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Quarter to Twelve

    Twelve as midnight

    midday irrelevant, long gone, forgotten
    midnight looming, nearing, getting into station any moment now
    clock setting meaningless. Running its own clock, the bastard.

    Quarter to the twelve of my life.
    Quarter to the twelve of my creativity
    interest in the worldly
    no interest in the outer worldly... may follow twelve, who knows?

    Some features strangely past twelve already, wondering how,
    gone partly gone almost gone
    drive rage jealousy love hate...
    no, hate was never there, no, love is always there,
    just a momentary hallucination... erase! reset!

    Wondering as well how will past twelve reconcile with now twelve
    once it arrives,
    is there such a time machine
    pulling all befores and afters to that singular singularity point
    called end?
    Endless end?
    Abrupt abruption?
    Final finality? Peroration? Period?

    Wondering some more

    will I ever get to sing my demise as divinely as Brel, Leonard Cohen, Arno,
    will I ever get to shed those tears dammed so deep I forgot I had to shed before my demise
    will I ever forgive myself for not having finished to say all I had to say ahead of my demise?...

    ha, as if I will care once quarter is gone and demise is here.

    Still kicking some dust, still around.
    Still coughing a dry cough.
    Have a quarter to go
    and I will use and abuse. Probably also confuse. Even myself.
    No, not dementia, sorry to disappoint,
    rather crystal clear steel hard needle sharp realism,
    no quarter to or after twelve for my realism.



Not Wondering

    I often
    sit down and do not wonder
    will it be swift and painless like a heart attack
    or dragging painfully forever like prostate cancer?

    Do not care,
    I open the balcony door and watch birds flying and chirping
    chasing each other, gorging themselves on seeds
    like there was no life beyond life, and they are probably right
    oh, the joys of brainlessness,

    Do not care,
    I crawl on my fours and watch ants heaving and pulling and scavenging
    like they knew there was no life beyond life,
    knowing so much better in their knowledgeless ignorance
    than I and my thousand volumes thick encyclopedias to their kinds
    oh, the joys of brainlessness,

    Do not care,
    I watch butterflies, is there a formula, a message to their random flight patterns
    that we are too stupid to comprehend
    or are they just that, brainless, random, enjoying the one day of life allocated them
    not knowing and not caring it is just this one day out of one
    oh, the joys of brainlessness.

    I often
    sit down and do not wonder about heart attacks or prostate cancer.
    Why should I?
    It would be as useless as a fishing rod mid of the Sahara
    or a water pistol mid of the North Pole.

    I not often sit down and do wonder
    about all those I loved and love and will love tomorrow and forever,
    I do care about.
    Yes, I do wonder. I do scream.

    Then back to birds, and ants, and butterflies. Brainlessness?


What & When

    I know the what, everybody knows the what.

    I don’t know the when,
    no one knows the when unless it is a planned when which I do not intend to plan.
    Not yet, anyway.

    There is also the how
    but from the millions of how’s possible
    statistics will choose the most inappropriate one.
    It is always inappropriate, no doubt,
    but there are levels of inappropriateness
    and unavoidability makes inappropriateness important
    even if no one asks us about it,
    we can only hope for a good level, whatever good may mean in this context.

    Lots of long words, ain’t I using lots of long words?
    I do,
    to compensate for the shortness of ideas, of sleep periods, of hope.
    Ha, hope, another one of those mysterious words
    that diminish in importance with each passing short day and long night,
    there is even a long version of it – hopelessness.
    Is there a plural version to hopelessness, something like hopelessnesss
    or hopelessnesses?
    There should be,
    with so many of them in the world and so many of clone-I’s in the world
    there should be.
    Maybe there is, I do not intend to check it in whatever dictionary,
    it may induce me to change the wording of this poem
    which is something I hate doing, especially when forced by the inflexibility of dictionaries.

    Dark poetry indeed.
    Yeah, I once wrote light poetry
    where butterflies was one of the most abused words, love too I think.
    I still feel like it sometimes.
    However the famous 80/20 ratio has now switched to 20/80
    and it may degrade further... 10/90?... 1/99?... 0.1/99.9?...
    I guess 0/100 could eventually be defined only posthumously by others,
    if at all.

    I am glad my fingers are still functioning.
    I am glad my brain is still functioning.
    I am glad my legs are still functioning so that I can dodder to the drawer and choose
    now the red pill
    now the blue pill
    now the triangular pill...
    yeah, I, the much treasured treasure of any pharmaceutical treasurer,
    I and those of my ilk
    I wonder if they intend to build a monument to me and my achievement,
    maybe even decide on a secret internal prize based on my combination of pills
    and some multi-colored ribbon to be hung on the chests of all those proud inventors
    developing the infinite list if concoctions to be administered regularly
    by means of glutition, needles, drops, creams and similar tribes
    thus rending our misery longer...
    could we say elongating the misery? the prostration? the tribulation?

    Why do I suddenly think conspiracy
    knowing that they possess the real fast solutions
    yet they prefer to market the real slow poisons
    dripping indirectly and inconspicuously all those green paper bills in their virtual pockets
    (and real bank accounts)?

    Back to what, back to when...
    just an excuse to vent.
    I don’t really take all above pills.
    I will soon, probably, maybe, certainly, though, inevitably, etc.
    Forgive my visiting demons, please.



    Don’t I sound old to you?
    I sound old to me.

    It seems the longer I live the longer my diatribe gets and it was not my intent.
    It is not my intent.

    True, the trail gets longer behind me
    but this does not mean I do not wish to
    I do not have to
    sing of beauty,
    sing of life and flowers and fucking amidst the flower beds...
    this is what poetry should be about, no?
    This is what my poetry should be about, no? I think so
    and who cares about any other subjects be they as noble as they might be
    when no poet is known to have repaired the world
    and most of the tribe is known to have died in obscurity and misery?
    True, not all, only most.
    Those who didn’t found ways to compensate for the farcicality of their choice of art
    with the mercantilism of a variety of life offers.
    Kudos to you, all those.
    I couldn’t, not that I did not want to.

    There is this girl lost in the woods
    As green her eyes as are her moods
    She turns my loins volcanic hell
    Her sigh a deadly mortar shell
              through all my latitudes.

    There is this other girl, way north
    I saw her bathing and thenceforth
    The dream of raking her soft crust
    Fills me with fever, rut and lust
              with crave, so on, so forth.

    A girl from memories amassed
    As recent now and distant past
    Had me alighted with her kiss
    My pillorying heaven’s bliss
              oh, deathly rending blast.

    Hey girl, do you remember when
    You were eleven, I was ten
    Then you were twenty, I nineteen
    We raved around, inside, between,
              and I praised God: amen!

    There’s girls I never can forget
    I’ll never touch, I’ll never get
    To whisper inside tousled hair
    Sweet words to tangle flair with flare
              to lead in minuet.

    I probably could go on for many more, similar, the way I like them
    the way I liked them once upon that time which never ended yet,
    but I want to limit the longer effect.
    As much as I can control myself into this state of thinking, that is.
    Which is not easy, not assured of success.

    Well, I’ll leave some for a next write.
    After all, I have to fill a book, you know.



    Forgive my impetuosity,

    I owe you now a pair of shoes
    one stocking
    a few buttons for your shirt, the shirt itself is not torn, right?
    the skirt... ok, it cannot be repaired, ok, not even by a professional seamstress
    I’ll buy you a new one... two?... fine, three and a half
    the torn half... I’m never sure when you’re joking, you know?...
    the hairdo can easily be corrected
    same with the lipstick
    same with the mascara
    different with the underwear, mine too... are you aware you did it?...
    no, mine was not Victoria’s Secret,
    oh, yours neither, oh, Cartier, oh, gulp (this was an onomatopoeia,
    made a mental note to check my bank account for funds)
    bedding? what about the bedding? cat? what about the cat? ok, cats!
    one not-Ming vase added to the list
    one not-Picasso painting added to the list
    two yes-Ikea night lamps added to the list

    which scratch,
    the one starting mid-thigh and ending mid-belly
    after passing through various landscapes more or less enchanting more or less deadly?
    which blue spot? looks purple to me, maybe it is the lighting...
    which bite
    the one left of your mouth? the one left of your left toe? the one close to your nipple?
    oh, the one close to my... why unmentionables?
    what tetanus, why?... when?...
    rabies shot?...

