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

    Your hand softly following the seam of my trousers’ 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 skirt’s 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 wouldn’t have been born




    The tower of Babel.
    Pascal’s triangle.
    Liber Abaci. Fractals. Elvis. Woman. You. Wonders. Unique.

    I remember touching the back of your hand with mine
    when I marshaled you between the aisles in the supermarket successfully
    and you marshalled my thoughts in between your thighs unsuccessfully
    and I still wonder if you knew it.

    I sat down to write a poem and you made a move with your head ŕ la Miss Piggy
    and I exploded into a million fingers
    all dying to crawl inside your hair and massage your scalp
    thinking what the hell does poetry mean at all and does it mean anything at all
    with your breast filling my palm and Babel reduced to rubble.

    I tried to tell you in one of the many languages I do not know
    then tried to tell you in one of the many languages you do not know
    then tried math, music, even tried mental acupuncture
    and once you finished laughing your head off and mine too
    you told me all I wanted to tell you in between those moments
    when my flesh was between your teeth and my mind chasing rainbows in the gutter.



    I caressed your hair
    it wasn’t mine,

    I caressed your resting arm
    it wasn’t mine,

    I caressed your body
    and the skin enveloping it and the red surrounding your nipples
    and the crossroad your thighs led to
    caring not that it was not mine

    when I grabbed handfuls of you
    and licked all the crumb leftovers
    leaving nothing to God or imagination or anyone else,

    not even the rhymes
    you moaned in.

    I clutched at your hair, at your resting arm, at your body
    at the skin enveloping it all and the nipples and the crossroad your thighs led to
    letting the train run me over
    and mash me into pieces of flesh
    hanging all around you
    like tiny light bulbs
    around their Christmas tree.



    Before Adam,
    before light, before chaos
    there was order, absolute.
    Maybe the size of the moon,
    maybe the size of a marble, of an atom,
    no cosmic radiation
    no inter-stellar dust, not even nothing...
    how could there be nothing without something?
    Before time, before size, before energy, before Before,
    just a blob of... what? Of everything.
    Trillions of trillions of trillions of tons before ton was defined
    of everything in that one blob.
    Before BANG!

    And yet, you were there.
    In that statistical dispersion of that statistical combination
    resulting in statistical dinosaurs followed by anti-statistical humans
    you were there,
    defined already without anyone knowing for billions of years...
    yes, time was defined by that time, sic erat scriptum.

    Your precise outline.
    Your precise texture of skin and shape of calf
    and length of eyelash and moment in the almost infinity when our roads crossed.
    The moment after the Before.
    No, the other Before, the one after the earlier Before.
    Followed by After. THE After.

    Now, the Now that is part of the After,
    I sit in my car watching a park-meter
    and a passing dog
    and a public trashcan
    and write a poem about making love to you.
    After the chaos. After the light, and Adam and the dinosaurs
    whichever came first or last, who cares?
    I sit here and watch you undressing.
    I sit here and watch you dressing.
    I sit here and watch you undressing dressing undressing countless times
    and each time I gather your clothes
    or hand you your clothes
    and between gathering and handing I let you travel my spine
    and my inner thigh
    and my mouth
    listening to your fingertips digging trenches
    followed by your teeth biting away roots
    followed by your opening flesh escalading the crumbling Berlin wall
    and impaling itself on the thorn
    of your rose.

    There is time,
    until next chaos
    and you fill it with perfumes...

    oh, your bodily perfumes...


Brave New World

    They took away my LP flip-over.
    They took away my mini-skirt and those divine garters ending just below the white of flesh,
    they took away my hand drawn Disneys and my transistor radio and my slows.
    My Paul Anka. My Partridge Family. My musicals.
    My national tomatoes.
    My chatter free travel.
    Chunks of me. My Brave Old World, my basic components.

    Pantyhose, tomatoes anytime, call anywhere. Tasteless. Needless.

    I flip my LP, rebelliously.
    I watch the Jungle Book and look at yellowing old pictures,
    the shop had thankfully not fixated them enough.
    I close my eyes.
    Looking for an innocence lost,
    never to be found. Except maybe in that final act of my finite life.
    This, at least, they did not take away.


This and Then and Thus so on

    This is chaos, I say.
    This is hell, she says
    and I hate it when she is wrong.

    This is Picasso, I say,
    this is Bruegel, she says
    and we are both right. This is Modigliani. We are both rightly wrong.
    Crazy poet, I know.
    Pieter, I try to correct her and Pablo she tries to correct me
    as we both try to compensate for our ignorance
    watching Reclining Nude
    then Reclining Nude With Left Arm Resting On Forehead
    then Reclining Nude With Loose Hair
    then Reclining Nude With Arms Folded Behind Her Head
    then and by the time I am out of then’s then she reclines then
    and I am out of other words as well
    and any grammar literacy seems to get loose in my mind
    alongside jewish Amedeo and self proclaimed jewish lover
    who keeps reclining in the various reclination (copyrighted) poses
    first to last then last to first then last new to laster newer
    and by the time she freezes
    in that reclination (still copyrighted) he never dared paint
    with details visible he never dared ask for
    and I do not mean toenails
    my chaos and hell are one
    and neither Pablo nor Pieter, well, maybe slightly Pieter, could bring to life
    on those flat worlds of theirs. Deeper than the Chomolungma on a sunny day.

    Yes, copyrighted, the status not the act.

    I did not have paint, canvas, easel, lighting, talent and rest of ingredients,
    I had bytes, camera, tripod, flash, lust and rest of ingredients
    and I had her and Amedeo didn’t
    thus after creating my own exhibits for my private exhibition
    and proving exhibitionism to be the one art forgotten by the kinds of
    Georg Hegel or is it Wilhelm or is it Friedrich
    and Ricciotta Canudo or is it Ricky or is it Ritchie
    I owned to my decision
    and obliterated the entirety of my creation
    (ok, feeling quite god-like, I admit)
    and owned to her body
    (ok, feeling very human-like, I admit)
    and chaos and or hell and or right and or wrong
    never felt better.

    Oh, and she felt divinely, oh, very humanly and and divinely so.
    Yes, I know. Missing [sic] thus so what?


To My Critics, May They Live Two Hundred Years

    How could I rhyme my way through life
    if not by using wife, or strife,
    or tying love
    with glove, above,
    oh, hell, what’s wrong with knife or shove?

    A critic’s chauvinistic mind
    I know, would flail my sweet behind
    with Oxford wit
    and gutter shit
    alongside guffaws brined in spit.

    Well, listen dear bovine select
    with your superior intellect
    could you compose
    two words of prose
    that won’t your mind’s defect disclose?

    Oh, an uplifting thought just crossed my mind, see...

    when you reach your hundredth bliss
    you’ll wake up wet to morning’s kiss
    and know in store
    are hundred more
    to drag through pampers, piss and gore.


Italian Serenade...

    yesterday i bought three bananas.
    they were cheap because they were rotten.
    i came home and sat on them.
    wanted to feel how a full baby feels when he fills.
    he not fool. he not file. he full. he bananas.

    tra-la-la-la-la (ole in spain)

    my dog bit me. my wife too.
    she bit and beat. my pc bits and bytes.
    he also boots. he does not bark.
    he hates the dog. the dog peed on his hard disk.
    i have a bat. his name is bambi. the dog’s name.

    ole-ole-ole (tra-la-la-la in usa)

    there are a lot of italians in italy.
    more than in rome. rome has only one pope
    but i ate three pizzas. one two three
    baby i love thee.
    i love tea too. and two too is tootoo.

    pronto-pronto-pronto (allo in the rest of the world).


Echoes Of Love...

    one, two, three,
    one, two, three, four,
    one, two, three, four five,
    one, two, three, four, five, six,
    ix, ix, ix...

    een, een, een...

    on, on, on...
    on, on, on...
    quack, quack, quack...

    and the universe explodes,
    odes, odes, odes...

    pronto-pronto-pronto (allo in the rest of the world).



    (archaeological exhibit, date uncertain, following assumed election of the first ever feminist president in the USA, excavation site NY, 3075)

    By the grace of Divinity, this year 2011 and a half,
    we have a woperson president of the USA,
    who decreed illegal any use, abuse, misuse,
    of the words man or men or any of their forwards or backwards derivatives
    in the English language when not associated with
    man, men, or any of their derivatives. Persondatory replaceable by
    person, persons and none of their derivatives. Punishable by
    imprisonpersonsnt. Wopersons will be locked without money in
    the malls of Personhattan, persons will be locked in peepshow cabins without quarters.

    Hallelujah! Apersons!

    Roperson Polanski was exiled because he refused the persondatory change of
    nosrepe, and war declared on Ropersonia for same reason.
    To prevent phonetical misunderstandings, the first day of the week is from now on
    Moonday. Governpersonst offices will be open extended hours to
    permit the extra time to pronounce the longer words. Extra pay
    allocated to court typists, per extra digit; abusive use of relevant
    words will be punished.

    This directive applies to mammals only, talking parrots need not
    be re-educated.

    Signed, Empersonanuela Zilberperson, secretary of state and re-education.

    (short biography: Empersonanuela, a famous Ropersontic Roperson author, actrice - played Dulcinea in Person of LaPersoncha, and citruses - nosrepely persondarines - grower, joined the liberation movement in 2009, was one year ambassadress in Birpersonia, and since half a year ago secretary of state)


Chicks & co.

    When my chick has started barking,
    And I mean a chicken chick,
    I kept swallowing three Prozac’s
    Every hour all that week.

    It was thirty seven hours
    Till my wife got off the roof,
    Then she ran (she still is running)
    Followed by the mocking woof...

    Then my dog... the sneaky charmer,
    Love proposed... well, doggy style,
    Now he’s chasing my poor woman
    (She’s still leading by a mile...)

    Then I find to my amazement
    That on top of playing ball,
    This... what?... chicken?... chick?... the IT thing
    Knows to fetch, to sit, to roll.

    One by one - my cat was bitten,
    And the postman’s scared like hell,
    I don’t mind my shoes she’s chewing
    ’Cause she rounds the sheep quite well.

    ’Bout a month or something later
    My sweet wife - half starved, half lame,
    After crossing countries, oceans,
    West she ran... now East she came...

    At her heel my dog, crest(?)fallen...
    Wow... the chicken came a running,
    Proudly bringing bones and snuggling,
    Do you know what was most stunning?

    At her... tail? three chicks, small, tiny,
    Then two puppies daddy necking,
    And the chicks started a squealing,
    And the puppies worms a pecking...

    My poor dog could not imagine,
    Now he’s papa - tail to bone,
    And my wifey.... well, in horror
    Now from East to West she’s gone.

    Both my goats her quest have joined now,
    Cuz, you see, this chicken cheat,
    Followed foreign language studies,
    As of late she starts to bleat.

    NBC said - "thanks, you’re crazy..."
    CNN... I told my story,
    They just asked - "is there a blood bath?..."
    I said - "no...", they said "so sorry..."

    Well, to end my true (swear!) story -
    FBI brought back one goat,
    Seven ducks, a cow, two piglets,
    (and the wife, oops... just forgot...)

    Now they’re laughing down to Texas,
    And the sheriff’s mighty sad,
    "These good folks" he says with sorrow
    "Ain’t no dangerous... just mad."


    Do we care?... each eve at sunset
    After I have voiced my proems,
    To the pigs and cows and horses
    Missis chicken reads my poems.

    Wife (she’s taking cackle lessons)
    Claims a lesson to this story
    (Though I swear I hardly get it) -
    "Chickenshit’s no path to glory..."


And Her Mother...

    I and my lover
    We love each other
          ...and her mother.

    She has a brother
    Bald as his father
          ...and her mother.

    We want a boy,
    We’ll name him Joy
          ...her mother’s choi.
    (should have been ’choice’ but then it wouldn’t rhyme)

    Also a moose
    (Adopted, called Bruce)
          ...like her mother’s goose.

    When late in the night
    The bats start to fight
          ...her mother’s delight,

    We snug in the bed,
    We cover our head
          ...her mother we dread,

    And I start to mmmmm...
    And she starts to hmmmm...
          ...and her mother... ahmmmm...

    As we start to juice...
    The bats and the moose
          ...and her mother’s goose

    In bed stick their nose,
    They snuggle up close,
          ...and her mother’s toes...



    written for some kind of assignment asking the use of just a few unusual words from a full ABC list of unusual words... well, I used them ALL of course, in ABC order :)

    at the ardent flow of slogans
    as my brethren marched their brogans
    through caluminating speeches
    from the mountains to the beaches
    derisorily I snickered
    at the essence as they bickered
    through some fictive acts of malice
    which they claimed with guile that alice
    (her humility undoubtful)
    has impinged more than a mouthful
    through jocose and nasty comments
    ("...called us kelpies certain moments
    lambent phrases dirt conceiving
    mellifluously deceiving
    when the noumenon one spotted,
    otiose her word, and rotted ...")...
    hey (I said) you pilous creatures
    if the quiddity of teachers
    is too recondite a matter
    and setaceous a patter,
    if truism your brains is hurting
    unremitting as it’s spurting
    and veracious a statement
    wrought will be through reinstatement,
    your xerophilous existence
    has a yeanling’s low subsistence
    your zenith you’ll never reach
    (ends my speech).



