp,

    Or, when sharing mouth and language, tongue and whisper, tooth and blood
    The caress obliterating your assenting vestal bud
    You forgave my desecration with a heart impaled by love
    Laying it inside my fisthold like a fragile, bleeding dove,

    When I grabbed you by the glory of Medusaís writhing coils
    Your incinerated sanctum my crusaderís law and spoils,
    When you dragged me through the thistle, thorn and bark invaded field
    Long before my ropy essence in your sanctumís shrine was sealed,

    On the bed, the ruffled carpet, between nails and broken glass,
    With the stank of dying candles and the weary clank of brass,
    Still, the question bounces crudely like a dying stormís refrain...
    Will we ever, ever ever, ever make love in the rain?

    Of course, I ask the question,

    Of course, the best questions are those left unanswered,
    I know.
    Until the answer.
    I know.



Itís that time of year, again. ...

    Youíre not young, anymore.

    Youíre over thirty,
    I think
    though judging by your bedroom ill-manners
    I wouldnít give you a day over twenty nine,
    ok, maybe one day,
    two if you insist but not three, agreed?

    You donít hang on to a sleigh, anymore.

    Like a couple years back
    with frosted hands
    and running nose
    and cheeks to make a mid-summer sunset pale
    and skatesless shoes gliding until heels... stilettos?...
    ok, stilettos grind to commas and finally break
    leaving just a bleeding layer between snow and flesh
    and that exhilarating feeling
    of life.

    You donít stomp through fresh snow, anymore.

    Looking for those deep spots
    where your hatís pompon disappears under snowís surface
    and you risk getting buried alive
    turning all snow around you
    to a lake if one would just wait long enough...
    one never did,
    yes, remember the fire? the blaze? the hunger in your chest
    there, where I once touched?

    You donít make love to me, anymore.

    You did, once, upon a time while watching the magic of colored bulbs
    or listening to the tinkle of crystalline bells
    or inhaling the frozen steam from my mouth
    and mixing it with leftovers of cinnamon and almonds and raisins
    to feed me such love
    that I keeled over
    with seizures
    of pleasure.

    I close my eyes.

    I wait.

    I wait. I wait. I wait. You always liked to make me wait, didnít you?

    Is it really cinnamon
    or the flittering edges of a dying memory or...
    or what?... says the voice
    and flittering edges of fingertips slide in between my fingers
    and flittering edges of lips transcend into my reality
    before transcending close to my mouth
    and flittering snowflakes melt on the edges of my eyelashes...
    hey, donít cry!... who cries?
    itís the damn snowflakes
    and frozen hands slide inside my shirt to pinch my nipples
    as stilettos crush my feet
    and with a wild gesture I tear off the pompon
    and the rest of whatever is not natural you
    and whatever is left reminds me of those bedroom ill-manners
    that betray your age
    and leaves me exposed to all and any kind of legal pursuits
    type statutory rape or class A misdemeanor or class B felony
    or who the hell cares
    when various parts of us lie knotted in a variety of maritime knots
    and you start feeding me cinnamon
    and almonds
    and raisins
    and all those colored bulbs and crystalline tinkles
    that are the real

    My mouth tastes like a salt mine.

    I do not open my eyes.
    I do not dare.




    I mold your nipple,

    away from the whiteness of a breast
    created by a God too shy to complete his masterpiece,

    I squeeze softly between thumb and forefinger,
    I tap, pull, twist, push, pinch
    the tip of my tongue adding much needed malleability
    between your sighs and curses and yelps of encouragement

    and finally I pull away
    to watch my supreme creation
    with an amazement God should have felt
    if he had finished the job.

    What are you thinking of? you ask,
    buttoning your shirt.

    Of beauty, I answer.
    Of you.



of Time. of God. of You. and of Poetry. ...

    Look, a flower, I said, trying to take her mind off for a moment.
    Off what? she said.

    Look, a butterfly, I said, trying to take her mind off for a moment.
    Off what? she said.

    Look, a memory, I said, trying to take her mind off for a moment.
    Oh... she said.

    She lowered the needle on the record,
    then lifted it and moved it slightly forward, frowning,
    then lifted it and moved it way backward, smiling,

    Strange, she said, a time machine,
    and I can play with it at will,
    she said, moving the needle forward again.

    I took her mind off, for a moment.

    Then I crawled back to my lair
    and lowered the needle on the record, the only other original.
    Oh... I said.



Are you thirsty?...

    ...for words
    that will make blood rush through your veins like a screaming viper
    battering your heartís walls into disintegrating flesh-bricks
    and your lungs into the torn cobwebs
    of a cellar invaded by man-eating bats?