    By this time she was rolling on the floor in a fit of hysterical laughter fit for a hyena
    or for a bumbling idiot
    or for a Buster Keaton deleted scene that should never have been deleted,
    Come here you bumbling idiot,
    (now I was the bumbling idiot)
    don’t you see that I take pride in my bites
    (aha, so no rabies shot)
    and in my broken yes-Ikea night lamps
    (they were ugly anyway)
    and it wasn’t any Cartier that got torn away
    (I deleted my mental note)
    and if you don’t start it all again right away I will open my mouth and start screaming rape
    (OK, no one wants to face a sex-starved cop under such circumstances)
    until my cats tear you to pieces
    (prefer cats to cops anytime).

    Still, no one wants to be torn to pieces by three cats, one of them white with a black eye.
    So I started it all again.
    It was easier second time around
    with all that was supposed to get torn or broken or other
    already torn or broken or other,
    just the scratches and blue spots and bites needed renewal
    which she delighted in impetuously delivering... yeap... reciprocation, you know,
    the bliss of equality of sexes
    EXCEPT there where it counts.
    And there where it counts, oh, it counts so much...



    are idiots.

    Burnishing each comma, each period, each partial rhyme
    until they are so fault-free
    that if the write could send an astronaut to the moon
    they would land within a few thou from the intended landing spot.
    Wow, quite an achievement.

    And then the art lies rotting and accumulating dust on some backroom shelf
    until rats find it
    and gorge on it.
    Eventually shit it too.

    Sure, painters also pain over each brush spot
    but at least they get paid for it,
    even if it is just a White on White
    as long as it is by a Malevich.
    Could be also by a Miro, Mondrian, Frankenthaler...

    Yes, I know, don’t poke my chest with that long finger,
    I know there are also some poetic counterparts to Malevich et co.
    I am not one of them.
    I am one of the other.
    The idiots.

    (at least no one suspects me of tying a pen to the end of an elephant’s tail,
    elephants are notoriously bad spellers)



    I saw Death.
    And, admittedly, She Looked Nice (hear the capitals?)

    God almighty (apologies, not for almightying you but for calling your name in vain)
    she had those deep, very deep eyes you couldn’t fathom the bottom of them,
    high cheek-bones, wait, maybe they were just bones?
    blinding, pearly white teeth
    easily discernible as there were no lips to mar their beauty
    and I wish I knew the color of her hair –
    honey blonde?... flaming red?... coal black?... specific shampoo used?...
    but with that fashionable hoodie about her head I just couldn’t decide...
    no, he he, she didn’t have any hair “down there” to judge by
    all that area looked to me strangely mysterious and in need of further investigation,

    Oh, and her figure, my God (apologies again)... slim, lithe, perfectly proportioned
    a figure any female top model would kill (figuratively speaking, I hope) to have
    any male top model would kill too (well, a bit more pectorals) to have too,
    thin fingers, thin toes, minuscule ears (not sure she had any, actually)
    no boobs (not my personal taste but who am I to judge fashionistas preferences)
    no buttocks (see above)
    no tongue (see above)
    no tattoos, no jewels, no sandals (this one I found strange)
    no sense of humor (not sure about this one, she did wink my way),

    Slightly on the communist side, which if you don’t care doesn’t bother
    as she kept waving that giant version of a sickle called scythe
    luckily no hammer though I feared Thor would show up any moment to contribute one
    didn’t happen
    different mythologies I guess
    thank God (apologies again again) for small favors,
    she also didn’t have a reflection in the mirror
    but different mythologies again, I guess,
    thank God again (no apologies, I guess)
    just for safety sake I bought a few garlic heads and placed in all my pockets,
    one never knows.

    I saw Death.
    I stink now of garlic, not sure it is related.


    Are you poking fun at me? Death asked after reading my poem
    poking revenge at my ribs with the dull side of her over-sized sickle.
    Yes. Proof that I take you seriously, I answered.
    She accepted the answer. You read the poem. I’m alive. Proof.



    I streamed a few billion light years away and yawned hungrily, absorbing a couple thousand stars and their planets to replenish my energy need. I never yawned close to Earth, afraid I might swallow their solar system by mistake and deprive myself of such interesting observations and pets. The humans there would have called it eating, not yawning, but I preferred my own associated definition. Then I streamed back close to them and continued watching.

    I discovered Earth quite by chance, in one of my endless wanderings throughout the universe, and found it fascinating. Compared with the limited few other living organisms I encountered in other corners of the universe (strange word, corner) - many oxygen based but some chlorine based, uranium based, mercury based – life variety on Earth was amazing. And the most amazing of all was the evolution of their symbolic communications languages, mainly in humans. The organization of electronic signals in the brain, painted squiggles on various hard media, air pressure modulation, I decided it was time I put some order also in my confused thought processes and learned one of the thousands of languages that evolved there, English, it being the simplest and most popular. Now I could easily express whatever I had problems expressing previously. To myself, of course, there was no way I could communicate with whatever life form on Earth, even the humans.

    Many aspects of life there I understood quite well – the need for energy absorption to combat entropy, the kill urge to control energy sources, the movement machines humans developed to gain time. The one aspect that intrigued me enormously with almost all life forms on this planet was the aspect of binary copulation. What they called in simple words – sex. Applicable to high level animal life, low level insect life, no level plant life. And there was no way I could understand their obsession with it unless if I experienced it myself with a partner that one day I might find somewhere in the universe. Or never find if I was one of my kind. I didn’t know, I didn’t care as long as I didn’t know.

    I wondered if at any stage the humans would discover the pathways that allowed movement at zero time from one spot in the universe to another. Probably never. Cursed as they were with short life spans, some of their brightest brains just did not have sufficient time to conclude key theories about the universe. For example this guy, Einstein, he found the limiting factor of the speed of light, and given sufficient time he would have found also the way to side-step it. But he died. And the followers are rarely, try never, as talented as their forbearers.

    I started streaming again, trying another corner of the universe. I wasn’t yet in need for a yawn but I started thinking seriously about streaming heavily through the trillions of existing pathways, in hope (another strange human word) of finding a partner for me and try copulation. Maybe it was applicable also to beings such as me. I will return to visit my pets from time to time and see if they did or did not developed the pathways theory, if they did or did not blow themselves to pieces. I will surely be there when their sun will be about to die and replace it with a new, similar one. This will take less than one transition of caesium-133, and I guess even the scientists of that time will start believing in God, he-he, after this will happen. God, also a very creative and very much abused concept developed by humans. Hmm, I wonder if I did not hang around Earth too much and did not start thinking like a human myself.


Snippets, some, too few

    I remember you
    in ways you do not remember yourself.
    You cannot remember yourself.

    Your left hand in my right,
    yes, sure, you remember my right in your left
    but there is no way for you to remember your left in my right, the impossibility of reality
    the way you do not remember your smile at one of my jokes
    you did not see it, lips curling teeth showing. You remember the joke, I’ll grant you that
    but I wonder whose pleasure was bigger – mine or yours?
    I have my own opinion and I will not share.
    I will also not share my opinion on your snoring
    if soft as a purring cat’s or if as frightening as a roaring lion’s,
    lioness if you say so,
    and how could you remember it, you did not hear it
    the way I did
    the way the neighbors did when they knocked on the wall with their pneumatic drill,
    (never heard of a pneumatic broom handle)
    the way my thought processes enveloped the event to store in my personal Hall of Fame
    as one of those that conquered my heart
    competing successfully with my preferred tune, singer,
    sound of falling rain and sound of falling snow.
    Intimacy, oh, the intimacy of it all.

    Do you remember offering me your spoon filled with your side of the soup
    your fork filled with your leftovers of the bitten pizza slice
    your glass filled with the beer you could not finish?
    You remember the act.
    You do not remember the taste washing down into my entrails
    cleaning it free of bacteria and viruses
    as the fire spread inside then outside then left me feeling like a spiked piece of roast
    eager to be bitten into
    and the rest of the process.
    I offered you some of mine
    I wonder if it felt the same, I hope it felt the same, I care not if it felt the same
    I will not be able to remember it, this is your memory.
    When you felt asleep mid of the most erotic act on TV?
    When you decided which are the flowers to plant?
    When I bought you a dress that three of you could fit into and you squealed with joy?