    They appeared out of nowhere
    hordes of them,
    swarms of them,
    flocks, throngs, squadrons, crowds,
    mobs of ostriches
    all-pink and dotted-pink and striped-pink
    admiring, lash batting, bottom pinching,
    pouring through my windows, smashing down my doors,
    attacking the endless arrays of pencils on my table
    and swallowing them... sideways...
    ouch, I feared imagine them exiting sideways too...
    cackling and barking and meowing my beautiful words
    those I went through years of pains writing,
    after tearing to pieces my notes and my buttons
    and missing my eyes yet focusing on my nose
    then on my ear lobes
    then on bowling balls I started throwing their way
    all those thousands of vicious beaks looking for a snippet of the prize
    while I cowered in the corner
    trembling like a leech... wait, like lice?... a leaf maybe?...
    spraying their way my cheap eau de cologne
    and then throwing my collection of unwashed socks...
    in vain...
    on they came...

    Wake up, wake up, you shook me awake, tenderly,
    your three pronged foot looking for fleas on my chest,
    I screamed and ran away all the way to the wall
    where I collapsed with a big lump on my head.

    I finally woke up. For real. The nightmare was over.
    I remembered nostalgically those first, terrible days,
    horrible dreams chasing my sanity,
    the pills, the drugs, the strait jacket,
    then finally the reality of love dawning upon me
    in the warmth of our shared dwelling,
    our life.
    I touched the big egg underneath my shirt
    thanking you for trusting me with your most cherished of possessions.
    Love has never been bigger...


Fish Soup

    I found you, when you were little, insignificant,
    your pretty eyes sparkling with egg yolk,
    even your parents rejected you
    and tried to drown themselves... in vain, they failed.

    I cradled you with infinite tenderness to my chest
    while you insistently pecked at my left eye,
    luckily I was wearing a ski mask at the time
    a diving mask being too expensive
    and anyway it was supposed to snow in a few months coming.

    My dog left me.
    My cat left me.
    My lumbago left me.
    Then in descending order the limping rat, the gold fish, my wife.
    And yet, I still would not give up on you.

    I chewed raw fish and regurgitated straight into your ever demanding beak,
    moved on to sushi, three types of
    and when you were big enough to stay hungry
    I even learned to use chopsticks,
    my deserting wife’s deserted knitting needles.
    The floor was a mess, my heart was soaring, you were blossoming.

    Oh, that fateful, ill-fated, fatidic day.
    I had just finished lighting the one-year candle mid of the fish soup.
    You pulled away from me
    tore one of the gold fishes from my original Matisse, Red Fish and a Sculpture
    (The Museum of Modern Art, New York, owns a reproduction, he he)
    and banged your head against the triple-layer window pane.
    Second time around you were through it
    shitting all over my petunias, my neighbor’s Lexus LFA open rooftop
    and masking an ad for craftspeople in a most embarrassing way.

    I fell on my knees, crying all of three days and three nights...
    “Fly, fly my baby, fly! Fly Fletcher Lynd!
    Beware of hawks, SAMs, IBPDMSs, ICBMs and humans generally!
    Fly, baby, fly!”
    I fell to the floor (I was already on my knees) and spasmed away into nothingness.

    When I woke up, they started returning into my life, in ascending order
    my wife, the gold fish, the limping rat,
    my lumbago,
    my cat,
    my dog.

    I still pay for my neighbor’s Lexus LFA open rooftop
    I believe my son will have to continue and my grandson after him,
    maybe my grandgrandson will not have to.
    But if you ask... Yes! I would have done it all again,
    maybe with the exception of the fish soup.
    I hate fish soup.


Hey, Hi Hay Fever


    The birds are singing
    my nose is running
    it’s stunning.

    A couple blackbirds in duet
    perform a masterful couplet
    thus proving void grasshopper’s claim
    to best-in-class eternal fame
    while my two cats – one black, one grey
    drag Due Gatti way astray
    from early March till later May
    and in the morning’s early breeze
    I sneeze.

    Oh, mighty gods of fevers hay
    watch as my droplets proudly spray
    and carry messages beyond
    and frog and toad and croak and pond
    with talent
    the circum feren cial song
    five notches wide and growing strong
    my nasal lore
    contained no more.

    I’m stunned,
    by people carrying umbrellas
    to ward-off nose-a-running fellas
    like me,
    with pills and spray
    that don’t allay
    (administered in lethal dose
    according to the diagnose)
    the misery upside my nose
    which started when I smelled a rose...

    The rattle
    of battle,
    the mooing of cattle,
    the nightingale’s chirp,
    my nose’s loud dirp
    (should be drip but doesn’t rhyme)
    the roar of the lions
    when watching Orion’s
    diminishing glow,
    my hee and my hoe,
    all merge and adjust to my symphony’s lust plus the horrible gust
    that smite off all light in a rite of delight
    and leave me alone
    to atone
    for my moan.

    OK, now back to the mountains of hankies
    (no pankies)
    and screaming masses
    that my noble gasses

    When they see me coming there’s no need for drumming,
    they pick up the children, the chickens, the goats
    and leave old me sneezing in verse and in quotes.


To be or nonsense. A monologue.

    Just when nonsense started making sense
    it stopped making sense again.

    Just like a rotten apple without flies,
    Though it makes sense
    in a senseless kind of way,
    almost sensual.
    Do you think "censor" comes from "sense - or"?
    Kind of "make sense or you lose your license".
    Or better said lice’n’se
    where the se is two fifths sense or even two two fifths.
    See what I mean?
    Nonsense. Except to a math genius rich in eye queue. Ha-ha, it was a joke.

    Yesterday public opinion decided to strike the previous sentence.
    It is part of another (political) poem
    while nevertheless (I had to re-write this word five times)
    while nevertheless it carries to the foreground
    the unabashed (have no idea what this means) idea
    that sentence, or rather "sentence"
    has nothing to do with se’n’tence
    but rather with se’n’tience
    also known as sentience
    proposing the époustouflante (I think this one is French, see the accent?) idea
    that it actually originates from negating
    nonsense into sense.

    Makes sense?

    Yesterday I dreamt that Elvis was not singing a medley of Little’s
    (Sister Darling Egypt)
    which makes as much sense
    as when I dreamt that he was not singing a medley of Long’s
    (Black Limousine Legged Girl Tall Sally)
    and it all made nonsense to me
    when I woke up in the bus three stations later.
    And the beating I got from the street gang
    and the broken nose
    and the cost of the hospital
    for the thug who broke his fist on my nose and my metal wallet.
    Do you know that about eighty of his titles include variations on the L word?
    And none of my poems
    because love rhymes with above and critics hate it They hate me too.
    Even if I use the S word instead The one that rhymes with Ex. Annex.
    No, annex has no biological function,
    nothing to do with excretion,
    that’s pure of the purest anomalies slash pretenses slash machinations nonsense
    (finally, back on track).

    Did you know that ex is the most complex and misunderstood
    and largely used syllable in the English language?
    Do you know how many words there are including ex,
    inclusive names like Alex and Mexico and Texaco?...
    I don’t know, I thought you might.
    And then there are those hidden, metamorphosed ones
    that once were and are not anymore.
    Like shiksa that was once shexa,
    or like the recently (last century) uncovered
    that was originally aspirin, or in reality expirin.
    And to top them all there is the famous IRS, originally named EX.
    Yes, true. EXmoney, EX income, EXcruciating pain.
    Then "they" (the conspirators) decided it was too revealing
    and chose the subtly subliminal IRS,
    you know,
    I for I, like you, you know, but I, you understand?
    Then comes this gross grammatical error,
    queen of an and alph and abets,
    R for are
    when everybody knows that I M am and not I R are
    but the gayls – the new politically correct for guys and gals –
    showed their subliminal contempt to us choosing are.
    And the, coarsest of course,
    S for ass, what else?
    Irreverently so and irrelevantly which ass,
    the one with four legs and a tail
    or the one between its hind legs and its tail.
    I have, as a matter of fact, a very evoluted evolutionary theory about ass
    but I will leave it for a future inspired and/or expired
    (political correctness obliges)
    BTW, did you know that the word breathless was originally ex?
    Originating from exexex which is an onomatopoeia for being out of breath

    apoplexy another crucial ex word

    or for breathing laboriously.
    But then some higher intelligence of the language academy
    decided it might remind people too much of sex
    and the resulting sexsexsex
    and invented the bland breathless.

    Blah! Nonsense!

    See above.
    I slither down a slippery road of words and accusations
    which are mostly untrue and only partially true and impartially untrue.
    Sorry Shake’n’spear, couldn’t make it as long as yours
    but I made up in beauty
    what I lack in length.
    Shucks. Originally shux. Didn’t mean anything obscene. It’s all in your mind, readers.



    I never smoked.

    Never conscientiously, at least,
    disregarding this first time last time
    when aged five I crushed some dry leaves into a torn piece of newspaper
    and rolled it and glued it with flour glue
    then hid in my neighbor’s shed
    trying in vain to light it with matches,
    I almost caused a fire, it was their winter wood shed.
    I gave up. Forever. This is my cigarettes history.

    I never drank.

    Qualifying this,
    I never drank industrially,
    I always had a beer with my steak
    since age five.
    My parents found it funny,
    I found it tasty
    and for the one time a year when we had the money to go
    to the summer-garden restaurant
    multiplied in probability by the one time a year when they had meat
    I don’t think you could call it irresponsible their side
    or mine.
    Wine was something you get drunk from,
    or transparent hard liquors,
    or colored hard liquors,
    not beer...
    It stayed once a year.
    Sometimes twice. Even today.
    I don’t think you can call it a drinking habit or a drinking problem.
    Or anything else on the same subject.
    See, this is my present drinking history.

    Neither did I ever fornicate
    and don’t you please believe everything you read in my poetry.
    I mean bordellos and back alleys and cetera.

    Sure, an exclusive lover is not fornication, is it?
    A lover is a fellow human you love, care, respect and wish the best,
    take showers with
    mix tooth brushes with
    and exchange healthy body essences with.
    Healthy mind you, one on one, no pun intended.
    Once a year. Keeping it healthy both mind and body. My history.

    He looks at me and makes another mark in his notebook.
    Hard drugs? he implores.
    I had to give him something to hang his explanation on,
    something to explain the unexplainable,

    the unjustifiable, the death warrant.
    Asbestos? Heredity? Radiation? Pollution? he continues enumerating his hopes,
    and I keep shaking my head in sad negation.
    No, none of these. Sorry to disappoint, so sorry.

    I guess it doesn’t really make a difference to me,
    maybe to him, not to me.
    I never had cancer before,
    one has to start sometime in one’s life, doesn’t one?



    If I have to choose what I send to a contest
    or if I have to taylor my poem to the judge’s habits
    or – horror of horrors – if I have to write something specifically for them,

    if I cannot just grab the first found
    and slam it up their link and down their throat
    and matters not if they like it or prize it or not

    then I’m no poet
    and they are no poem readers.



    I listen to Vladimir.
    Vysotsky that is, Vladimir Vysotsky. Did you? Ever?
    You should try.

    I listen to Vladimir,
    I don’t understand a single word he’s saying
    yet I understand everything he’s saying.
    Who needs more than just voice intonations when an absolute performer
    performs. Statement, not question.

    How does one squeeze so much art in such short a life span?
    Question, not statement. I wonder.

    The record skips, a second time now.
    Probably a KGB induced flaw, why not, their trade mark.
    Matters not.
    Worthy more with its flaws.
    His flaws too, unfortunately. Nothing to do with the KGB
    though everything to do with his soul, his art, his absoluteness,
    his absolute art.

    Probably the Van Gogh of poetry and song.
    The way Van Gogh was the Vysotsky of painting. Twins.
    All he ever wanted to do was to tell stories, in poem, in song,
    all he ever did was tell stories
    and oh, did he tell them right...



    Meaning what except beauty, ecstasy, passion
    and life? Yes, life.

    the kind of sin I have in mind
    dressed in knotted tree trunks
    and rolling rocks
    and railways bent out of shape into the shape
    of your curving tri-dimensional surfaces.

    Who the hell wants absolution?
    Who the hell needs absolution
    when hell is the only fire worth mentioning
    once sin starts
    and before it ends
    and after it ends starting again?

    We fall in step, one-two, one-two
    who with who or rather who with whom?
    It may be you with me, running satellite circles around me clockwise
    or I rotating counter clockwise next to you
    relativistic effects negligible
    mind numbing effects not neglectable
    flesh effects calamitous
    and I wonder if you wonder the same.

    Hey, here’s the hotel, you declare like you were the queen of Sheba
    many years after thelarche
    and I Solomon many years after circumcision
    and we were about to progenate a wonder nation
    of blue-black eyed black-fair skinned progenies
    just by closing the electronic-keyed door behind us
    kicking the shoes under the metal-framed bed
    and touching the tips of our index fingers.