    ...for innuendoes
    that will suck you into the pillow in the wake of boiling sweat
    and fill your mouth with bees fighting for their honey
    while your eyes hunt desperately for the key in the lock
    to break
    and trap the nugatory world out
    and you in?

    ...for whispers
    mine... the senescent child, the sweet abomination
    born of dreams you never told yourself you owned
    to ravage hidden mind pastures you refused to lay claim to
    and torture you into desires not even Penelope dared weave into the shroud?


    Why should I always undress you?
    Undress me!
    Let your fingers sift between my shirtís buttons
    then pop one open, then another, then another, break the next
    turn around!... you command
    and before I have time to completely obey you break the last two,

    your hand slides down to my belt while your teeth grapple my shoulder
    and I cannot move as your hand misses its stopping point
    and slides further down
    your teeth threatening to tear off a chunk of my muscle
    I cannot bend, I cannot escape, I cannot breathe...

    oops!... you hiss, your teeth still firmly lodged in
    and your hand releases its grope and returns upway to its original destination
    one yank, one tag
    and the serpentine leather deserts my waist
    together with the aberration called trousers and associated unnecessities
    and your hand slides down again
    turn around!... you command again remembering to release the bite
    and I face the red blister of your mouth
    turn around!... I command
    and you obey, releasing your prey
    and I skip the niceties of unbuttoning and unzipping and unclasping
    using Alexander the Greatís sword as inspiration to my hand
    and Albertus Magnusí a tergo to my mind
    and with one movement you are bare and bent and bemoaning
    my fist mercilessly groping your breast
    and your waist painfully banging against the table rim
    and neighing horses the only approximation fit to describe
    the end of the war.


    You light a cigarette.
    I stopped smoking. Iíll light a cigarette for you.
    I never smoked.

    We rest in the land that never was for hours, days, years.
    From time to time warring anew,
    from time to time cleaning each other,
    from time to time mixing our glasses
    and licking our wounds
    and biting so that we create a target to licking.
    You have one, without biting.
    You too.
    I bite. You bite. I lick. You lick. Bites and others.
    We war.
    We mix.
    We boil, broil, bandy, bloom. You bloom.
    Thank you.

    Your head in the nook between my ear and my shoulder.
    My head in the nook between your breast and your breast.
    Your head in the nook between my thigh and my belly.
    My head in the nook between you thigh and your tibia.
    We tried all positions, tasted all tastes,
    investigated every pore of every lea of skin, internal, external, imaginary...
    I have to leave.
    Must you?
    I have to leave.

    You leave.
    You left.
    From time to time I send you words
    before beating my head against the table top
    until I fall asleep.
    Until next time.

    Until next time.

    Until next time.




    I imagine you,

    leaning back on a wooden chair
    legs pulled up
    chin on knees
    fingers twined around ankles, eyes closed...

    did I mention you are naked?

    Iím trying to, you donít seem to mind.

    I imagine us,

    I on the wooden chair
    you saddling me
    face to face
    chest to chest mouth to mouth belly to belly...

    sorry, you seem to have a question.

    Certainly, how else would we fit so nicely to... into!... into each other.

    I imagine you,

    alone on that wooden chair
    legs pulled up
    chin on knees
    fingers twined around ankles, eyes closed...

    no, not naked, not anymore.

    And you?
    My heart breaking, just imagining you.




    where burning love abounded
    wild roses roam today
    and layered upon wicked thorns old petals wilt and sway,

    the nightingales deserted
    the plains of whispered vows
    while fallen leaves at cobweb ends dance lonely from the boughs,

    pale blue soaked in the rainbow
    that bridged those hearts anear
    competing with the sky, the sea, the eye beneath the tear,

    yet... times, at break of morning
    a smile touches a lip
    and stubborn love paints pink the east while sighs through heartlands rip.



Is It?...

    Is it the last

    Snowflakes shoot down, violently,
    like hails of bullets from an ancient Maxim machine gun
    after gust
    after gust
    cutting me to infinite slices of humanity
    that hang on, desperately, to the guiding fiber
    of the single memory.

    Do you see it?
    the colored bulbs,
    hanging from beams
    supporting roofs,
    the tinkling bells,
    hanging from horses
    dragging sledges,
    the petrified garlands
    hanging from doors
    supporting illusions of happiness.

    Do you see it? Do you smell it?
    The divine stank of diesel fumes
    filling the infinitesimality of the truck cabin
    lying smack dead center of the infinity of the leftover universe
    and the two creatures therein facing virginityís end
    in the pink entrails of mouths
    and the pink roughness of nipples
    and the pink insides
    of bodies.

    That tiny puddle of blood, left behind,
    was mine.
    Donít claim any differently, though, you may be right.