    You definitely cannot remember my admiring regard at your mounting the staircase form
    counting up the number of stairs passed and down the number of stairs left
    my hands aching to rip off your skirt then and there
    and possess those godly undulating pieces of flesh right atop the bony marble,
    you definitely cannot remember my growling insides as you took your time unpacking
    checking your smartphone
    washing your hands
    and if you were going to wash your hair as well I would have strangled you most probably
    and given in to an act of necrophilia among a mound of torn textiles,
    you definitely cannot remember though you can imagine
    the hunger in my eyes as your body started unraveling
    as your breasts started playing tug-of-war with gravitation
    as your opening thighs invoked the fragrance of a deadly siren song
    that started pulling me to the finality a much wished for
    Obliteration that followed, imminently.

    You can imagine. You cannot remember.
    I do.



    You lay there, on the bed
    looking like an inverse capital I
    and I know that an inverse capital I looks like a non-inverse capital I
    but I need inversion for the continuation of this poem
    as your legs started opening
    your body shaping itself more and more into an inverse capital Y
    and I didn’t have to wonder for long how wide the Y will be
    as they continued the sweeping moment
    closer and closer to an inverse capital T
    getting there, holding, waiting, waiting for what? my mind kept asking
    as I watched the toes vibrating with the effort
    fascinated, mesmerized, paralyzed,
    an irrelevant variety of font names thundering through my brain
    like the Orient Express thundering its way from Paris to Istanbul...
    Arial... Calibri... Futura...
    ...so, are you going to just stand there, watching?... telegraphed your eyes
    burning the message onto the wax of my melting brain

    and I pounced
    feeling the trap close upon my flesh
    as you metamorphosed in one snapping motion back to that original inverse I
    font irrelevant
    reality irrelevant
    madness relevant
    and had I been a bear I would have lost my paw in that steely grip
    but feeble man that I was and that I hoped to stay
    just let you squeeze life out of me
    in that one moment of shared, frozen, rigid immobility
    so typical of dead wood
    crumbled stones
    splintered swords...

    You puffed on your cigarette.
    No, you didn’t really,
    you did not smoke, it is just the way it would have shown in a 50s movie
    if a 50s movie would have dared showing such a scene.
    You read MAD.
    No, you didn’t really,
    you did not read MAD, it is just the way it would have shown in a MAD comic
    if a 50s MAD comic would have dared showing such a scene.
    You watched South Park.
    No, you didn’t really,
    you did not watch South Park, it is just the way it would have shown in South Park
    if South Park would have dared exist in the 50s without risking the electric chair.
    Your thoughts for a penny... you murmured
    not puffing not reading not watching. Cigarette. MAD. South Park.
    I did not answer.
    How could I break it to you that you did not own the billions of pennies
    or mountains of pearls or kilograms of gold or carats of diamonds
    worth of the thoughts that I was scrolling third time now around in my mind
    rummaging obstinately through all permutations of possible
    font names and font transformations and font inversions applicable
    and which I was busy engraving upon the walls of those hidden recesses in my brain
    holding now memories
    that will keep ravaging and ravishing the entrails of my innermost of suns?

    I laid my head upon your belly
    listening to your stomach
    listening to your lungs
    listening to your heart
    so happy to fall asleep dreaming of maidens, and dragons, and knights...


Watered Down

    Watered down

    like diluted spirits in a sleazy bar where no one asks
    like coke half of the glass filled with melted ice
    like a cat in from the rain water still dripping on the carpet

    watered down
    almost forced

    your response.

    I thought raking the embers would light the skies east on the horizon line
    singeing my lashes in the process,
    raking the embers lighted the wick of a thin candle, maybe, a short thin candle
    I did not even see it.

    Probably time to close my tools of trade, again.
    Probably lost my touch.
    Probably lost our touch.
    Probably failed to spell ‘fire’ correctly and ‘fire’ takes its revenge.

    Probably better to return to my death-to-death dialogues,
    more becoming of my age
    more inspiring
    more evocative of a response

    death, after all, responds,
    inevitably responds.
    in person.



    I’m bored to death.
    With death.
    With poems I wrote write will write about death
    dedicated to death
    glorifying death or the death of death,
    depending on my mood at the writing moment.
    Same like poems about life
    going on and on around the same mantra
    as if it makes any difference.
    Death is death, people.
    Life is life, people.
    Irrelevant is irrelevant, people,
    and whatever I or Shakespeare or anyone in between these two extremes may say
    it makes no difference what is said.
    They both, life and death, laugh.
    They both, life and death, do not exist.
    And there is no antinomy in between these two statements
    (wow, some words I seem to know are wow).

    I’m bored to death.
    With life.
    Its only merit presently is allowing me to write about death.
    About butterflies too. Butterflies?
    About smiles too. Smiles?
    About making love too. Making love?
    Something is wrong here, something is definitely wrong
    and I have no idea what it may be,
    NOT senility, mind you.
    Just unquestionably, undeniably, unequivocally the opposite.

    Could this be the recurrence – or maybe recrudescence of adolescence
    in this here collection of old bones?
    It could.
    No wonder they are mixed up end to end,
    a medical miracle unworthy of any investigation
    given that I may finish by understanding
    what I wish not to understand.
    Just to live.
    And keep being bored by it to the marrow of said bones
    those still alive and those long dead already
    counting from first adolescence.


(Purists may say wide)

    Knock knock.
    “Who’s there?” I asked
    opening the door large.
    Large mistake.
    I should have been less trusting, more suspicious,
    at least I should have used the built-in judas to see who it was knock knocking.
    No, hare-brained me opened the door large (purists may say wide)
    and she brushed past me
    seating her bony bulk in my best armchair and sighing contentedly.
    “My feet are killing me.”
    Well, at least she did not brush through me
    ’cause then I wouldn’t be here to tell the story.

    The upholstery smoked lightly,
    an acrid smell reaching my nostrils
    mingled with whiffs of rotten leaves and rotten fish and rotten yoghurt.
    I wasn’t aware she was dealing with these as well.
    “So what did you think, that there are separate departments for each type of biolysis?”
    she asked, yawning largely (purists may say widely)
    and letting me see the armchair’s headrest right through what would have been her tonsils
    had she any tonsils.
    I spotted also the dental caries on her left bottom wisdom tooth.
    “It’s killing me,” she tried to laugh it off and failed, “no time for dentists, too much work.
    And anyway any dentist would keel over just seeing me come, so it is a real problem.
    Not to mention the bad breath and related bad name it gives me.”

    Yeah, related bad name, I could imagine.
    It wasn’t the first time she was visiting
    and I guess she chose me because I wasn’t one of those who ‘keel over’ seeing her
    and she needed company from time to time.
    She was even leaving me a few ounces of gold after each visit
    aware of the damage she was doing to my furniture. Unusually generous for an angel.

    “A death angel,” she smiled largely (purists my say widely).
    “The death angel,” I corrected her, “there’s only one of you. I hope.”
    “Touché.” She leaned back not closing her eyes,
    she couldn’t with no eyelids and all.
    “Say, why do you keep calling it poem?” she asked for the umptillionth (actually forty-fifth) time
    knowing it upset me and enjoying the momentary feeling of superiority it gave her.
    Not that she was mean, she was just limited in conversation subjects.
    “Say, don’t you have other friends to visit?” I retorted
    knowing it upset her and enjoying the momentary feeling of superiority it gave me.
    Not that I was mean. She had no other friends of course. And I regretted immediately.
    “It’s ok,” she sighed and clammed up.

    After five minutes the silence got oppressing.
    “Would you have a drink? Battery acid, mercury, ammonia?”
    “Always the clown,”she roared happily. “A coke would do.”
    “Yes, I guess it would. Hey, try a beer for a change?”
    I brought her a cold beer, a Belgian Judas of course
    as it seemed suitable for the occasion.
    She lowered widely her jaw (purists may say widely)
    and I watched her imaginary Adam’s apple bob up and down contentedly
    as she swallowed the entire bottle in one long gulp.
    Nothing dripped on the carpet and I was left wondering, as always.
    “Hey, not bad, mark it on top of my preferences for next time.”
    “You mean next... final time?”
    “No, I mean next not-yet-final time.”
    She left her hold on the scythe’s snat for a moment
    as her phalanges moved to wipe her jaw bone
    then stood up, dropping as always a few grains of gold for the eventual repairs.
    “Time to go. It was a pleasure, as always.”
    “Same here,” I lied. She didn’t mind. “Say, I was meaning to ask,
    are you right handed? You know, when you...” I choked on the rest.
    “Ambidextrous,” she smiled my way the usual imaginary smile
    and whooshed away.
    Why she always bothered to enter through the door at all, I had no idea.
    Maybe she wanted to feel a bit... human?
    Or maybe once she whooshes in as well will be the, gulp, yes-yet-final time?