    We closed the electronic-keyed door behind us,
    kicked the shoes under the metal-framed bed
    and touched the tips of our index fingers and tips of big toes and tips of noses
    and tips of knees
    and tips of nipples
    and tips of belly-buttons
    and tips of curls and tops and depths
    after shedding all memory of garment from mind
    and all shreds of hesitation from skin
    and as you waited for me to liberate you from railways shackles
    and mill rocks
    and tree trunks pillories
    I waited for you to imprison me in said shackles and mills and pillories
    and allow me to shrivel in between your femurs
    and mandible to maxilla
    and snarling extremities bouncing not far above pectoral muscles.
    Or not far beneath, depends... you declare like it was the Declaration of Independence
    before Thomas McKean
    and my moans the same after John Hancock
    and in between the world was created
    only you know why, and you probably don’t.

    I rest my sins on your bare belly, counting freckles and pickles and crocodiles.
    You rest your sins on my bare belly counting zeroes, just ensuring there is no end.
    We do not rest from our sins too long, eager to try other versions
    maybe with chocolate mousse
    or fresh strawberries
    or supporting pillows
    et coitera [sic] [yes, sic and not sick, mind your puritan soul].

    SIN. Such Is Nature.

    I have to leave, sorry,
    had enough of freckles and crocodiles,
    I think it is about time I start paying attention anew to those extremities,
    either above or underneath your pectoral muscles,
    I’ll let you decide,
    after all you’re the queen of Sheba
    and I am whatever you want me to be.


Of Conscience and God

    Humanity’s conscience
    hasn’t been born,
    yet. Though there were several attempts made,

    ended prematurely,

    Like the ten lines
    chiseled inexpertly in black granite
    telling more than ten million lines could ever tell and would ever tell
    ever after,
    the shortest ever book of law
    written by an inexistent God’s hand...
    maybe an inexistent God?

    ha, would have found its way into Guinness
    if Guinness would have been born,

    Or the following billions following the one singleton following the single idea
    of love universal,
    oh, how naďve he, they, the idea
    when he ended his short life
    calling out to a God inexistent,

    wishing him into existence
    through pierced limbs.

    Or, then, the insignificant millions, in between,
    metamorphosing by the intermediary of industrial might into
    toothless, hairless, baggageless soft smoke rising to freedom
    through the endless trail of dark chimneys

    only to deny their God
    his existence. And only then to spread the stench through adjoining, desolate fields.

    Humanity’s conscience hasn’t been born yet.
    It probably never will.



    I don’t 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 don’t know.
    I make love to you.
    Sometimes I know. Always.

    When you are an ugly bruise and I a horrible wound
    yet we don’t let go
    and we don’t let free
    and we traverse each other’s desert with a caravan of water
    and tired camels
    and plant shrubs of roses in between each other’s 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 don’t 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.


Pig Heil!

    hITLER, süßes schwein,
    guttness gracious mine,
    was your schwanz
    gar und ganz
    one und halbes inches klein?

    gÖRING, fettes kind,
    if you’d let off wind
    was the sieg
    of der krieg
    kinderspiel, or so man find.

    gOEBBELS, dünnes scheiß,
    freund of other mice,
    arschloch kuß
    war dein gruß
    yarning boneless lies with lice.

    Pig Heil! shouts out loud
    the adoring crowd
    raking gold from chimney’s cloud.



    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 feather’s caress
    compared to the vise of muscled vice
    tearing the unpaired limb from my body
    and chewing it until nothing’s 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...



    Sure, not all of them.
    Yet, some illustrious ones.

    Jesus, became religion years after he died.
    Wolfgang, became religion years after he died.
    William, became religion years after he died.
    Vincent, became religion years after he died.

    I, still have time.
    Though I’m too old to die now.


Metaphors... oh, horrible poetry...

    I don’t know why,
    you can ask and I can answer but I don’t know why.
    You’re just a woman. No?
    Isn’t it true?
    So I don’t know why.
    Maybe, because you are?
    Maybe, because you are Woman? Maybe because you are? Woman?
    To me, my mind, my body, my undefined?

    Sometime, somewhere, somehow and somexyz
    you clicked into my mechanism,
    like a breechblock to a rifle, like a cogwheel to a gear, like a broadax to a log
    deep, smug, content.
    I tried to shake you off,
    it was like trying to shake off a biting Piranha,
    I tried to forget you,
    it was like trying to forget to breathe,
    I tried to make you hate me,
    it was like trying to make a mother hate her baby.
    I stopped trying.
    I even tried to stop writing poetry. Yeah, like trying to stop a river dam from crumbling.
    Ha, even metaphors
    suffice not.
    And I try plenty, see? See above?

    Sure, horrible poetry, I know. Metaphors, same like stealing.
    Same like zero imagination and dead-end streets.
    So what? Not any less fitting, correct, true.
    Not going to gain any contests with it, not even trying. Maybe trying to tell you.
    Maybe trying to tell me. Even if I know.
    Sure, blah blah, but OMG what a Woman, this is what I am trying to tell you.
    This is what I know.

    OK, you had enough of this nonsense? Maybe.
    I’ll never have enough. Of you.


PhD in Mumbo-Jumbo

    I counted three thousand. Stars.
    Then I stopped.
    It took too long.
    I could have counted three thousand more
    but it would have gotten me into morning.
    And anyway, I probably counted some twice.
    And counting twice three thousand would have led to twice the errors.
    Hey, twice can be for more and for less. Hmm. Twice twice. Ha.

    I tried it two nights in a row. Twice, you may say.
    Then decided to try to undress you following a similar twice logic
    and checked for possible analogies and parallels in obviously unrelated events.
    It took too long, check.
    Tried to remove pieces of clothing twice, though already removed, check.
    I made some horrible mistakes, different, sorry and apologies, check.
    Tried it two nights in a row.
    Second night could not go into a twice trying
    since after the first time there was nothing left for you to wear again
    and anyway
    you dragged me towards you
    and did some undress experimenting of your own, once,
    and the result is history. Yes, once of course. No check.
    Breaking any dreams I may have entertained for an honorary PhD
    in the field of analogy and parallels of twice’s.
    Not sorry, sorry. Sorry only to have wasted all that time previous night.
    Funny, no sorry thoughts about the stars.
    Maybe I’ll try again, this time with apples.
    PhD, here I come!

    I failed.
    Firstly, some of your apples were not apples,
    though they were, two, not twice.
    Secondly, not twicely, many other apples kept falling from the trees
    and I couldn’t keep count,
    not with me hopping left and right to prevent Newtonian trauma
    not with you hopping right and left
    trying to bounce your apples off me, wench,
    and claiming to have found two more apples, on me this time. Wench! Twice!
    Thank God these are not.
    Thirdly, anything I counted you made into jam
    so I couldn’t check my count without eating it
    and who can eat so much apple,
    not to mention the inaccurate mathematical transformation jam to discrete apples,
    I failed. No PhD for me. Not unless you mean PhysicalDesire
    of which I own plenty.
    So I let you play with my apples, the not really apple ones,
    then I played with your apples, the not really apple ones,
    then as we shared in the playing
    I started counting stars
    and you started counting torn buttons
    and when our numbers did not match
    we decided it did not matter, my PhD.
    What mattered was exactly what stopped everything else from mattering.

    I’ll try philosophy next.
    Once dressed. Once undressed.
    Better still – once undressed, once undressed too.


Your Body

    Raindrops on the windshield,

    exploding into perfect discs
    before they start crawling, slaves to gravitation and fluid dynamics
    toward the car hood
    to mix with leaf crumble and insect quash
    and dust long gone mud.

    Your body.

    The Beatles on the radio,

    umbrellas parading above heads of passers by
    mostly black, some colored,
    some would be thieves inspecting all cars behind mine, before mine,
    skipping mine
    and carrying no umbrellas but a bag heavy with their tools of trade,
    a bird drinks from a puddle,
    ACDC on the radio Hell’s Bells.

    Your body.

    Strange houses, water dripping from balconies,

    one pink, one yellow, one crumbling supported by beams and scaffolds,
    some broken windows planked over,
    a pizzeria and a pizzeria owner standing outside
    waiting for his one in a week client,
    statistically speaking,
    I wonder if he buys fresh tomatoes each day,
    a whore pulling up her torn leggings.

    Your body.

    The miracle of destruction of my body,

    my sanity, my dwindling intellect
    sliding into my lap from the rear-viewing mirror
    and leaving traces of lipstick and mascara hanging in the air
    to support the climbing ivy and nesting birds and drooling clamor
    deserting my desires
    to claim your attention and your body
    and leave me in perfect incoherent stupor
    for the next traffic warden to happen by and stick a ticket under my wiper,
    the seventh today.




    Empty like... emptiness.
    Like the void surrounding that perfectly spherical marble
    containing the trillions of trillions of trillions of tons
    of universe
    before it exploded in same, above mentioned, universe.

    Like the thoughts in a dead body’s head.
    Like the vacant look on my father’s face when we buried mom
    and forever after.
    Like the story in a book composed of covers only,
    like the inside of o,
    like the chair of God,
    like the future of my poetry.


    I juggle balls in my mind,
    call them empty one, empty two, empty three
    and so on until empty seventeen.
    Have to stop at seventeen since this was my first almost love.
    My first almost non emptiness
    thinking back, if I remember correctly.
    The next one was probably the following year,
    the next one the year after,
    and so on,
    always almost. Empty.
    Some were even more than almost,
    some even maybe not empty.
    And yet, all I can think about is empty,
    like emptiness,
    like the future of my poetry
    and all the rest in between.

    Touch me.
    Make me forget.
    The only moment of... meaningful.


Poetic License

    I took some liberties with your body,
    like I always do
    with poetry.

    I proposed first the perfect rhyming of palm to breast,

    then proposed as second the slightly more complex rhyme
    between thumb and index to nipple
    followed by the forced yet nevertheless beautiful hip to hip...

    you agreed, forced yet paradoxically also much closer to perfection...
    and then I continued of course into the secret schemes
    located between navel and knees both individual and across individuals
    open to personal indiscretions
    and prompt retributions in kind
    yet not to public scrutiny,

    understandably so.

    No quotes, sorry.

    You proposed some convoluted combinations of your own,
    rock’n’roll to hard’n’hole
    or kiss’n’burn to twist’n’turn
    and even grip’n’groan to strip’n’moan
    as if I could follow the thin streak of dirt halving your mind
    into lurid and lecherous
    even if I wanted to.
    Of course I wanted to.

    I paused a moment with the poetry and liberties associated
    to measure the softness of the softest
    while you measured the hardness of the hardest
    but you got bored quite fast
    and I followed
    so we decided in an élan of mutual understanding
    to move on to experimental rhymeless rhyming
    with view to writing a book on the subject and becoming stinking rich.
    We didn’t reach even the stinking part of the goal.
    What with those billions of butterflies following you everywhere
    and those billions of flowers sprouting in front of you everywhere
    and those billions of glass marbles raining upon you from everywhere...
    ouch... it hurts... let’s make it soap bubbles, ok?...
    we stopped midway to the goal
    and with a scream of “what the hell”
    I wrote my entire poetic history inside your body
    followed by some dazzling words outside
    followed by a silence sister only to before the Big Bang.
    “Hey, I like your poetic liberties,” you whispered into my eye,
    taking some liberties yourself.
    The details are relevant,
    but I promised you to keep it all under wraps until you copyright the sequence.
    I ache for you to libertinize yourself again.
    After all
    you are a poet too, no?


Write me a smile

    Write me a smile, you said
    and I obeyed.

    With a smile full of flashing white teeth
    or fangs dripping blood
    or toothless gums frantically claiming nine clumps of broken denture and one missing
    or a mouth that lost the taste of sweet and bitter
    since that time ago when it lost the taste of yours.

    I hide in the garden
    on the cot next to the dog, and stray cats, and fleas
    and watch black shadows on white blinds
    while you undress
    then you dress
    then all the in-between that is left to my abounding imagination
    all the while allowing the dog to lick me
    and the cats to scratch me
    and the fleas to bite me
    as nothing matters while there is this gap
    window to cot
    you to me
    us to none.

    Write me a smile, you said.

    I wrote thousands
    I write thousands.
    Some I didn’t write. Still counts.
    Some I didn’t finish. Never mind. Never will. Still counts.
    Some I will.
    Some I sent.
    Some I will never send never write never nothing
    except mean every word of those unwritten,
    unsaid. Unsmiled.

    It’s a long time ago that you asked.
    Not eons but close.
    Now I try to smoothen chaos into incoherence
    where I stand some chance
    to reach through again.
    Smile or not.
    Dog, cats, fleas or not.
    You or you or no one else.

    Write me a smile, you say.
    And I obey.



    The sleigh’s runners
    crushed the rose,

    petalian blood stains cowered at the bottom of deep ruts
    and melting snow froze
    encasing death

    like white amber,

    oh, the short eternity of one single winter.

    You did not look back.
    Neither did the horses,
    the driver
    the wolves howling in the distance
    or the wind sweeping concentric circles around my feet.
    Neither did your thought,
    it never looked my way,
    it wasn’t there
    to look.