    Is it?
    Remember? The first story you ever loved of me. Is it? Not a question, no.
    Is it?
    A poem. The last poem I ever write you. Is it? Not a question, no.

    Thereís no riddle in the riddle, only knowledge.

    Hey, the snow is back to its soft self
    hanging its sparkling symmetries to my eyebrows
    to your eyelashes
    building a bridge between the tips of our noses
    upon which kings and queens and dragons traveled back and forth
    still travel
    carrying thoughts
    words almost unsaid... tears? who said tears, snowflakes I said, snow flakes.

    Someone turns off the lights, in the entire world,
    there is no sparkle with no lights, right?
    There is no memory at the end of winter, right?
    Wrong. Then wrong again. Then wrong again for whichever other question you may ask.
    There is a sparkle,
    bubbling inside you,
    and little by little it starts drooling down from the corners of lips, yours.
    There is a memory,
    bubbling inside me,
    and little by little it starts writing itself into a smile, mine, for you.

    Is it the last?
    Is it the last smile to be written in the only season that ever counts?
    Maybe. Probably. Possibly.

    The Star of Bethlehem born above Bethlehem?
    Wrong again, as said.
    The Star of Betlehem born inside that divinely stinking truck cabin
    where virginity was lost
    and your eyes were the only stars




It Is...

    It is.
    The last.

    It is the last title dot dot dot
    I will ever attach
    to a memory dot dot dot
    where each dot is an ad infinitum on its own
    and the words following just a smear on the face of an universe
    that never knew better
    than that smear.

    Dot dot dot. Not a Morse code, no code at all
    just an amorphous mass changing shape each time it comes to life
    and we - its progenitors.
    Maybe not proud, but certainly relentless... at least until now.

    I could fill another page,
    I could fill another thousand pages,
    I could reminisce that truck cabin until the dinosaurs rule the Earth anew.
    I could.
    I wonít.

    The smile dies, killed by life.
    The winter dies, killed by end.
    The was does not get resurrected into is,
    it dies. Into was not. Strange.

    Good bye, beautiful.
    See you never. Again.

    Dot. Dot. Dot.




    my heart is bleeding.
    my eyes are bleeding,
    my fingers are bleeding and carrying the traces across the page
    letter after letter
    line after line
    an endless stream that only i see
    and only you know.

    loved you
    love you
    will love you
    and poetry is the only tool to say it... even though this is hardly poetry.
    it is more of an unending... what?... eulogy? paean? dirge? elegy? tribute?...
    a mix of all and yet nothing of all
    because there is no word, no synonym to the storm in mind and pain in chest.

    i thought there were no more poems in me,
    i was wrong.
    there is always a poem with me, you,
    and you will never stop pouring
    since there may have been others
    but yet there were none.
    you, there will always be you.

    how does one end a poem with no end?
    i donít know.
    i donít want to know.
    i love you.




    Look at It, I say.
    It? you say, from beyond the ocean, the moon, the galaxy.
    It, I say,

    unsurmountable distance from to
    unsurmountable gap from until
    unsurmountable events past

    and just one touch, ever, single,
    the seed.

    Say, It was a random chunk of glowing coal
    would have been peed-on by time long ago into black, crumbling oblivion, I guess, no?
    Probably not.
    Say, It was a trick party eternal candle
    would have been peed-on by time long ago into shapeless, melted wax, I guess, no?
    Probably not. Probably what, then?
    Probably, well, probably an undefined fist of boiling magma
    and pee on it as much as she would wish to
    time finally had to give up.
    Undefined. Inextinguishable.
    With time still licking its wounded pride and pee orifice
    brooding revenge.

    Call it whichever name.
    Will never be as popular as Kiplingís If.
    Will never hang on somebodyís wall, will never be copied into a notebook,
    will never be learned by heart like Kiplingís If.
    Will never be Kiplingís If.
    Will always stay It.
    Our. It.

    Sure, in the end time wins.
    She always wins.
    If she cannot pee the fire into extinction
    she will first pee all surrounding life off,
    then the fire.
    Yeah, big deal.
    We know.
    We accept, but by then it does not matter.
    What matters is that reality, distance, gap, events
    nothing could extinguish the fire.
    Not even our knowledge
    of never again.



The End...

    I have known you bitter.
    I have known you angry, vicious, vengeful.
    I have known you bitch. Shark. Viper.
    It all passed me by like the softest of breezes.

    I didnít know you rude.
    I know you rude.
    It hit me like a brick wall.
    The glass shattered.
    Can it be repaired?
    It could. It will always remain shattered. It cannot.

    The chapter is closed. Period. End.

                        THE END