    My train passes swiftly through wilting tomorrows
    Some passengers leave without waving good bye
    Some fade into stations bedizened drab sorrows
    Where hearts howl deserted and eyes liquefy.

    The terminus nears with compelling precision
    A final averment builds deep in my throat
    I dress my abashment with gaudy derision
    And warrant my words with some meaningless quote.

    I finish my laundry, I iron my shirts,
    I dust corners hidden from eye and from mind,
    I pay all my dues and appease all my hurts,
    I sort loves and memories, each to its kind.

    The frail locomorive blurts long, strident calls
    The whistle’s falsetto coughs aberrant notes
    Hello, all my darlings, the last curtain falls
    Get ready to feed all my writes to your goats.



    “Doctor, I’m getting old.”

    “Hmm, let’s see. Do you still enjoy naked female bodies?”

    “Tremendously. Intellectually.”

    “How many pees during the night?”

    “I don’t remember.”

    “When was the last time you and a woman... you know?...”

    “Yesterday. And Jaqueline kept cheating, five aces, ha!”

    As a doctor, I knew this was onsetting dementia, but my patient didn’t seem dangerously violent so I wasn’t worried. I winked at him and he winked back. I wished I could have taken notes but it’s mighty difficult with hands tied behind your back with those long sleeves. And now they also remove the mirror.


Geriatric Butterflies

    Two weeks old,
    almost as old as me
    more so,
    almost as geriatric as me
    more so,
    hey, butterfly, will you live long enough to sing on my tombstone?
    Butterflies don’t sing, they just butterfly, I know
    the way poets don’t die, they just poet, I know.
    And I know I make sense
    irrelevant what you may think (you occasional reader, not you butterfly),
    yes, you, don’t look backwards, you.

    I wish we could mate, you and I (you butterfly, not you occasional reader),
    both of us geries past our mating prime
    both of us proud representatives of our specific species
    what do you think an amalgam of our
    DNA, RNA, QNA (not yet expounded, will be), ZNA (not yet expounded, will be)
    could should would roud (not yet coined, will be) moud (not yet coined, will be) engender?
    A singing butterfly? A flying poet? A mosquitoes eating monster? A pineapple?

    Yesterday you were still flying among the flowers, the open cans, the ginger cat’s paws,
    today you lie frozen on my widow
    looking inside.
    Dead? You didn’t flutter away when I tried to make you flutter away.
    You did crawl clumsily on my finger tip
    I could almost hear your bones cracking
    and then you did not move anymore.
    Dead again? Dead final? How does one define dead butterfly?
    Did death catch up with geriatry
    telling me of what awaits around the corner without a friendly finger tip to crawl on?
    I wish we could would should roud moud have mated.
    Now I’ll never know.

    I will sing though on your tombstone.
    Poets don’t sing, they just poet, I know
    I will be the exception.
    Geriatry goes hand in hand with senility, that’s the beauty of it
    no one will blame me or judge me
    they will just blame geriatry. Senility.
    So there is something good to it after all. Yey!


“Huh?!” dating

    take one

    She laughed until her prostate started hurting.


    She stopped laughing, joined index finger and middle finger against her temple and said ‘Pow!’, meaning she wanted a motorbike.


    I tried to dissuade her by showing her my extended, 342 boxes, buttons collection, expounding on the logic of two holes, four holes, no holes...


    It turned into a Cinderella story. She ran away at midnight losing a shoe. The difference being that she never answered her phone afterwards. And the shoe did not fit my buttons collection.


    I’m still unclear who is doing all this ‘Huh?!’ ing thing.


    take two

    I dressed gaudily for the occasion. Silk shirt with ruffled front and little angels peppered around the button holes, deep red velvet jacket with asymmetrical sleeves, checkered trousers in blue and yellow sprinkled with pink roses, some of the roses freshly cut from my garden and stapled on, white lacquered shoes on which I hand-painted her name...

    I even used my Elvis-like wig and Elton-like shades and Liberace-like rings, and even a Marilyn-like chiqueador on the side of my nose... elegance at its utmost, you get the picture.

    I approached her table, she got up and ran away screaming.



    take three

    She was this richly tattooed creature. I was this tattoo-virgin creature. She was pierced where I expected it less. I was circumcised, well, a piercing of some kind. She was kinda young, kinda beautiful. I was kinda none of the two. Perfectly unmatched.

    “I write poetry,”she said.

    “Huh?!” I said. “I write poetry too.”

    Huh?!”she said. “I bet you like dogs, too.”

    “I Love dogs,” making it sound a capital L.

    I could see the ‘Huh?!’ in the eyes following us, as we stood up and left hand in hand. Who gives a shit, we were in love.



    I want you to want me.

    I want you to want to have sex with me.
    Have sex being less aggressive and more comforting than fuck
    and more aggressive and less comforting than make love
    striking the right balance between cotton candy princess and street corner whore.

    I want you to sculpt your wildest fantasies into my body.
    Somewhere between romantic abandon and porn engineering
    your imagination chiseling its way into my flesh with the dullest of chisels
    and heaviest of hammers
    splinters of past existence lying smoldering around our torsioned figures
    and you licking clean my wounds, slowly,
    promising more to come.

    I want you to lead the way around those twists and turns of your brain ever visited
    never dared.
    layer after layer of protective inhibitions, education, apprehension, distrust
    leaving us at the exact mid-point between newborn and senile
    there where momentary exhaustion is bliss and incoherent cursing a blessing
    while angels break their harps
    and demons sing hallelujah.

    I want you to remember me the very short left before and the very long left after
    like rhubarb like sunflowers like a wagging tail.
    Stow me away amongst your very first souvenirs
    make place between your first fallen tooth and your first broken heart
    and I will lie quietly in wait until you call upon me
    to sing your beauty
    that first smile I’ve never seen and I’ll never see.

    I want you to want me.

    Between laundry and book.
    Between bed and shower.
    Between disappointment and poem.


Angels dating by the hundreds

    angels one

    ...and say an angel would have preferred a contrabass over a harp, would he be allowed to choose? How would he (it’s a male angel) source it? And taking it further, say he wanted a trumpet after having a wing-to-wing with Satchmo, or Harry James (assuming these talented gents ended in heaven), would he be allowed to?

    Expounding AND expanding the subject further, were bongos ever considered? Electric guitars? Ocarina? Didn’t see any such in old paintings, though I believe I spotted a flute in an abstract painting.

    [By this time she was long gone, didn’t even finish her potatoes.]


    angels two

    ...and do you really believe angels have wings and devils horns? I find it difficult to accept, even preposterous because in such case angels would’ve been classified alongside poultry and fowl, maybe also ostriches, while devils alongside livestock and reindeer, maybe also rhinos?

    I believe this is some misinterpretation of reality, some of it in bad faith. Angels may have at most seasonal freckles, depending on nearness to sun, and devils at most moustaches, depending on their age.

    [By this time she was long gone, didn’t even finish her beans... what the hell is the matter with women these days?]


    angels three

    ...and what about angel swords? Japanese or German steel? The old paintings render the sword origin blurred, probably to prevent disloyal advertising. Certainly not Polish... aha, you think Polish steel is best... aha, you’re Polish... I have news for you, Poland did not exist when angels started using swords... aha, neither did Japan and Germany?... Can you prove it?

    Listen , I have it on highest TikTok authority it was not Taiwanese. So what is left? You must be joking... Belgian!? Wallonia or Flanders?

    [By this time she was long gone, calling me names as she kept running. To Poland?]


    angels four

    ...and I just found out that angels rarely live beyond five. This is why they are depicted as children in all historical paintings. What do you mean artistical license?... you mean historical license, right? I wonder what happens to them after they die of young age, maybe they recycle in their younger selves? After all there is the law of preservation of matter. Hey, do you know that cherub comes from Hebrew cabbage? Hey, do you know that all angels are male? Hey, do you know?...