    The rest of the petals kept dripping through the fingers of my closed fist
    or were these the thorns mining nests inside my palms
    thirsty as they were
    for a human’s blood,


    mine, none other’s?

    It disappeared,
    maybe down the horizon
    maybe around the next bend
    maybe it never was there
    to start with.
    Belying myself
    the red blotches in the snow telling me
    that I was belying myself,

    it was there, to start with,
    to end with,
    it ended.

    I gathered the rest of the strewn bouquet,
    the lilac in winter and the lily in winter and the jasmine in winter
    where did I find all these wonders mid of the winter?... you never asked.
    Maybe never cared,
    maybe cared
    maybe never wanted to care but cared
    maybe I will never know. I will never know.
    I gathered the rest of the strewn bouquet
    and dumped it in the nearest garbage can I found on my way to somewhere.

    What was. What never could be. What died.

    I walked over to a snow covered bench and sat down,
    the snow melting into my clothes
    crows sitting on my shoulder
    wolves howling under my feet
    a dead cricket blaming me for its death.

    I imagined the summer that will never come
    and my heart broke,

    bloodless life seeping away with my breath
    and with you,
    down that horizon,
    past that bend,




    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.



    The killer,
    the second biggest killer of all time,
    no, not Jerry Lee,

    this one does not play the piano
    and has no blonde wavy hair
    and does not hit with his heels for another wild sound on the claviature,

    he does not even sit on a chair,

    he does not even exist.


    Called also boredom, routine, monotony, banality... any need to go on?
    The killer of family, relationship, ecstasy,
    the killer of love.
    The killer.

    The unwelcome guest butting between clasped hands and clasped bodies
    when you stop sharing the breath
    when you stop sharing the blanket
    when you stop sleeping naked and you stop sharing the warmth,

    when the only shared piece of life is a desk
    and you sit,
    side by side,
    each hitting devotedly
    their own keyboard.

    The second biggest killer of all time.
    The first, you ask?
    Why, you know him of course,

    time, of course.


Vignette sans Vigne

    equals tte...

    same like

    the I sans the you
    meaning meaningless

    as perfectly rhyming
    as meaningless a scenario,
    though the world got used to sans serif it is still ugly
    each letter an abomination
    and meaningless in its uniqueness
    until some meaning-well bastard like myself
    combines them into words
    then combines the words into sentences
    then tries his doubtful art into rhymes
    and still all meaningless and ugly
    like the sans serif

    whatever others may say. About sans serif. About my rhyme.

    Maybe because I grew on calligraphy.
    Maybe because of my ugly handwriting.
    Maybe because I love you.
    Certainly because I read a piece of news which made me cry
    with the ugliness of humans versus the beauty of humans
    and the meaninglessness of existence
    if such conflict exists.

    Don’t tell me there is no good without bad.
    Some bad should be exterminated, no, not sorry to say it,
    will not apologize.
    Good sans Bad is Good.

    Did not mean to write a vignette,
    did not write a vignette,
    just felt like an abomination for willing to exterminate an abomination,
    so I had to write something meaningless.

    To forget.
    To dampen the pain.
    And to say that I love you,



    Like crawling through sand,
    like a snake
    or like a rivulet about to be soaked in
    or like the frayed leftovers of a being, maybe once human,
    dragged nonchalantly by a hungry vulture.

    Simulations of without you.
    Simulations of after you.

    Refusing the right to be born,

    if knowing you were not to be begot
    or if facing the certainty you’d never listen to my poetry
    or if touching you would have been an obsolete dream
    carried by a carrion invaded mind
    and sick reality.

    Simulations of wishes.
    Simulations of wishful thinking.

    Promise me to not meet again.
    I will promise you to die.

    Simulations of promises.


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

    Just a healer.
    Just a killer.
    Time, just a driver to God’s eighteen-wheeler


    to crush my defenses
    and smother my senses
    and pluck all, but past, from my table of tenses.

    An allusion.
    A confusion.
    God, one more prop in a Time-staged illusion


    to cause me to wonder
    and force me to blunder
    while tracing the source of my heart’s restless thunder.

    Maze eternal.
    Fay and vernal.
    You, straddling mid of divine and infernal


    to feed me your nipple
    and double and triple
    if God’s, or if Time’s, or if Poetry’s ripple.


of Time. of God. of You. and of Poetry. (take 2)

    is a healer.
    is a killer.
    Time is the windmill and God is the miller

    trying, succeeding

    to rip my defenses
    and clutter my senses
    and keep just the past in my table of tenses.

    the delusion.
    the confusion.
    God is the promise while Time’s the occlusion

    trying, succeeding

    my body to sunder,
    my spirit to plunder
    yet failing to stifle my heart’s restless thunder.

    the eternal.
    ever vernal.
    You the divine and yet You the infernal

    trying, succeeding

    to feed me your nipple
    and maim me and cripple
    and fuse Time and God to my Poetry’s ripple.



    my body,

    the one surrounding my heart
    and spreading asymmetrically every which way,
    the physical
    not the spiritual, neither the metaphysical and certainly not the celestial
    where I did not yet reach
    yet soon will,

    the one inhabiting the inside of my sweat
    way under the clothes
    way under the air, way under the pollution,
    way too much in cahoots with decay and emerging death wishes
    collecting into chaotic poetry,

    my body, the one that abused my youth and loved my loves
    and crawls inside the pain blanket
    composed of creaking joints and cracking vertebrae and cawing trachea,

    my body,


My right to piss

    You took from me my spine.

    You took from me my spine,
    my shoulders, knees, neck, skin,
    my shape, my eyesight, my dance,
    my breath,
    my dogs
    my friends
    my parents,
    you took from me my right to chew
    and my right to caress a wanting breast
    and my right to unbend.

    Ha! And in addition to all this
    you took from me my right to piss.

    Next time around when we meet, age,
    don’t expect for me to vote for you again, no way.



    I’m being plagiated by others,
    so why should I feel bad about plagiating myself?
    I’m probably worth plagiating,
    hopefully others make some money from my brain’s fruit.
    Not bad from an old newcomer to the world of words.
    Thus I try myself as well.

    With variations, of course.
    Metaphors, oxymorons, alliterations...
    better I handle and re-mold them than some oxen, morons and alliterates.
    Yes, I know, the right word is illiterates,
    to me sounds as good, I don’t see reason to ask for forgiveness.
    Use your imagination, if you have any.

    Open parentheses.
    Of course – plagiarism, plagiarize – I prefer the short terms used above.
    At least in this rant.
    Mind it?
    Close parentheses.

    OK, back to the subject matter – I love my ideas.
    I love the combinations, the actors, the landscapes
    and I keep re-arranging them the way one re-arranges chess pieces
    while playing – never two the same, always the same beauty, different thought lines,
    sometimes losing. Probably lousy metaphor, I agree,
    I keep real metaphors for real poems,
    rants are second class citizens, I allow tears in the clothing and riffraff in the streets.
    Which I do not allow in real poems.
    There goes Savile Row, you know.
    Mil Spec. Hi Fi. Deutsche Grammophon. Bill, or whoever wrote his stuff.

    So keep your mouths, pens shut.
    Even well-meaning ones, though I don’t believe in well-meaning,
    Let me play in my personal sandbox,
    there are four boards limiting it
    but a few billions of grains to re then re then re-arrange.
    Lego has a lesson or two to learn,
    I think.


    “Such an ego,” those reading my poem say,
    so few of them.
    “Such a loss, those not reading the rest of my poetry,” I say,
    so many of them.
    “Such a pity, such a waste,” God the inexistent says,
    and I have problems reaching the bottom of his bottomless line of thought.
    “Punctuation is essential,” my literature teacher said, once upon a time.
    “I’ll do my best,” I said, once upon the same time.


    Last might I wasted a few hours of sleep, worrying to death a few words in my head
    until I finally got out of bed to jot them down on paper
    lest in the morning they be forgotten.
    I wonder if this is what afore mentioned God meant by “waste”. I hope not.



    My problem is
    I cannot end a poem, a relationship.

    My problem is
    I never ended poems, relationships.

    My problem is
    I will soon die and I will not be able
    to end my poems, relationships.

    Is this a problem really?
    Probably not.


Encounters of the woman kind

    I lay there panting life in life out,
    feeling king, queen, Goliath, whatever.

    She pulled the pillow against the bedhead
    leaned against it
    and started filing the leftovers of her fingernails,
    the rest stayed buried in my flesh.
    Say, she said, do you have any idea how ticks do it?
    I was still trying to live. I watched her with a bovine expression.
    Do it what?
    At least she didn’t use make love.
    Next day I vacuumed the fingernail dust, visited an exorcist

    and changed the lock. She, another one of course, chose Tosca.
    I love opera, she said, and sang a few lines from Vissi d’arte.

    It was more like screaming
    but I forgave and forgot, she had Lollobrigida’s body
    and Rapunzel’s hair
    and no other male seemed to care
    obviously too busy with visual attributes to be too concerned with auditory ones.
    I simply love Verdi, she continued
    and I should have been warned but was not.
    During the show she looked enraptured,
    her hand looking for desperate refuge in my lap
    and I had to hide the obvious under the programme I carried
    as her hand continued inside my zipper,
    I did not mind so much until she ohh’ed in my ear ohh, Jakob...
    with the tiny discrepancy of me being Joseph.
    I sent her ahead of me to my apartment,
    giving her the key to my previous lock.
    When I arrived, three days later, no one was waiting for me.

    She, another, and skipping a few other anothers, was the real deal.
    About time.

    Eyes like night teeth like snow hair like waterfall
    breath like blooming orange orchards
    mind like Einstein and Wordsworth and Freud
    voice like breeze through lilac
    breasts like apples
    fingertips like anthers...
    I was drunk with happiness anticipation,
    she knocked on the door, softly.
    Come in, I found myself chirping, my voice turned adolescent.

    She floated in, like a leaf falling from a tree.
    This is my father.
    This is my mother.
    This is my older sister, these are my younger brothers,
    this is my maternal grandmother
    this is my paternal grand grandfather,
    these are my three aunts, seven uncles, twenty three cousins,
    my aunt’s aunt
    my grand grandfather brother and wife
    my sister’s ex

    little by little I was being pushed towards the window,
    I let down the fire escape and escaped as if there was fire.
    They could keep the apartment.
    I decided to move to Alaska.

    I wonder what tomorrow will bring.
    A polar bear would do.


A Shoe Named George

    A shoe named George was murdered today.

    No one in the clothing world protested, demonstrated, inquired.
    Shoes are the lowest class, everyone knows,
    the plebeians, the slaves, is there anything lower than slaves
    and it does not matter if high heeled, low heeled or no heeled?
    The origins of the classification are obscure,
    seemingly to do with the fact that they were made of dead life
    and the fact that so were many luxury coats
    and that many of today’s shoes are of rather veggie or lab-stuff origin
    the coats stay high class and the shoes low class.
    Difficult to break a class system, huh?

    A shoe named George was murdered today
    and so was his wife, a shoe named George as well
    since by convention the male shoe name refers to the family as a whole.
    Family, ha, shoes are sterile the way of mules
    carrying all the load all their lives
    and finally leaving this world with no offspring to carry the flame on.
    The blatant inequalities of life, horrible.
    Trousers are fertile, stockings are fertile, even hats are fertile,
    shoes are sterile, barren, childless
    no one to mourn their death
    or shed a plastic tear
    or tell their story to next, ignorant generations.

    A shoe named George was murdered today,
    a couple. Incinerated, buried, forgotten.
    A shoe named Richard took its place
    and none will ever be the wiser.


A Hat Named Maud

    A hat named Maude was in love with a sombrero named Guilllermo,
    “yes, triple l” boasted Guilllermo “enough to define me above damn humans”
    and Maude would look at him in mute admiration
    stating, innocently, the obvious – “but you will always be above humans, my love”.
    A love as pure as NaCl, as H2O, as H2S (smelly but pure, nevertheless),
    as CnH12On (sugars, haha), as pure as Cummingtonite (hey, I did not invent it,
    it is a real magnesium-iron-silicate-hydroxide thing).

    They made love each night, all night long,
    and the head of Mrs. Ortega would each morning mention to the head of Mr. Ortega
    “doesn’t matter how we hang them each evening,
    we always find your sombrero inside my hat, as if they were making love,”
    and they would both laugh good naturedly and pinch each other’s cheek lovingly;
    not that they did not try to solve the mystery by using ICameras,
    IR sensors, UV sensors and even hiring a PI
    (no, not a 3.14 but rather a PrivateInvestigator).
    Finally they gave up and blamed it on the cat.

    “Are you with hat?” asked Guilllermo one night,
    seeing Maude slightly distended.
    “Sooon...” she whispered, emulating the three l’s in the three o’s,
    “sooon we will the parents of our first baby hats,”
    and Guilllermo wrapped his ribbon around her with a triple knot
    (another mystery for Mrs. and Mr. Ortega)
    and held her tightly until next morning.