    [By this time she was long gone, after making two fingers into a cross...]


    angels five

    ...and what would you like to talk about if not angels? Oh, global warming? You know, angels could flutter their wings so fast... Oh, literature Nobel prize? I know an angel that would have won it if... Opioids? If you mean angeloids... Hmm, the political resistance of oppressed masses facing the tyrannical abuse of a condescending oligarchy? See, I remembered your words though I believe you have some spelled backwards, ha-ha, imagine me saying legna rather than angel...

    [By this time she was long gone, rude, not even leaving a bill forwarding address, and she ate more than me... communist!...]



    Fast forward.
    X years (hours?) from now
    and it is my death day, finally,
    the first one in a series of interminable recurrences
    that no one will ever celebrate or castigate, after the first one passed,
    with jejune Happy Deathday to you’s and similar populisms.

    Lots of Elvis that first occurrence, though.
    Also some opera, a bit of Brothers Four, a bit of Il Volo,
    some crumbs of Rolling Stones and ACDC, I insist
    and no one will complain about the noise
    since most of the celebrationeers will be deaf anyway, at least those that count.
    The rest will be freeluncheoneers, the usual riff-raff roving from mourning to mourning
    and let them go deaf, suits them well.

    The handsomest devil of all present will be yours truly, of course,
    in my cleanest shirt or my cleanest sheet, depends on the ritual,
    a bit pale around the cheeks
    a bit rigid around the joints
    not really listening to all the enthusiastic sermons
    but enjoying them nevertheless in some kind of retrospective post-existentialist way
    and if I would have been (future speaking) in a position to hear them
    I would surely have climbed down from the coffin and shook everyone’s hand,
    or maybe fist everyone’s fist, seen with the Covid still around.

    Death itself would have left long ago on other (similar) errands
    but one friend less wouldn’t mar my interiorized feeling of joy and achievement:
    finally I achieved something, carried it to its full completion on my own
    (I assume no one will murder me, of course)
    and even got prized for it (all those sermons).

    I wonder how many of the speakers will use the text I created
    and how many will ad-lib their abuse due to my impossibility to respond
    and glorify me next to some godly position
    as far from me as the electron from the atom, proportionally scaled up of course.
    I wonder how many of the potential listeners (not the deaf ones) will actually listen
    and how many will prefer their iPods plugged in their ears
    with their favorite Techno beat goading them into premature deafness.
    I won’t accept any blame, sorry,
    I did my part – died. The rest is up to whomever leftover to decide.

    I am sure it will NOT be declared a national day. Or a national holiday.
    Neither a national mourning day nor anything else national.
    The IRS will find other suckers
    my inexistent readers will not materialize like something from nothing
    goats will delight in my books (hey, I know I quote myself, I goat my license, lolol).
    But looking at it from these above expounded magnificent angles
    I almost wish it was upon me already.


Chaining words at 3am

    The power of flower
    The might in the light
    The innocent essence
    of childish delight
    Your smile teaching lessons too sweet to ignore
    You emanate perfumes of life’s secret lore,

    The blindness in kindness
    The dart piercing heart
    The tear in an eye
    tearing sorrows apart
    You breeze through existence like fairies through air
    Like snowflakes ignoring the call of despair,

    The season of reason
    The passion turned fashion
    The softness of breast
    sharing loads of compassion
    I found you by chance in a world breathing ash
    You taught me of ways tethered dreams to unlash,

    The presence of pleasance
    The musing through bruising
    The candid regard
    past and present perusing
    An undefined magic besprinkles your be
    Bewitching the world and this simpleton... me.



    She raises eyes to the moon
    wishing she was there, dancing

    that soundless airless colorless world
    and she the only living flower there
    parading around her reds and her greens and her blues and her yellows
    and her white white white patches of flesh
    so few have been granted with the vision
    so much I am granted with the wish to see
    so blinding
    obliterating eyesight, mindsight, bodysight

    no one to bother her miles around
    ha, miles around... a whole planet around
    and she skips from crater to crater carrying her tiny plastic bubble of life
    thumbing her nose at the variegated ball of teeming life she left behind
    if only temporarily
    and she dances some more
    and she skips some more
    she even tries to sing
    the mute explosions of dust wherever she lands almost as deafening
    as the volleys of fifty five cannons accompanying the closing notes of an 1812 Overture
    queen of a world
    queen of her beauty
    queen of life.

    I, on Earth,
    my gigantic telescope bought just for the occasion with a one year’s income
    pinpointing her on that subgravitational piece of flying desert
    tracing her rolls
    tracing her leaps
    her your-eyes-only antics knowing I am watching
    mesmerized by her reds
    and her greens
    and her blues
    and her yellows
    and her whites whites whites
    finally blinding my entire existence into smoldering insignificance

    I wave
    she can’t see me
    she waves back
    falls back to Earth
    eyes raised to the moon wishing she was there,

    She folds the laundry
    puts it in her basket
    enters back into the house.

    I fold the paper
    put it in my pocket
    enter back into the house.

    For one moment
    we shared the moon,
    for one magic moment we shared an entire moon.
    One day we will share the magic moment too,
    so breathtaking that moment that is never going to happen.



    I loved a girl called N.
    I loved a girl called B.
    I loved a girl called C.
    I loved a girl called T.
    I loved another girl called N.
    I loved a girl called Zilla, nothing to do with the God version of the name.
    I loved a girl called L.
    Then I phased out from girl epoch into woman epoch.
    I love a woman called... no name, discretion obliges, I love a woman.

    Love? What happened to loved?
    I love a woman, I repeat obstinately.
    Love or obsession?
    Love and obsession.
    And the other women?
    Mistake, circumstance, need, statistic, flash, avidity, foolishness, zealotry, crush, rage.
    And this woman?
    Timing, geography, path.
    Timing, geography, path, I repeat obstinately.

    I close the door, sit on a chair and watch the wall.
    For a long time I watch the wall.
    Luckily, there is a wall.



    You are Georgia to George, I said.
    Huh? she said, doubting my sanity.

    You are blossoming lilac to a lilac devoid world, I said.
    Huh? she said, her doubts persisting.

    You are Elvis to Presley
    H2 to O
    moving finger to paraplegic, I hammered on.
    Huh? she said, her doubts disintegrating.

    You are yes to no
    no to yes
    maybe to an atheist.
    Huh? was what she did not say, she said everything else.

    You are my 2 to a binary world
    my Pi equaling 3 to every world
    my inexistent 0 to any world.
    Her fingertip touched my fingertip, wondering if Michelangelo ever said Eh? in old Italian.

    Huh? I said, the way human would say mama first day
    sunflower would chase sun all days
    gravitation would worship mass eternal days
    of life.




The most absurd of poems I ever wrote among other even more absurd... ahm, makes no sense, does it?... absurd

    Once Bang was an onomatopoeia sometimes having Big attached to it.
    Now Bang is a four lettered word,
    I mean it was always a four lettered word
    but now it is also four lettered in meaning.
    Same as Butt.
    Same a Screw though five lettered and no onomatopoeia
    and Ass though three lettered and once just four legged.
    Same as Butt’s no onomatopoeia three lettered no legs little brother But
    so evocative in its Yes, But devastatingly injurious combination.
    Then there is crippled metamorphosed into handicapped metamorphosed into challenged
    and flop not necessarily meaning flop but floating point operation
    and amirite doesmeaning am I right?

    Once if you did not have talent you did not succeed.
    And vice versa.
    Now if you don’t have sponsors
    and influencers
    and clicks and yellow press and preferably some scandals you do not succeed
    and vice versa.

    Dinosaurs dinosaured Earth millions of years, at least,
    people peopled Earth thousands of years, at most, they will say
    those aliens finding the leftovers of human civilization
    and calling the process Evolution.

    Once movies had content and cigarettes
    now movies have gore and sadism and CGI and product placement and no cigarettes,
    once people read.
    Now people read sometimes. Books I mean. They do heavily read smartphones.
    Once we drove carriages, some people will laugh at me,
    now we drive cars.
    I will not understand their point, I drive a car too.
    Evolution. Rhymes with pollution but this is the poet in me.

    This is not a rant.
    This is not a poem.
    This is a collection of a few grains of sand from a truckload of same.
    Bow and arrow to atom bomb.
    Chisel and hammer to inkjet.
    Harp to electric guitar.
    Hate to hate. Hmm, no evolution there.
    Love to love. Hmm, thankfully little evolution there.
    Bloodletting to penicillin.
    A thousand slaves and three elephants to one bulldozer.
    Everything to plastic.
    I could drag on for thousands of pages but (remember But higher up?) this is not the idea,
    actually there is no idea at all. Neither positive nor negative and not even neutral.
    Just wanted to use this word,
    my personal challenge.
    And if anyone reads it, it just proves my point applies to me as well. Someone reads me.
    Evolution. Even for the most obscure of writers and writer’s writes.
    Of course, if no one reads it, it proves no point at all
    but there will be no one to know.
    I win both ways for a change, finally, I winner.

    Loser, she says, dropping my book into the shredder and selfie’ing the process.
    Ha-ha, see? Evolution, as said. Ha-ha.


Bread Crumbs

    Hansel and Mom

    I was eight... “It’s a game,” said mom with a choked voice, “follow the bread crumbs and don’t look up...” and I did as ordered, knowing the witch dies at the end. She kept leaving crumbs for me to follow all the way into the cattle wagon, all the way through the iron gates, all the way to the ovens...

    The witch died too late for her. The Russians found me gazing at the black smoke, looking for her face there. I did not find it, neither then nor anytime later. I guess some stories don’t have a happy ending.



    I sat on a bench throwing cake cherries and bread crumbs to a murder of crows that picked them up and flew away, dropping one from time to time. Were they trying to entice me to a secret place where they would devour me? I hope so, I thought, picking up the first one.

    She just didn’t show up. I paid the caterers, the orchestra, the priest, then loaded the food into my car and drove to the lake. A crow dropped another crumb and I picked it up, advancing into the lake. Sometimes the witch can be so beautiful...


    Gretel and I

    The bread crumbs were stale but edible. There was also some meat on the bones and a few half chewed tomatoes. I moved to the next garbage can.

    “Hey, you!” shouted the guard and I ran away dragging my plastic sac behind.

    My sister chewed slowly, it was soft enough for her rotten teeth. Oh, I wish there was a witch to take us in and fatten us for Christmas, oh, I so wish. And if we can’t escape... tough luck, at least our stomachs would be full.

    “I’m still hungry,” she moaned. She died following day.

    “And I, God?”


    Does tragedy have size?

    Rockets started raining on the marketplace, disturbing the silent gloom with thundering gloom. Scared shrieks, worried shouts joined the orchestra as people started fleeing every which way dragging their kids, their bags. Not all of them, some were not fleeing anymore, or ever.

    An explosion crater was slowly filling with water from a severed pipe, the water surface dotted with mangled ants, tiny eggs and leftovers of painfully gathered and stored, just previous day, bread crumbs.

    A dog kept pulling at an inert sleeve, the sleeve’s owner as inert as the sleeve. A cat. A few birds forgetting to chirp.


    Species gap

    “Hey, don’t eat us, Hansel and Gretel need us!” screamed the bread crumbs. But crows do not speak breadcrumbish so they were eaten anyway. Following which Hansel and Gretel were eaten by the witch.

    “But, mom, this is just a story, no?” I was aghast. I mean, Little Red Hood was humans and wolves, Three Little Pigs was pigs and wolves, but humans and humans?...

    “Maybe, a humans sad story...” and if anyone ever touches a feather off your head my little one, she thought, I will pierce their eyes out. Crows never leave their children alone in the forest.



    Bread crumbs lost me my one Michelin star. The inspector decided, after licking his fingers and burping discreetly, that ten percent of them were about a tenth of a millimeter too large and killed my star. How did he establish it I don’t know, I guess that he wanted to impress the twenty minus chick hanging on his fifty plus arm.

    I cursed him as discreetly, wishing him all possible banes and kicked him out.

    I moved practically overnight to fast food. Tripling my clientele and doubling my income while getting some gaiety into the place. Thanks you, bread crumbs.



    God 1 – Wife 0


    Muhammad Ali meeting a three years toddler in the ring
    without gloves,
    the Boston Celtics with Larry Bird playing against their chosen kindergarten
    all kids sick with measles,
    a hungry tiger face to face with a two years old puppy
    eyes not yet unglued

    a million, trillion times worse

    God won,


    And there’s no referee, no contesting body to challenge the score
    be the game as unethical and one-sided as it was. Is.
    Everyone scared
    burrowed in their own holes
    remembering winners no one remembers ethics.

    Rules of game created deliberately and ruthlessly by one of the players, the winner.
    Rules of game accepted unwittingly and unwillingly by one of the players, the loser.
    God won.

    And I, the public of one, watches the losing party
    and his heart breaks.
    My heart breaks.
    For once, God, I would like you to challenge someone your size, me,
    instead of his wife, mine.

    God won. God lost. A believer.



    I knew there was no God.

    This is what they taught young communist me to believe
    and I did. I knew.

    Then I knew there was God.

    This is what they taught young ex-communist me to believe
    and I did. I knew.

    Then my mother died. Then my father died. Then others died
    Then I needed them and I decided to appeal upon one of them.
    My mother.

    Mom, I said, you who would have run straight into the fire for your son, for me,
    you who ran countless times straight into the fire for your son, for me,
    you who sits next to His chair and advises Him on daily matters
    your daughter needs you now, not me.
    Mom, please speak to Him to grant her a favor,
    after all, you loved her as much as you loved me, maybe even more.
    Mom, go through the fire for her now, you can, I know, please do.

    Yet my mother did not respond.

    Now I know.
    The communists were right.
    There is no Eden
    There is no God.
    We are alone. My mom’s daughter is alone. And there is no one to help.

    There’s nothing up there,
    so much worse than interstellar vacuum, so much worse...

    QED, not that I had to try too hard.


Of Human Indignity

    Is there anything worse than death?
    Is there anything a thousand times worse than death?
    Sure. Of course there is. Trust me there is. Life.
    Life in a hospital bed.

    When your anguish is comparable only to their indifference
    when your needs are comparable only to their ignorance
    when all you are is not even a piece of flesh
    but rather a piece of meat
    to be cleaned to be rolled to be fed to be forgotten between cleans and rolls and feeds.
    And they go home to their family
    and you stay behind with your misery.

    Human indignity at its acme.

    And while they joke and they jest
    you have nothing left but to curse.
    Of course, you could pray
    but how can you when you know there is nothing beyond those white walls around you
    except for some birds
    as indifferent as the wardens.



    I would never have imagined the darkest of places on Earth to unfold into the source of that unique spark of serendipity that entered my life. Or rather my wife’s life. And yet it did happen. It almost made me believe in God, if anyone who had ever shivered to the sound of Arbeit Macht Frei could ever believe in God again. And yet, it almost did.

    We weren’t too enthusiastic with the school’s choice of trip destination. Poland, of all places, with its horror choice of Auschwitz, Treblinka, Sobibor... And with, on top, the COVID still making inroads into everyone’s life and the war raging in nearby Ukraine and a few other sources of worry that hit us lately, it quite worried us. But the school decided, the parents did not object and the educational need was undeniable; so our grandson went there and thankfully returned safe and sound. He even took a few pictures during the trip.

    “You took pictures there? What was there to take pictures of?” I asked, not upset but rather relieved and curious.

    He downloaded his smart-phone camera to my computer and we started leafing together through the various images. The usual – groups looking this way, groups looking that way, shadows, walls, barbed wire, gates... “Hey, what is this?”

    “I took a few pictures of names written there, was looking for our family name and found a couple tens of them.” I was stunned. Never knew so many individuals carrying my family name, in its various spelling variations, went to their death in the camps. And it being a relatively uncommon name, these people could really have been blood relatives of mine that I had never heard of. My parents, may they rest in peace, were not of the sharing kind when it came to bad news.

    “Did you look also for the family name of grandma?”

    “I did,” he said and moved a few images further. Kids are full of surprises, I didn’t know he was aware of Clara’s family name before marriage. “Here, just a few names.”

    I started shivering. My wife’s maiden name as unique as a fingerprint, her father’s close family lost in the fog of war and after-war, her father giving up any hope to find their trace and dying knowing nothing of their fate. My wife suspecting he never tried too much, maybe afraid of what he might have found, and she carrying within her the sadness of never knowing, never getting closure of that chapter in his life, in her life...