    Mrs. and Mr. Ortega decided to call the local priest to exorcise their hats,
    watching one morning five small hat(chling)s carried by five colorful butterflies
    flying into the sunrise.


    She looked at me, strangely.
    “I’ve never heard such a stupid story,” she said.
    I looked back, a large toe sticking out from a hole on her right side,
    desire devouring me as I lay inertly there, on the floor.
    “I never knew you to be race-ist,” I muttered,
    “you really think that only socks have souls, desires...
    and what is with that big hole on your right side?”
    “And how do you think we are going to make love tonight?” she blushed,
    and if I wasn’t a red sock already
    I guess I would have blushed up into flames myself as well.

    That night she dropped on me
    and for the first time in my life I did not complain about her smell,
    she smelled like... a field of blooming roses.
    “How will we name them?” she asked, pulling away from my insistent penetration.
    “You mean the holes or the socklings,” I answered mischievously
    and we laughed and we laughed and we laughed.

    Next morning she left for work
    and I hated that toe taking possession of what was rightfully mine.



    floats down, timidly,

    like sooth deserting the mighty, invincible army
    of chimneys
    with their tall, thin, thick, brick, tin, square, round encasing
    carrying red rags torn from the countless, dead Santas
    that ventured down their bellies,

    like dust calling off its static allegiance
    to surfaces and nooks and cracks and sculptures and figurines
    following the gravitational call of its fat, round lover
    beckoning to perdition
    of another kind,

    like snowflakes
    lost to the eyes of clouds
    to find their way to the eyes of me
    where they disintegrate beauty into saltless tears
    and follow a predestined trail to my mouth
    where a sneaky tip of tongue
    snatches them in,

    befriends me like Delilah of Sorek, like Jael of Heber, like Judith of Merari,
    so sweetly innocent.


The Last Straight Stretch

    The last straight stretch,
    that overly used and abused metaphor,
    straight... ha... what straight stretch?...

    a stretch filled with turns and twists and serpentines
    and potholes mid of the road
    and traps and deadends and nails and swamps
    with the only sign of life the one carried by mosquitoes
    and scorpions
    and crocodiles,

    if at least it was dogs, even wild dogs
    but no, it had to be crocodiles
    and the ten biblical plagues with short Hebrew names
    like dam or arbeh or shhin
    replaced by ten times ten modern plagues with long Latin names
    like blepharospasm and myelopathy and incontinentia which has nothing to do with continental drift
    and I’ll stop enumerating before I add suicidium to the list.

    The last straight stretch.
    The joke. Ha!
    Underestimated God’s sense of humor
    until I saw my first crocodile eye to eye
    and I started laughing and kept laughing
    until my nose fell off.
    It didn’t?
    It will, I promise you,
    at this pace it will.
    Just don’t yet have the relevant Latin term for it.


Dead Words

    I think of you.

    You, death, not you she.

    The one patiently waiting to share with me all of my eternity
    even if not all of my present
    and none of my dreams,
    strange creature you are, death.

    You are not jealous of my present single love, lover.
    And you don’t expect me to be jealous of yours, of course,
    all the billions of them
    sharing your bed
    sharing your body
    making love to you eternally
    and still, you are not satiated... yet.
    There should be a special book written about you, dear necromantic,
    someone wrote already a book called “bible”
    too many characters share the spotlight there, you need your own, dedicated masterpiece,
    should be called “the book of eternal love” or something like that, I think so.

    Multigamous bitch, you are,
    and still you expect and demand of me my monogamous future
    and smile smugly in knowledge of the fact
    that you have it.

    How did we become such loyal lovers, my love?
    Or are rather to become in a not so distant future
    ours and ours alone. Or even better said mine and a billionth of you, alone.
    See you soon, love.
    I’m not dying to see you
    but I guess I will die to see you.
    Strange paradox
    especially since it is composed of pure reality
    and words. Dead words, of course.


The Age of Ugly

    I’m ripe.

    Yes, ripe bordering on rotting
    but as long as no fruit fly is yet flying reconnoitering circles around me
    I guess I can claim I am on this side of rot,
    not yet that side.

    Lost my BIO grading quite some time ago,
    artificially pushing the border ripe-rotten a few miles further down the one-way road
    by stuffing my insides with the chemistry of anti-pain
    and anti-creak
    and anti-obsolescence of sleep, sex, smile, satisfaction, sagacity

    Did graduate into BIOnic range though,
    my body a compound of precious metals, a grave robber’s fantasy
    of gold and silver and platinum and chrome-vanadium and titanium
    nut not yet diamondium
    since it is for people on the rot side to wear it on their fingers
    rather than in their bodies
    and I am not yet on that side,
    still on this side,
    not for long.

    I’m ripe.
    Ready for the scythe this or that side of the border
    ready to be plucked this rather than that side of the border
    ready to drag you up a rock into a cave on a bed of brambles
    and screw you into insanity this
    not that
    side of the border.


Being nice about it

    I penetrated into your life

    like a stave
    like an icepick
    like a stiletto
    like a pile

    into butter
    into mush
    into strawberry
    into silk

    You curled around my life

    your butter
    your mush
    your strawberry
    your silk

    like a drill’s chuck
    like a spikeless iron maiden
    like a piece of shrink tube
    like a hose clamp

    like a crocodile’s jaws
    like a constrictor’s muscle
    like an octopus’ tentacle
    like a flytrap’s lobes

    around stave
    around icepick
    around stiletto
    around pile


    OMG, how many encyclopedia volumes did you have to read for this text?
    OMG, none. The only thing I read was my scars.



    At six you are an idiot.
    A charming idiot with nothing on his mind
    except climbing trees, throwing stones,
    chasing girls (with the intention of pulling their hair, of course),
    sneaking his dog in bed
    and admiring breathlessly his teacher god.
    As said, an idiot. Harmless.

    At thirteen you are still an idiot,
    less so but still so.
    Ripped between a puppy curiosity
    and a meaningless puppy love
    and a meaningful departure into the unknown,
    the pride of the nerd
    the shyness of the non-dancer
    the mindlessness of goat head against goat head,
    the life lessons refused
    ready for an eternity that will always stay eternity.
    As said, an idiot but less so. Harmless.

    At eighteen, the knowledge of invincibility.
    Idiocy at its highest.
    You will never die.
    Your love eternal.
    Your muscles steel, your flesh fire,
    your dreams the certainty of tomorrow’s reality.
    Loop back to you will never die.
    Then loop back some more.
    Idiocy at its highest yet still one step to go upwards
    before the chasm,
    With harmlessness wearing at the edges.

    At thirty.
    The first cracks in your spine.
    The first plateau. The last plateau
    though the screams are mainly physical. A bit of psychical, not much.
    plateaus as well.
    Bliss or curse? Not clear, will never be. Harmlessness undefined.

    Forty eight. Reality.
    Kicks you in the face like a nail-shod mule.
    Your work dies. Your dog dies. Your mother dies.
    Your idiocy dies
    and suddenly you know that the best that could ever happen to you
    is that you die before everything else dies.
    Yet with idiocy dead in your soul
    there is nothing to pull the bliss over your eyes, to protect you.
    You know.
    Everything else will die
    before you.
    Harmlessness dies.

    Idiocy long dead. Harmlessness long dead.
    Deaths along your path pile up. Death. Death. Death.
    You stop counting.
    You accept the pain. You accept the death of eternity, of invincibility, about time you do.
    You know you’ll never watch all the movies you wish to refresh,
    you’ll never listen to all the music you forgot in its sleeves,
    you wake up every morning and say Shit, I woke up again?
    Which death will I have to face today? Friend, foe, idol, stranger?

    You watch fearfully the cumulated hours lining before you
    and reaching into the coming night
    and ask – how many of these left? One? Maybe more?

    Eighty. Not yet there. With idiocy dead you fear eighty.
    But you discover the actor in you
    and you play the day, each day.
    No more birthday celebrations, though,
    they remind you too much of those who don’t celebrate them anymore.
    No more birthday presents.
    No more birthday dates.
    Anytime soon.
    Harmless again, soon.

    You. I.E. I.


Hey, death

    Hey, death, are you there?
    I am here.
    Oh, for a moment I thought you were there, I mean elsewhere, wishful thinking.
    I am here, you have nothing to worry,
    I am always here.

    Hey, don’t you have business elsewhere, you know, on Earth,
    in the universe?
    As far as you are concerned, I am yours and yours only.
    Yeah, real dedication...
    Yeah, that’s me, dedication. You can trust me.
    Hey, I may believe you but it does not mean that I have to trust you, OK?
    Don’t push it.
    OK, you’re the boss.
    Yeah, sure...

    Hey, death, do you remember me?
    Always. Better than an elephant.
    I see. I did not know that death had a sense of humor. It’s news to me.
    Has. And don’t underestimate me, I have a great sense of humor.
    Just look around.

    I looked around, as if I had to,
    I always had this attitude that I try very hard to accommodate my discussion partners.
    No exception with death, guess it is a genetic thing.
    Yes, I see, great sense of humor,
    all this pain wherever it is expected less, wherever it is hurting more.
    I could almost sense his/her/its bowing in appreciation to my appreciation,
    his/her/its transparent veils brushing close to my cheek and leaving a stinging sensation.
    Do you mind? I asked
    and moved backwards a few steps.
    You think that you can move away from me,
    hi hi hi?

    We say ha ha ha.
    I know, just wanted to show you my rhyming poetic side.

    Hey, death, do you love me?
    Sure, love you to me. Again that thanatoid sense of humor.
    You mean love me to death.
    Forever. Short as it may be. Along with the rest of trillion trillions.
    Trillion trillions?
    Of course – humans, animals, plants, microbes, planets...
    You mean you in love with all these? And here I thought I was your one and only.
    I was failing at sounding sarcastic, try as I may.
    I did not say in love. I said I love them, you, all.
    Aha, long live the little, trillion trillionth little difference.
    Thanks for understanding.
    Clearly, he/she/it has no sense of sarcasm.
    And you, do you love me?
    I almost chocked on my ice-cream.
    No. Not even a trillion trillionth of love.
    Not even puppy love.
    Wait some more, I heard his/her/its chocking on himself/herself/itself laughter,
    soon you’ll love me olddy love,
    and he/she/itself made a sweeping move with the scythe or sickle or hatchet
    or whatever it is death does sweeping moves with
    joined be a loud hi hi hi which followed soon after.
    And what poetic excuse do you have now, for hi hi hi?
    Well, olddy rhymes with hi hi hi.
    Wrong, wrong accent, doesn’t match.
    Does it matter in love situations?
    No, not in this kind of love.
    Tell me, do you sharpen your tool from time to time?
    I don’t want a blunt one on my neck.
    All the time sometimes.
    Yeah, just like death to provide you with a direct answer.
    Fuck you, death.
    Yeah, I wish.

    Hey, death...
    Hey, Death!
    Hey, death, I insisted having told him/her/it already the way things stood between us,
    do you have any family?
    The question seemed to have taken him/her/it aback.
    There was a lull in his/her/its talking back fluency.
    For a few moments all I could hear was the grindstone
    softly caressing the sharp end of the whatever tool lay there in invisible wait.
    Sure, came the answer after a break not commensurable with the previous breaks.
    I mean, it looked like the answer needed some cogitation
    before getting its final expressed form.
    God, he/she/it said,
    and I could hear certain defiance there.
    Makes sense, I guess if I asked God he/she/it would have said the same, huh huh huh?
    Nice family, you two.
    You mean you don’t think of God as a he?
    He/she/it was trying to divert the conversation from the main path, it was quite clear.
    No, death, I don’t think of God as anything
    because I don’t think God exists.
    I think you are just some wizened, shaggy, withered, shrunken, cadaverous,
    gaunt and genderless and sexless and ugly bitch, figuratively speaking,
    that was never born and will never die, ha ha ha,
    and thus takes its revenge on everything else that is everything you are not,
    figuratively and literally and metaphorically speaking.
    Go to hell, death!

    I could hear the shrieking breath,
    I could hear the swoosh,
    I could hear the sob.
    I wish I could. There is no hell, either.
    I had death in a corner and the only revenge it could ever come with
    was in that swoosh finalizing its sweep
    my way.



Morbid Math

    The last day all you have left is one day,
    actually less, once you get there.

    And even then, mostly you don’t know unless if it was pre-planned
    by this ingenious creature called man
    with his variety of electrical/mechanical/chemical tools.
    BAM! Some would envy BAM! Most do not.

    There were so many days so many days ago
    when you screamed your first scream but you don’t remember,
    better that you don’t remember, right?
    You start remembering later
    but you never count... yet,
    the half-time life of human so much less defined
    than the half-life time of a radioactive pile
    and anyway so far away that it is meaningless.
    Until you reach it or more or less the whereabouts of it
    yet the other half-life time is also kind of far away, though closer.
    Then you reach this one as well
    and somehow the intervals get shorter
    and suddenly you find yourself counting
    and suddenly you remember that pseudo riddle
    of the one who had to get from here to there
    and when he gets half way he gets to half of what is left
    and then half of this half
    and so on to infinity so he never gets there, right? Wrong!
    A geometric series with a ratio of ½
    and though its length is infinite
    the sum total is very much finite.
    Mathematically proven!
    So the one who had to get from here to there gets there.
    So the one who has to get from here to death gets there.
    You die! BAM!
    Mathematically proven.



...ok, so I try to persuade some poets to buy a book I spit blood on anthologizing their material in, and I write a long funny email, and part of this email is a “poem”. So, since I hate wasting my poetical inspiration, especially of the rhyming kind, and since this book is anyway called Chaos...

    In case you wonder if it’s love
    That made us write the words above
    Then rest assured, in fact it is -
    It’s love, it’s heart, it’s prize, it’s bliss.

    Thus please forgive this bit of cheek
    We never claimed to be as meek
    As to prevent the stinging graze
    Of truth set forth in churlish ways.

    We made this book, for you, the “Best”
    At no one’s wish, neither behest
    And colored books carry a cost
    Above all books, or maybe most,

    And we did hope, and still we do
    That with the help of likes of you
    We’ll cover some of our cost
    And if not all at least the most.


    Repeating rhyme! Oh, fateful sin
    Though it was... well... ahm... foreseen,
    Let’s finish here this diatribe
    And this small (?) peeve let’s circumscribe.

    We wish you peace (and petrichor)
    Your humble team (and editor).



    Life is a river.

    Following doggedly, obstinately
    just one path, one direction, one destination.

    And death.

    Fatalists call it fate.
    Scientists call it entropy.
    Poets call it meaninglessness.

    Guess which of all these is what I am.


    that day
    chaos dies.


Love song, absurd one

    She has eyes
    under her eyebrows. Two.

    These eyes are rough, ragged
    like sandpaper number 30, maybe number 60
    but certainly under number 120.

    She has legs
    between her shoes and her body. Two too.

    There is a knee on each
    and she did not shave them recently, the legs,
    or maybe did with a garden hoe.

    She has toes at the lower end of her legs,
    I believe both. I believe five each.

    She calls the big toe by my name
    when she washes it, separately from the others
    to prevent envy.

    Then there are nails at the end of the toes
    painted with blue ink. Five each. Not each toe, each leg, ha ha.

    Maybe the blue ink stains are poems
    but I couldn’t read them
    she is so shy.

    I love her like the red curve
    in the rainbow I saw thirteen years ago, give or take one year.

    I was still in love with my previous love
    but the love of that love was not like the love of this love
    since now I define love with love and then I did not use love, if you understand (I don’t).

    I love her like green tea with three spoonfuls of sugar, a bit of mint,
    a slice and half of lemon cut exactly thirteen minutes earlier and at 65 degrees, Celsius.

    This is how much I love her.
    I could measure it also in cocoa with milk or in frozen water
    but no one would understand. So let’s stick to tea.

    I love her like she loves me between 11 am and 3 pm,
    each first Sunday of the month. December excepted.

    I love her even more
    if more would be possible,
    maybe on another planet, Pluto maybe, because it’s small, relativity you know.

    And she loves me because of my beautiful poetry
    about her, her body, her shoes.

    I will never disappoint her.
    My next poem will be about the new shoes she bought yesterday, at 50% off.
    If she loved me until now, she will love me even more after. Oh, the wonder of her.



    I, has reached the summum of
    I, has gone to the moon and back
    has walked the tangled path of poetic madness and mad poetry
    and stayed bewildered at the simplicity of achieving
    has created a new language of
    misunderstanding and disunderstanding and ununderstanding,
    has birthed dreams written on soap baubles
    and kept them alive for the whole of a thousand

    I, has never died

    I, has seen the world fall apart many times
    and wonders at recovery’s resilience.

    I, has doubted and doubts heaven and hell
    but bears witness to the second
    though none exists. As neither does I.



    ...or maybe ay ay ay for personal consent
    or aye aye aye for parliamentary consent
    or ai ai ai for personal pain (Romanian)
    or oy oy oy for generic pain (Yiddish)
    or ihay ihay ihay for a donkey’s mating call.
    Or an eye for an eye for an eye.
    Or even Ay Ay Ay the way ancient Egyptians probably hailed their penultimate pharaoh.
    All of above derivatives or engenderers of I I I.

    Or maybe it’s the composer’s (ROFL) meaning and intent to point out
    I am
    I am not.
    Possibility. One of trillions. Other triplets being Intuition Initiative Improvisation
    Imbecility Idiocy Inanity
    Indigestion Indoctrination Indisposition
    Innocence Infatuation Infelicity
    Infamy Ignominy Improbity
    Intimacy Interplay Intercourse
    ...more? I’ve had enough as well, meaningless or meaningful as these may be
    for the remainder of trillions minus six.

    I like this incoherence inconsistency inconsonance in my writes
    it points to greatness comparable to Picasso’s Einstein’s Don Quichotte’s
    and similar geniuses slash prodigies slash nuts
    and while I wait for my bowl of soup to boil (hunger goes with genius etc.)
    I I I (this here is just I stuttering) will keep dreaming of a world in triplicate
    where the original can be disposed of
    and the copies are too washed out to live in.

    Abstract enough? Obtuse enough? I am glad to hear. I too. I too.


The wonder of I

    I wonder about this wonder
    the way other millions or billions may wonder
    provided they have a basic understanding of biology and statistics.

    Once upon a time the wonder was non existent
    the chances being considered around one in four
    taking into account copulation yes-no success and male-female choice.
    The specific I being pre-determined, no further questions asked.

    Now, in these knowing-better times, the question is asked – why I,
    with the rhyme in the question being purely coincidental.

    OK, creationists still do not ask any question
    God’s finger being the one to blame or bless for whatever happens in the womb,
    sounds almost indecent though to them it is not.
    Mathematicians have all the answers though they have none
    since statistics care for the masses but not for the individual
    and all the Bernoulli’s and Boltzmans and Poissons and so on and so forth
    cannot explain the I writing these lines.
    Biologists hide behind acidity and swim ability and timing of ovulation
    and can well explain the process but not the decision –
    I, why I and not the dead millions of would-have-been Is?
    Determinists... well, taken that we will never own sufficient knowledge and tools
    to model everything in the macro universe and micro universe
    are almost as obscure as creationists and yet more objectively acceptable –
    IF we possessed the knowledge and/or the tools the I would be predictable
    as well as everything else. What a bore that would be.
    Don’t worry, it will never happen.
    The wonder of I will remain
    the way the wonder of so-what-if-I will keep haunting our lives
    until that day when the not I takes over
    and we stop wondering
    and leave the wonder and the shit to others.

    And if you, as opposed to I, will read carefully between the lines
    you will most certainly discern a certain non-philosophy
    as opposed to a certain yes-boredom
    which was the main drive behind me writing these lines you were just reading between.
    Trust me, it is less stupid than you might think
    but feel free to interpret and wonder.
    After all for you, you are I.



    Strange, don’t you think
    the way that literally overnight, on the cosmic scale of things,
    one metamorphoses from one race to another,
    from butterfly to cocoon
    from David to Block-Of-Marble-Before
    from Youthful to Youthless (not to use the infinitely more suitable Obsolete),
    from once the one with the bounce in his walk
    and the zing in his talk
    his six pack of rock
    and the nail in his feel free to choose your own rhyme here
    to now the one with the ouch in his walk
    harrumph in his talk
    with fat on the rock
    and a noodle’s his feel free to choose your own rhyme here,
    from once the one unbending the U of a horseshoe into the I of a trainrail
    to now hardly bending to tie his shoes and getting preferential seating on trains,
    strange this racial metamorphosis, don’t you think?
    I. Another race. Alien. On Earth. From Earth.

    Contagious raciality it is, mind you, you better keep away
    ’cause I’ve got it from my new, very unpleasant neighbors
    who moved uncalled for into my neighborhood
    and it is for the first time in my life that the oppressing shadow of racism
    started sprouting in my spirit, too late to retreat, to repent, to use garlic,
    oh God forgive me for I have sinned...
    neighbors carrying fancy Teuton – Anglo-Saxon – Greek – Latin – Cyrillic - Etc names
    some of which you’ll probably recognize and then maybe forgive me too
    (in addition to God)
    like Alzheimerstein and Senilius and Dementiades and Sclerosion and Arthritisum
    and Hypertensmith
    and Diabetina
    and Osteoporopovici
    Von Prostatenberg
    and others of the same tribe
    all sons and daughters of Chronicsease the damned
    multiplicity of name singularity of evil unity of purpose
    all of them damned as well
    and now not only damned but also my neighbors and I part of them... tfu, tfu, tfu.

    Someone slightly more racist (in context) than me told me that the secret to fight them
    subdue them
    kick them in the balls
    is to work hard at developing new... neurons?!?!?! (pay attention to the punctuation)
    and since beggars are no choosers I took her advice literally
    and started developing every kind of neuron possible
    using the enlightening guidance of my own troubled spirit
    encyclopedia Britannica
    the grocery shop owner at the end of my street odd numbered side
    three gurus one of which aged ninety eight and married for a sixth time
    fortune cookies
    second hand fortune cookies
    various bible translations
    a podiatrist
    an orthopedist
    an astronaut (retired)
    an elephant (secret recipe)
    and many other sources.
    I started studying languages, seven,
    climbing church bell-towers, six,
    throwing oranges at city council meetings, many,
    reading books reflected in a mirror
    eating entire onions in pairs...
    I believe that I would need several pages to expound my experience in this matter,
    certainly more than 250 lines.

    I am sure I’ve got a lot of extra neutrons by now.
    Also neutrinos.
    I hope I got also a lot of extra neurons. At least connections. At least disentanglements.
    I will let you know once I get some good news about my new neighbors.
    Like that they burned. Or fell under a tractor. Or choked on an unpeeled pineapple.
    All of which would have been contributed by my additional neurons
    blessed be they.

    And if my new neighbors, God forbid, win?!?!?! (same punctuation) you ask?
    Then at least you, my dear reader, would know by now what I tried and did not help
    so that you should pick up the effort wherever I left it hanging
    and keep the search for the graal, one day you or one of your followers will find it,

    will it be the making of love under an elevator moving down,
    the counting of grains of salt filling an empty can of beer one by one,
    the believing of a politician’s promises?...

    the universe is infinite,
    the graal is one,
    the answer lies out there waiting to be discovered,
    I trust you, my followers.

    Now back to tying my shoes, I started three hours and fourteen minutes ago.



    I buried two parents. Two.
    Maybe a debatable number for some, a natural number for me,
    an unfortunate, terrible number when talking about death.
    Not just a number, a piece of life, of me, a marker on my own way
    there. Soon to arrive. And stop counting.

    I buried three barbers. Another road mark
    counting time, another way of counting time.
    I buried at least fifteen singers I idolized
    twenty screen stars I idolized
    three screen stars, female, I was in love with
    six dogs.
    Good friends, few.
    Friends, colleagues, many.
    Family I remember, many, family I forgot, many,
    radio presenters few,
    great politicians few,
    shitty politicians many some unfortunately still alive,
    Some trees felled either by me or by hired hand
    some wall decorations emptied before selling the walls and the history
    some pictures yellowed with time, eaten away
    though who cares once I join them
    the pictures
    the dogs
    the parents.

    Soon I’ll become part of this poem too
    and someone else will funeralize about me, or of me, or for me
    or not
    and who cares at all,
    surely not me
    once there.

    Today I buried an acquaintance,
    another one.

    Who’s next?



    I am not crazy. I assure you.
    Irrelevant what my poetry says.
    I am still as sharp as a needle and as tuned as a fiddle,
    irrelevant the nonsense that my fingers hammer into the keyboard,
    it’s my way of saying... I am not crazy, ha-ha,
    what better way than making you believe I am?
    Like in the detective stories – what better alibi than no alibi?
    Of course it does not prove anything in this direction
    yet neither does it prove anything in the opposite direction.
    Thus – up to you to accept or contest,
    not that I care either way.

    Truth being said I am kind of blue for a variety of reasons,
    unfortunately this does not lead to so called crazy
    and not even to crazy enough to force me to write some more meaningful poetry
    you know
    the kind that does not look and read like an essay or a rant
    broken into stanzas
    then further on broken into lines
    so that it does look like poetry but lacks the heart.
    See, told you, I am lucid enough to admit
    yet not crazy enough to change,
    at least not right away.
    Maybe tomorrow.
    Maybe never.
    Maybe I don’t know when.
    Maybe I do know but don’t want to tell, you know, the prima-donna complex, ha-ha,
    a complex which I certainly don’t own. Fact.

    I suppose I could write

    of stars painting with sparks the night asleep inside her eyes
    of suns chasing ascending gods from oceans to the skies
    of fingers crawling up the slopes of her awaking breast
    to die upon the fire’s hell ablaze upon its crest...

    I could write, I suppose.
    I don’t.

    I could also write

    the forest, teeming streaking life
    is sun’s adoring wife
    and angel wings
    drip sparkling strings
    to soothe creation’s strife...

    thus reviving the reviled life-wife-strife trio
    along with the frowned upon angels angle...
    I could, I suppose.
    I don’t.