    “Clara,” I called, and she neared my side, watching the screen over my shoulder. The gasp. The choked cry. The shiver.

    There, sequentially, in alphabetical other, the names of her grandfather, her aunt, her uncle, her other uncle, each name followed by the age at death. Strange, usually aunts and uncles are older than their nieces, aren’t they? Her father’s father, her father’s sister, his two brothers, all fallen prey to the devil’s machine. All immortalized on that piece of stone carrying their names among so many others. The sudden serendipity of discovery, of terrible sadness, of pain, of closure.

    That night she lighted five soul candles and went to bed early. “Papa, I found our family,” she murmured her prayer over the candles, “I hope you found them too, before me, and you just didn’t know how to tell me.”

    My grandson was terribly upset and didn’t quite understand why I thanked him so profusely. “Because now, your grandmother can finally allow her wound to close and turn into a scar. It won’t bleed anymore,” I told him, kissing him on the forehead and sending him on his way home.



    Late after midnight, my side of the world.

    Late before midnight your side of the world
    and I start musing about the word, late,
    with adjectival cohorts starting to pop in my mind
    associated with various question mark signs.

    Late means what? In relation to what, to early, to tomorrow, to the dinosaurs?
    Dimensionless, undefined,
    same as big or small or wide or beautiful heavy lazy and others of the tribe
    adjectives invariably subjective... hey, adjective – subjective, ha...
    the user’s point of view defining their momentary meaning in his eyes, in her eyes,
    in no one else’s eyes.
    The definition as shapeless as flowing lava, as tar, as porridge.

    Much. Is it different from very much? How much different?
    Is I love you any less meaningful than I love you very much?
    Is there an I love you very little?
    Old. Is it different from very old? From young? From very young? How much different?
    Does heart age count as much as flesh age or more, or less, or depends?
    Is there an old younger than a young? Or vice versa?
    Poet. Is it an adjective? A noun? A profession? Can it have single, triple, multiple meaning?
    I am very poet... doesn’t sound as strange to me as it may to someone else
    same as I poet not meaning I am a poet but rather I write poems.

    Late after midnight, my side of the world. Tired.

    Words jostle at the screeching gates of my exhausted brain
    jockeying for priority in that mess of thoughts that conglomerate into word snippets
    ricocheting off your bodily hobs and knobs
    like wasps off a burnished steel plate,
    looking for a soft spot
    a penetration spot
    a tiny claw’s hooking spot.

    Late before midnight, your side of the world. Tired?

    The buzz unbearably soft, beautiful, enticing
    and you cannot locate its origins while you try, while you stop trying, while you try again
    feels like a tickle
    like tiny barbs
    like ant bites undecided between harm and worship
    and finally you give up, deciding that my side of the world tries to get to you
    and knowing as you fall asleep
    that it will keep trying. Take as long as it may.



    I hear her steps a mile away
    It’s much too close for comfort
    I hope she sharpens every day
    The source of my discomfort.

    I guess it’s time to cash my chips
    I’m way beyond my summer
    But won’t be leaving any tips
    For this distended bummer.

    I don’t complain, I’m just a bit
    Well, slightly disappointed
    That soon I’ll hear the words ‘That’s it!’
    And I will get anointed

    With everlasting’s sticky slime
    And glints of ever after,
    The swoosh to cut my count of time
    Will cleave my sigh, my laughter,

    Confetti pouring on my mouth
    And meaningless palaver
    Accompanying my flight south
    With many a cadaver.

    As said, I won’t complain, some sparks
    Made living entertaining
    As in between the doves and sharks
    I exercised my feigning,

    Some loves, some hates, some long some short
    Left deep encrusted traces
    And being forced now to abort
    The smiles, the hugs, the places,

    Makes it unfair to those I leave,
    Hey, here are my excuses,
    I gave as much as I could give
    I’m sorry for the bruises.

    But ‘she’ decides, no more a mile,
    I feel the paths converging
    Soon hand in hand we’ll walk the aisle
    Into oblivion merging.

    My loves, my friends, my next of kin
    Please try just to remember
    The nicer parts of ways I’ve been,
    Now’s time for my December.


A random (barely) letter

    All creatures alive live for two reasons only: feeding and fornicating,
    reasons applying to fauna and flora alike.
    All... but humans, that is.

    Humans expanded their reason for living with flagellating,
    fabricating, flattering, fomenting, foreclosing, faking, flaunting, forestalling
    and many more of the f family
    (whose obvious number one member is represented here by a close synonym),
    I am sure my esteemed readers could graciously further expand this list.
    Yes, there are also other letter families
    but enunciating them would detract from this poem’s poemity, haha.

    I often wonder, what came first – the deed or the word?

    I am not entirely convinced the answer is trivial, or is the obvious choice either –
    at times I have a feeling words were invented to allow some (dis?) reputable individuals
    to be able to put own-imagined deeds underneath the relevant canopy
    and be able to tell it to the world by short terms rather than by long-winded explanations.
    And some words are still criminally missing
    and should be added to the roster, preferably in the f family
    since most of the deeds happen in this domain anyway.
    Like how do you call letting populations hunger? Maybe faminating?
    And how do you call guiding people to their perdition? Maybe fooling?
    Oh, sorry, fooling already exists, is already practiced, sorry, erase!
    So how do you call preferring remunerative populist maybe art
    over non-remunerative absolute real art? Maybe filistining?
    (Yes, I know, it should be ph not f but, you know, contextual poetical license?!)
    And how do you call a failed love affair?
    Failoving? Failfuckediting? Fizzlefrizzlefrazzling?
    (No wonder I never made it to any academia selection short-list, not even to the gigantic-list.)

    Now, suppose my focus would have settled on t rather than on f –
    of course, the t family lacks a member of such omnipotent unpresentability as the f family
    but I could have built a case around secondary human minions such as torturing,
    terrorizing, trapping, travestying...
    or on b with bombing, betraying, brutalizing
    a with assassinating, abusing
    e with enslaving
    and even stretch my creativity to such verbalizations as hiroshimaing
    and so on and so forth but but but (emphasis by repetition) –
    none would have been as rich (though more horrifying at times) a family as the f one, fact.

    Around this line I ran out of immediate ideas
    and my eyes started giving up on me
    (middle of the night and all that jazz)
    so I have to rush the ending before my spell-checker bursts in flames
    (pre-spell-check it was ‘burps in flames’, see?)
    but no big loss – anyway I repeat myself in a myriad different ways
    to say just the one and same thing again and again and again (emphasis by repetition) –
    fucking hell, I love you!


Serendipity, 100

    text 100

    We were scrabbling, following no particular rules.

    “I have a long word with lots of e’s in it, probably in the top ten,” she said triumphantly. “Serendeepeetee.”

    She rejected all objections, references to dictionaries, called me names and left in anger.

    I knew she flunked some English exams, but I did not relate the two issues. Until (calling her teacher worse names than she called me) she showed me the teacher’s answer to her complaint letter. It said: “I don’t mind your complaint, where you say you are meesteefied by my grading. The reason I flunked you was your Eenglish.”


    PS beyond text 100

    43 years later, the American Academy of English Advancement will vote the ‘ee simplicity rule’ whereby every word phonetically including an ee sound will be written with ee. My friend will not be credited with it... her teacher, by then chairing the academy, will. My friend will not be driven into suicide but rather into a long string of invectives addressed to her former teacher and will abandon herself entirely in my arms. History is so unfair... except for the abandonment part.

    Of course, the rule will be called ‘ee seempleeceetee rule’.

    How do I know it? Haha, my seecret.



    We got to become friends as of late,
    I and Death.
    She calls it best friends and I just acquaintances
    so the average is friends. I’ll keep it at this.

    She insists on holding hands most of the time
    except when I insist too for some degree of freedom
    when I have to go through some intimacies like picking my nose
    pulling my socks
    cutting my fingernails
    and some even more intimate that do not belong to this kind of literature.
    It is strange holding hands,
    reminds me of kindergarten
    when we were paired randomly but usually boys with boys and girls with girls
    and marshalled to destinations unknown,
    now it is boy with girl
    and I am not so enthusiastic about her. And destination still unknown.