    Reasons unknown,
    or maybe known but discarded under a thick, smelly carpet.
    So I keep to my crazy stint, if any, direction, if any, meaninglessness, not really.
    I will find myself one day, for sure,
    until then please let me enjoy the “they’re coming to take me away, ha-ha...”
    bout of (doubtful) happiness.


Millennium Mathematics

    When you were born
    I was born. Some years earlier.

    The difference X years in numbers
    and close to infinity in percents,
    making love was not even a question.

    Many years later the numerical difference still X
    but the percential (inexistent word, sorry) difference diminished considerably,
    maybe still outrageously big for you to consider love making
    but not outrageously big for me to consider same
    so I outrageously considered.

    Now let’s assume a world
    where you and I live a thousand years
    and the rest of humanity should care for the rest of humanity,
    several centuries in the future
    we’re still X years apart
    but the difference in percents keeps dwindling year after year into insignificance
    so towards the millennium none of us harbors whatever reticence anymore
    and we let go wildly
    into the artistic world of
    love making and copulation and fucking and mating and intercourse and venery
    and all other synonyms of same or more or different
    like rabbits like snails like fish like spiders and I do not mind you eating me, after,
    until we reach the millennium
    and lie down embracing,
    thankful for millennium mathematics
    and its indulgent consideration.



    ...you see
    there was this witch, ugly,
    like a summer day mid of the deepest winter
    like a blue flower in a black and white world
    like a drop of dew at high noon in the heart of a desert...

    Huh? was all she said
    looking strangely at me.

    ...you see
    there was this witch, clothed most horribly,
    wearing a dress woven from rainbow and cotton and spring water
    wearing a necklace of glowing coal shards strung together on a ray of sun
    wearing sandals of palm leaves ground to the thickness of their green...

    Huh? was all she said
    looking even stranger at me.

    ...you see
    there was this witch, ruggedly cawing,
    when all you heard was the silvery tinkle of spiderweb thin crystal chimes
    when all you heard was butterfly wings spreading pollen globulets
    when all you heard was dolphin poetry translated to human ear...

    Huh? was all she said.
    Huh? she repeated later, uncertain if to disengage her hand from mine or not.
    OK, so – assuming I get to your meaning – where do I fit in your world?
    She emphasized the I, the muscles in her fingers tense
    ready to tear
    ready to flee.
    I did not answer right away,
    I was struggling for the right answer
    for the only answer.

    ...you see,
    there is this woman, ugly,
    like a summer day mid of the deepest winter...

    She tore my clothes
    she tore my flesh
    she drank me for seven days and seven nights.

    I see, was all she said.



    The child
    is old.

    Not so long ago he was still young old
    still playing hopscotch
    climbing trees
    running one hundred meters in less than ten seconds,

    now even this is gone
    old old is the new adjective,
    sorry for crudeness, apologies for crudeness, not really.

    Strange how an interface to the world called skin
    took over from a main computer to the world called I
    servant turning master
    like leaves taking over from tree
    or paint taking over from painting
    or words taking over from poem,

    an ignorant new owner of the entity starting to lose vital negotiations
    first some
    then a lot
    then all.
    Hopscotch suddenly out of the question.
    Climbing trees suddenly out of the question.
    Running, out of the question. Not suddenly. But definitely. Irrelevant the seconds.
    out of the question.
    taking yourself
    out of the question. Not suddenly either. Definitely either.

    Question itself turns exclamation, soon.
    Exclamation turns period, soon.
    Period turns stain, not even historical stain, just stain, soon.
    In couple years the stain turns fossil
    with even those other billions of years old fossils carrying more interest
    than this one.

    sorry for crudeness, apologies for crudeness, apologies for repeat, not really,
    this is what an old old child does
    Until he doesn’t repeat.


A Midsummer Night's Nonsense

    I woke up middle of the night
    a radar, my hands, waving frantically ahead of me
    lest I hit a wall and flatten my nose
    too late in life for a Roman nose, haha,
    too late in life for anything, haha,

    I probably should title this poem ‘haha’, haha.
    Yeah, IQ200, I know, showing – doesn’t it?

    I had my pee, my drink of water, then again...
    no, not the pee, not yet there, just my drink.
    Then again. See above. God, I am thirsty at 3:41 am
    probably those pickles at 11:12 pm
    accompanying salted peanuts
    thoughts of years left thoughts of pickles left thoughts of you left right and everywhere.

    Didn’t feel like getting back in bed
    more like sitting down and letting my hands misdecide which keys to hit
    with my ears searching for eventual intruders
    unicorns capricorns goats.
    None found. Got up for another drink, another pee, sorry, back to words
    and meaninglessness my new aspiration conspiration expiration inspiration.
    Constipation obstipation extirpation, no haha and no idea why.

    Turn off the light
    turn on the light and let the needle drop on the LP forgotten on the turntable
    forgetting that the volume was set to maximum from earlier on
    appreciating the sudden enthusiastic vehement and thunderous applause
    (originally written aplalause, 4:07 am, you know)
    from my neighbor two walls over
    (the apartment adjoining mine empty, I swear not because of me)
    and then in a sudden attack of explosive disorder I decided to castigate him
    and turned the sound off.
    I listened attentively to sounds of protest... none...
    I hoped I did not cause him a heart attack due to disappointment and lack of sonic beauty.
    I resisted yet another kind of impulse, to go and check on him,
    after all he had this gigantic Rottweiler that did not seem to appreciate my presence
    and my pet hedgehog’s presence
    (who followed me everywhere, except to the Turkish consulate).

    4:23 am. I yawned as loudly as possible. Still no reaction.
    My hedgehog barked. Maybe it was the Rottweiler, not clear.
    I saved my nonsense, turned off the light and let my hands do the radar thing,
    see above, Romans – here I don’t come.
    I did step though on a Lego block which I lost earlier on
    while building the Empire State Building, still at the corner stone.
    I did not curse because of my hedgehog’s sensitivities
    and, anyway, I was happy I found it.
    I could finally (later on) finish the corner of the cornerstone.
    I guess I was in love.
    Don’t ask what does this declaration do at this specific point in time and rhyme,
    or lack of it.
    I know I lost it, it, you know which it and don’t, please, force me into explanations.
    Tomorrow/today’s another day
    and maybe I’ll have an explanation.
    Right now I have a thirst
    a yawn
    a sleep
    a hedgehog.

    Good night everybody who just reached this line
    i.e. nobody.
    Thank God, better nobody while surrounded by brick walls
    than nobody while surrounded by upholstered walls.
    Forgot the hands.
    Remember the Roman thing?...


Letter To death

    Dear death,

    Please forgive my not using capitals for your name,
    I don't respect you, thus this small token of disrespect.
    I say forgive me just because I am polite, not because I mean it.
    I actually like the idea of decapitating you, haha.
    Don’t frown, oh, please don't frown,
    It doesn't become you, you petty thief,
    You are always in such a good mood, why should you frown all of a sudden
    Because of some paper written words
    By a paper poet
    Snubbing his nose at you?
    After all, you know you always win this game,
    Dirty and sold up front, true,
    But what do you care, you were always a dirty player.

    I keep wondering if you finished your college cum laude,
    Bet you cheated there as well,
    And I am a bit surprised how did your master allow you to graduate?
    Are you so good that you succeeded to cheat him as well
    And while he was happily reading your fantasized reports
    You snubbed him the way I snub you and did it your way?
    Hey, I didn't mean to sound funny but I did,
    Do you hum it the way ol' blue eyes Frankie did it?

    Ha, I found your secret, you know?
    You simply read too many fashion magazines
    And decided elegance is your way.
    You wish to look always fresh
    The newest look, the latest cry,
    And you found a way, you dress yourself in human bodies...
    Always fresh a human body, always refreshingly different,
    You stalk your victim, learn its ways, learn how to poison it
    And then you sneak into its body
    Like the parasite you are
    Taking over little by little its functions, its life, its glow,
    And for eternal moments you revel in your exploits in front of your anonymous
    Renegade celestial audience,
    Till finally you all get bored,
    And you drop the body emptied of its essence into decay
    And move to your new dress, your next body.

    Oh, what an exhilarating life you must be living,
    Though funny to talk to you about life,
    The joy of eternal change, eternally renewable fashion,
    And as you walk on the coffin shaped podium
    Beaming at the glorious words people and priests and composers sing to you
    You bow in that beautiful Narcissistic way of yours,
    Add a few more thousands of tears to your unique collection
    And you move on.

    Sometimes you are impatient,
    How unbecoming for a divine creature such as you,
    I guess, after all, you are only death,
    You have your flaws, no creation is perfect
    As the creator knows.
    I know, in my own petty way I am a creator myself.
    Then, at your moments of crazed indecision
    You go by the thousands,
    Trying body after body looking for the flavor of the day
    Dressing and discarding whatever is not ŕ la mode
    The beauty of the corpses littering your wake food for your desires of grandeur
    And you don't calm down until you tried them all
    Tired and disgusted you go to sleep in that dreamless land of yours.

    Et voilŕ,
    You remembered to visit me again,
    Hey, thought you have forgotten me already.
    But I didn't forget you, I remember the several times you visited me
    In different guises
    And please excuse me my disapproving of your taste in garments
    I know it will drive you mad and I am glad for it.
    When you take babies, lovers, mothers, men of virtue,
    And you hang them in your closet for future use
    Waiting for them to ripen to your size for a long time,
    Rows and rows of them,
    Some forgotten, some discarded after a second thought,
    Some never to be used even, just the heedlessness of your spoiled brat ways...

    And I cannot but think, actually remind myself -
    death is a despicable bastard, a spoiled brat,
    And the only thing it doesn't like is people looking it straight in the eyes.
    There were many, I know, we humans are a stubborn race, you know.
    Well, add one more to the list.

    By the way, no need to write back,
    I know where to find you when I need you.



Poor Aging Earth

    So let’s see, what are the age periods of our clay mother,
    if you allow me a pun to both lines of thought...

    oh, those beautiful Greek meaningless (to the layman that I am) names
    like Paleoproterozoic in its prime
    then through Mesoproterozoic
    and up to Cenozoic in its present...

    and next? What next?

    Looking into the bright sunny future awaiting us
    (well, not me, I’ll be long gone by then)
    and our grand-(times x)-children
    (they will be there, hopefully).
    Well, let me make my proposition, take it or leave it or sleep on it, OK?
    I suggest Pornitozoic, if you get my drift.
    Or maybe Politozoic
    seen that except for a few letter and some other insignificant variations
    these carry the same meaning. If you get my drift.

    Someone wants to carry the cene extension covering just recent millennia?
    French meaninglessness this time.
    You know... Paleocene, Eocene, Oligocene, Miocene, Pliocene, Pleistocene
    and ending with the wonderful Holocene
    and the pertaining Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age, Smog Age, Atomic Age?
    Pollution Age. Industrial Killing Age. And Rage. And Phage.

    I have the best name for you, Messieurs and Mesdames of Language Academies, worldwide.
    I suggest – obscene.
    Isn’t it so greatly becoming?



The Great Disappointment

    ...and when I die and go to heaven
    I am in for a great disappointment.
    When I find there is actually no heaven.
    All my dreams of re-uniting with parents and family and friends and pets
    and movie stars
    and music idols
    and great minds that accumulated over the centuries – scientists, poets, artists
    and lost loves
    and lost toys...

    poof!... gone,

    no dry bones resurrection
    no hole in the sky through which to re-incarnate into elephant
    or mosquito or virus or dandelion or (god forbid) human
    no seventy two virgins... why – not even one.

    And guess what, there is no hell either.
    Call it promise or threat or hope, to each their own,

    poof!... as well,

    no tar, no pitchforks, no mosquitoes
    no VD’d whores
    no IRS CIA KGB
    not even politicians.

    Actually... NOTHING.
    Oh, what a disappointment.
    And, come to think of it, not even disappointment,
    how could disappointment exist in nothingness?
    Maybe... this is the good news?



Rage. Rave. Rant.

    I rage.

    I rage and rave and rant.

    I rage
    and it’s nothing to do with my age
    but with the cage

    with the shit
    that some dim of his wit
    noble government rat
    and his lofty decree
    imposed upon me

    these shackles birthing ranges of hackles
    the pathetic charade
    with the taxes I paid
    when he steals all my money
    and wallows in honey

    so where’s my vaccine
    mister triple of chin
    or you’d rather I rot
    while you keep your full pot?

    I rave
    not yet ready to go to my grave
    on this road that you pave

    where is my antibody?
    there’s still love in my body
    there’s still steel in my muscle
    so stop your sweet hustle
    selling stories
    and glories
    sell me your inventories

    not the cheap and the deadly
    sung in sugar-coat medley
    the real
    the one
    that you dodge and you shun

    you ride high on my docket
    better empty your pocket
    I do you dare
    to provide me the fare
    for the few coming years
    don’t get in my arrears
    life’s still mine
    on that check you me owe
    with your government’s dough.

    I rant
    if in poem or story or cant
    you eggplant

    you’re stealing my days and you’re stealing my hours
    your incompetence Mister this country devours

    I want to make love with no gloves round my fingers
    please spare your berating and caviling zingers
    I want to ride
    I want to stride
    I want to meet
    I want to greet
    I want to dance naked in sun-yellowed wheat

    I want to make love for long hours no end
    and die with my lover as flesh with flesh blend
    my days may be numbered
    my heart one can’t girth
    my mind unencumbered
    by chrono of birth

    so move
    you rapscallions
    or rats
    if not
    with my dudgeon
    I’ll trample you flat.

    I rage.

    I rage. I rave. I rant.

    *dedicated to the European bureaucrats in general and the Belgian bureaucrats in particular who so managed to mis-manage the recent crisis...*



More Boring than a Telephone Directory, Promise

    The world’s psyche remembers,
    great, horrible, mixed.

    Starting with the horrible
    so that the other can hopefully wash away the taste from mouth
    and brain.

    The world remembers the biggest criminals against humanity in its history
    like Hitler, Pol Pot, Antonescu, Pavelić and numerous others of the ilk.

    The world remembers mass massacres like Babi Yar,
    like Sand Creek, like Srebrenica, like Nanjing and numerous others of the ilk.

    The world remembers brainwash cult deaths under such names as Jones
    or Koresh or Manson or Applewhite or others of the ilk.

    The world remembers horrifying, symbolic names like Auschwitz extermination
    like Biafra famine like Bataan death march and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers horrifying, symbolic, abominable acts of war like Pearl Harbor,
    like Hiroshima, like Dresden fire bombing, like sinking General Belgrano
    and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers horrifying disasters like Chernobyl, Exxon Valdez, Bhopal
    and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers top criminals, terrorists, murderers like Capone, Jack the Ripper,
    Bin Laden, Escobar and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers tragic revolutionaries like Trotsky, Rosa Luxemburg, Zapata
    and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers ridiculous, illogical, self-centered, misleading leaders of people
    like Nero, like Trump, like Idi Amin, like Niyazov and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers great leaders of armies like Hannibal, Alexander, Napoleon,
    great leaders of people in time of conflict like Churchill, Roosevelt, Tito,
    great yet tragic leaders of people like Lincoln, Gandhi, Kennedy, Rabin
    and others of same steely ilk.

    The world remembers heroes of humanism and humanity and conservationism
    like Raoul Wallenberg, like Albert Schweitzer, like Martin Luther King, like Nelson Mandela,
    like Dian Fossey and others of the ilk, some unfortunately meeting tragic ends...
    are we humans so diabolically inclined?

    The world remembers heroic selfless acts like Alamo, like Masada, like John Robert Fox,
    like Salvo d’Acquisto, the Chernobyl three and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers bright technocrats and technical minds and visionaries
    like Gates, Jobs, Turing, Lilienfield, Van Neumann and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers great mathematical and physical minds like Gauss, Fourier,
    Euler, Einstein, Planck, Pythagoras, Bohr and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers great philosophical minds like Plato, like Sartre, like Confucius,
    like Buddha, like Kant, like Spinoza and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers gifted hands such as those belonging to Michelangelo, Da Vinci,
    Rembrandt, Rodin, Dali, Magritte and others of the ilk.
    The world remembers novelists like Tolstoy, Pearl Buck, Cervantes, Shalom Aleichem,
    composers like Beethoven, Mozart, Verdi, Bizet,
    voices like Callas, Caruso, Lanza, Caballé,
    poets like Homer, Shakespeare, Whitman, Dickinson,
    actors like Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, Charles Laughton, Anthony Quinn,
    directors like Kubrick and Wilder and Lubitsch and Kazan
    comedians like Bourvil, like Chaplin, like Laurel & Hardy
    and many others of the ilk in every and each category.

    The world remembers singers like Sinatra, Elvis, Vissotsky, Brel
    and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers outstanding athletes like Bob Beamon, like Nadia Comaneci,
    like Muhammad Ali, like Abebe Bikila, like Usain Bolt and others of the ilk,
    outstanding footballers like Pele and Yashin and Puskás and Maradona and others of the ilk,
    racing champions Senna, Schumacher, Prost a and others of the ilk,
    the chess genius of Capablanca, Alekhin, Fischer, Kasparov and others of the ilk,
    incredible adventurers and explorers like Marco Polo, Columbus, Amelia Earhart
    and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers space conquerors like Laika, like Gagarin, like Armstrong
    and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers witty, pencil-sharp minds like Oscar Wilde, like Mark Twain,
    like Voltaire, like Mae West and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers dreamers like Disney, like Zamenhof, like Rachel the Poetess
    and others of the ilk.

    The world remembers humanity benefactors like Salk, Fleming, Borlaug
    and others of the ilk.

    And there are other ilks.

    And if you do not find your candidate in the above listing
    no worry, he or she is there. In the ilk.

    The world remembers. The world will remember.
    The world will not remember me.
    Maybe... better this way?

    Nice guy. Sure. Quite talented. Sure. Forgettable.




    Sit down!
    It sat down.
    It refused.

    It was one of the periodical courtesy visits Death paid me
    trying to chat “human way” about my garden
    about the Corona vaccination
    about the Kardashians
    you know, trying to show human interest even though it was not humanly interested.
    Just bored.
    I am pretty sure it visited others, some with one scythe, some with two scythes.

    When I visit with one scythe only, you have nothing to fear.
    It’s when I come with both that you know you’ve been selected.

    Selected by whom?
    No answer.
    Why two scythes?
    ell, you have a choice, do you want to be cut left to right or right to left?
    Why, are you ambidextrous?
    Yes, and perfectly so.
    It came with one scythe only, so I was safe.
    I wondered why it did carry it at all on these occasions,
    decoration? fashion? safety? vanity?

    After the Kardashians it wanted my opinion on Trump,
    on global warming,
    on Belgian taxes.
    If it wasn’t for that skull under the hood and the eternal scythe
    I would have thought I was talking to a neighbor.
    It was actually quite pleasant, it even offered to pay for the cakes I joined to the coffee.

    See you soon, it offered with a wave of its scythe.
    Not too soon I hope, packing a few cakes so it won’t hunger on its travels.
    Well, whenever, you know.
    Yes, whenever, I know.

    After it left I cleaned the chair, disinfected it, burned it.
    You’re always welcome, Death, but not a second too soon.
    And please, could you bring your own chair, next time?
    It costs me a fortune all these chairs I keep burning.



Listen. Please.

    I’ve written already poems and rants about

    big dude in the sky
    and I

    and as it seems I’m still around it means:
    a. He’s out of smite
    b. He’s kind of enjoying Himself.

    My nice rants?
    My nicer?
    My nasty or my nastier?
    Who’s to know? Maybe Moses would but he’s not around to talk to Him anymore.
    So I’ll stick to my assumptions
    conditioned and subjective as they might be.
    Until He gathers some more smite? Maybe, we(I)’ll see.

    Listen, big friend,
    I believe that You suffer from some kind of divine autism.
    I have no access to celestial dictionaries
    thus I am compelled to use earthly words throughout this rant,
    yet I am kind of certain that You understand the analogy I’m pointing at.

    Listen, as slave to master
    sometimes master has to hear truths from suicidal slaves
    otherwise master will never know these truths. So I dare.
    And since I’m still not fried to a crisp form of myself right at this microsecond
    I guess You, again, rather enjoy Yourself listening to this hominid. Right?

    Listen, You’re busy now with Corona, and Trump and Kim (not the Kardashian) and similar
    so I’ll make it short (exceptionally) this time around.
    Why do I blaspheme the way I blaspheme?
    Because I do not blaspheme, I simply observe.
    You’ve created all these wonders that in human terms only a genius, which You are, could create.
    The zillions of creatures and the zillions of plants and the zillions of landscapes and woman.
    And yet You watched and watch them dispassionately, disinterestedly, indifferently
    and allow them, for millennia now,
    to torture each other, destroy each other, create a path towards annihilation for each other.
    What would You call such an affliction in celestial terms?
    In human terms I call it autism and I keep wondering if, in celestial terms,
    it is healable.
    Right now it is hellable, whatever this might mean.

    Eternally (Your, not mine) Yours,



Wishful Thinking

    I wish somebody would lust after my body.

    I promise I will not consider it pejorative, injurious or derogatory
    to be considered that slab of flesh
    which someone would ache to force in the most obscene of positions
    ask to perform the most degrading rites of submission
    and finally place between their legs as that compensatory for all

    I wish I had that body.
    I once had.
    Now, I am the only one who remembers it.




    Miracles don’t exist.

    I prayed for a miracle when my mother died.
    I prayed for a miracle when my father died.
    I prayed for a miracle when my dog died. All of them.

    Miracles don’t exist.
    God doesn’t exist.
    QED. Quod Erat Demonstrandum.




    There is a certain heaviness in my voice as of late, a slur,

    words don’t come out as easy
    complex ideas get simplified

    once a smith of complex jewelry in gold or silver or bronze
    with intricate carvings and tiny interlaced chains and delicate splinters of precious stones
    all I can do now is move the modern painter way
    and cast simple ingots
    various sizes, certainly,
    various shapes, certainly,
    yet still
    just ingots.
    Clumsy. Like a clog to a stiletto shoe.
    Maybe valuable. Maybe.
    Maybe valueless. Maybe.

    I cannot keep but wondering if the brain is not some decanter of words
    of finite capacity
    and little by little pours itself out, dries itself out
    and what was once a Mediterranean Sea turns with time a Dead Sea
    until it empties itself

    Then, like a heavy anchor,
    drags the rest of the being down the Challenger Deep
    or the Factorian Deep
    or even the neighborhood pool until water rises above the head.
    Death ensues.




    I could have been crushed by the three ton tree monster that fell in my garden
    and that I was busy chainsawing.
    Virile (it), full of sap (it), mighty and tall and wide (it)
    except that it forgot to grow roots measurable to the hairy (its) top.
    A bit of storm, a bit of flood... imagine the worst. It was the worst.
    Now dealing with consequences.

    I can still be crushed by it.
    I’m not done yet and I keep moving too close to it for comfort
    too much under it for comfort
    too undecided (the future it timber) which way to fall,
    once it falls,
    taking me with it in its crushing embrace
    pitying my puniness and its crushable chest pelvis spine,
    falling the other way.

    We’ll see which way it develops.
    If there is an end to this poem, or if there is a poem following it,
    means I was spared.
    If not, well, imagine the worst, as said already.


    OK, so there is an end to this abhorable poem
    because I started it
    and because I say so
    and because I decide so, here,
    just making it clear to myself that I was spared and I am still alive,
    if only temporarily so.
    Yey! Yahoo! Hallelujah!




    betrays mind
    staying behind

    its bulk anchoring down free spirited
    soaring mind
    while salvo after salvo of time’s cannons
    shred procrastinating body to pieces
    until mind screams agony and concedes defeat
    dragged to death
    in cannon fodder.

    Or is it the other way around
    body hound
    betrays mind

    leaping recklessly ahead
    tempted by the vagaries and empty promises of time
    time’s agents lying in deadly ambush
    and shooting pieces off body
    when in guns’ range
    with mind screaming agony and conceding defeat
    as it dies a lonely death
    way behind.




    is a collection of almost’s.

    She almost came
    I almost kissed her
    we almost ended at my place
    at her place
    at any place.

    are all those girls, maidens, women

    I almost touched their breast but didn’t
    I almost cupped the flesh bordering their spine but didn’t
    I almost inhaled their aroma but didn’t.

    are the almost perfect origami shapes folded by a missing-fingers hand
    the almost perfect smoke rings blown by a cancer-riddled lung
    the almost finished trip inside a fractal shape by a perfection-seeking programmer.

    are all the almost memories drilling into live nerve like a dentist’s drill.

    I almost missed the other car, hell, I didn’t. I need to blame someone, whom?
    I almost proposed to her, hell, I didn’t. I need to blame someone, whom?
    I almost didn’t get born, hell, I did. I need to blame someone, whom?



Luck, probably

    I went to a poetry site,

    popular, very popular.

    I read some poetry,
    horrible, insipid
    yet crowned with the most overzealous of comments and acclaim.

    I wonder, I really wonder
    do I write the same?
    And the only reason for lacking similar overzealous of comments and acclaim
    is that I do not publish on that site?

    Is my poetry as horrible
    in its own poetic way? If poetic way it is at all...

    And then, on the other hand,
    there are the self-declared gods of poetry
    if because of their deep pockets or because of their publishers’ deep pockets
    or because some ill-conceived twist of fate put then “there”
    who are as horrible in their own way
    as the flat minded others, earlier mentioned.

    Wherein lies the truth? Good poetry is what?
    Defined by masses?
    Defined by professors?
    I prefer my own definition: defined by luck.
    And as long as there is no objective metrology in time, weight, temperature and similar
    luck is the only defining aspect.

    Of course, even luck can be manipulated by the modern homo sapiens.
    So I guess I will die ignorant of my poetry – horrible, insipid
    or wonderful?

    No, do not answer, I will not believe you anyway.