    Sometimes she leaves for some rush job
    and I breathe relieved trying to concentrate on my own job
    refraining from reading newspapers
    or ask to the well-being of people that I know she may be visiting
    and thus betraying our bond... “I love my entire harem...” she keeps boasting
    disregarding the fact that she might hurt my feelings, somehow.
    Then she returns and I can smell her foul breath miles away
    (tried various perfumes and air-fresheners to no avail)
    and lands close to me
    all of her lipless smiles and deep orbs batting enthusiastically
    and looking forward to praise that never comes
    (I have my own pride as well, she knows and accepts).

    Strange this asymmetry life-death, one allowed to roam freely in the land of the other
    and the other one not allowed even a peek in the land of the other other.

    We are NOT lovers, she keeps insisting, just best friends,
    perching upside down from a tree that might have served once as gallows
    and throwing kisses my way which at times materialize into horseshoes
    or bricks
    once even into an anvil
    and I have to keep hopping away hoping none crushes a toe,
    oh, your love so crushing, my anorexic sack of bones,
    are you sure you do not want to choose someone else for best friend? I ask
    and she answers good humoredly... soon, my best friend, soon.

    Then she takes my hand again
    curls my fingers around her breast bone
    and we sit like that for hours watching birds fly, and butterflies roam
    waiting for the sun to set and letting its last rays reflex like needles of fire
    off the sharp steel held in her other hand.
    She never let me touch the steel.
    Soon, my best friend, soon, she lullabies.



    Looks like someone up there
    (from a choice of God, death, aliens, asteroids, lost bullets, shitting pigeons and others)
    was set on murdering me today.

    I started cutting my hedge with an electric tool and it started raining.
    I stopped, it stopped raining.
    I started again, it started raining again.
    I stopped, it stopped, I started, it started... and so on cat-and-mouse
    until I stopped. It stopped. I stayed stopped.

    Murder attempt by electrocution of course
    which eliminates all of the ‘up there list’ with the exception of shitting pigeons.
    Damn pigeons.


OK, God

    So you took on some evil
    long ago.

    You drowned Pharaoh’s army
    rained fire on Sodom
    and the sun did not set until the Amorites were done with.
    And some more.

    Then you did not take on some evil
    short ago.

    Hitler, that we all know what he did,
    Pinochet, that we all know what he did,
    Pol Pot, that we all know what he did.
    And some more.

    Then you do not take on some evil
    not ago. Now.

    And I will refrain from naming names because, see,
    I do not want to end up with some polonium in my water
    or a poisoned dart in my neck
    or a dirty atomic bomb in my back yard
    and you will not be there to protect me which I wish I didn’t say or mean.

    And then, oh, God, you took on some good people, certainly not evil people
    like, say, Martin Luther King,
    like, say, John Lennon,
    like, say, my mother my father my wife, and I not even Job.

    Say, God, is something wrong?
    I, and I merely human, believe something is wrong
    and you either do not care or you do not exist,
    both of which profanities are equal in their irreverent statement of blasphemy
    to the cruelty in your callous statement of absence.


Strange World

    I always hated death in art I loved.

    Like Nemecsek in The Paul Street Boys.
    Like Yeller in Old Yeller and the blind lion in Tartarin of Tarascon
    and Romeo and Juliet in, well, Romeo and Juliet.
    And others.
    Stupid, romantic, glorious, tragic, accidental... death is death always breaking my heart.
    Even in replays.

    I always hated an unhappy ending in art I loved. Even bitter-sweet unhappy.
    Like The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.
    Like Somewhere in Time and Brief Encounter and A Tale of Two Cities.
    And others.
    Stupid, romantic, glorious, tragic, accidental... unhappy is unhappy always breaking my heart.
    Even the bitter-sweet imbalancedly bitter.
    Even in replays.

    And yet, lo and behold, I give in to the urge
    and some of my writes end in death. Or in unhappy. Or in bitter-sweet imbalancedly bitter.
    I wonder – is it a demand art poses on the shoulders of those abusing its favors
    to introduce this kind of element?
    Or is it rather the pinch of realism reality demands on their part
    to spice their work
    and prevent the otherwise insipidity of taste. Mind taste, mind you.

    Strange world we live in if death and unhappiness are the mandatory gateways to pleasure,
    strange world.



    oh, lover (or lovers, depends on the parallax)
    at my untimely departure (all departures are untimely)
    to a greener pasture (almost perfect rhyme)
    and do not wail in sorrow (I would have preferred wallow, doesn’t work)
    at my defunct tomorrow (as perfect a rhyme as they come).

    OK, enough parentheses, for now at least.

    Rejoice, lover,
    do not mourn,
    be equanimous rather than lachrymous (yes, lachrymose, I know)
    and do not mar your beauty with so many sad grimaces
    since I leave with you my beauty with so many gay (the other meaning) words
    (I know I promised less parentheses, sorry, it is this kind of poem
    and I know you would have preferred something more material and financial
    than nerdy and wordy, sorry again),
    rejoice lover
    since for once I do not know where I’m going, oh, the adventure of it all.

    Remember what I told you about the goats?... let them rejoice too,
    remember what I told you about the toilet-paper-less villages?... let them rejoice too,
    remember the other things I told you which I now forget?...
    let all be gay (still the other meaning) and merry
    and many a faerie
    if lithe and if hairy
    get drunk on the sherry
    from squashed cherry berry
    (fine, admittedly not forced yet abused rhyme).

    No one’s going to like this poem, me included,
    but this being the kind of hour in the day
    and this being the collection it will be included in
    it follows suit that this should be the kind of poem it grows out to be.
    Rejoice! (this one directed at myself, not that it helps).

    Rejoice, death (small d; for those wondering when I was going to bring it in – here it is)
    now you’re going to lay your knurly hand upon my shoulder
    taking your revenge for all the times I was peeking underneath your shroud
    trying to get myself to puke at sight of those femurs rolling in their acetabulums
    and wondering
    if there ever was any flesh decoration dressing them into female beauty
    the way of Medusa before Minerva
    or Lamia before Hera
    or Callisto before Juno
    and before I puked again,
    taking your revenge for all the mockery I spit at you
    in perfect or imperfect poetry and tense
    calling you names
    and investigating unceremoniously your family
    and siblings
    and rest of the boney diaspora physical and metaphysical and astrophysical,
    taking your revenge for ascribing your weapon communist tendencies
    and covering it with industrial platitudes
    from the plastic family
    and the garbage recycling family
    and the rot rust repulsion family
    not to mention gangrene and relevant acolytes
    before allowing myself such liberties as using it to cut watermelon to slices
    or perform circumcision.
    (Say, do you use it also to fly on its handle, or snath as professionally named?)

    OK, sufficient rejoicing for one day, for one poem, for one writer, for one reader
    and in the much improbable chance of two readers
    then for two readers.
    It’s one of those weird scribbles belonging to the rich family of cacography
    and malapropism
    and catachresis
    and others of the dishumanly tribe,
    I am not particularly proud with it neither I am particularly ashamed with it.
    It’s another form of bodily refuse
    and without mentioning the obviously unpleasant ones
    this is of a mental type.
    Thus not obviously unpleasant, yet obviously necessary.
    Lest I die.
    So here it goes... or rather went.



    The advantage
    of NOT being a Ginsberg or a Bukowski or a Kerouac
    is that nobody knows me
    and I do not have to cater, willingly or unwillingly
    to armies of admirers or detractors.

    Thus I write my own shit for my own use and enjoyment
    and let posthumousity take care of the rest.
    To whichever uncertain results.
    Or rather certain, though I consciously refuse to acquiesce it.

    Well, the uncertainty principle
    and the unpredictability of statistical choice for individual occurrences
    keeps my unconsciousness clinging with fingernails upon a glass wall
    making obscene frog movements
    while sliding inexorably down.
    How far down?
    Does it really matter as long as it is not up?


Strange words, maybe

    I miss your body
    and the rest of you too.
    I need your body
    and the rest of you too.
    I want to make to your body things not yet envisaged indulged in conjured up
    and to the rest of you too.

    I want to lay my body upon your body around your body inside your body
    I want to lie upon your body around your body inside your body
    I want to rise up from your body
    uncoil away from around your body
    pull out from inside your body
    and as armies of lecherous readers start screaming for the gory details of above events
    to extract one stretched middle finger from a cluster of five
    point it downwards in the general direction of their intellect
    following which I curl upon your naked lap
    and fall asleep among mixed scents of freesia and peony and hyacinth.

    And when you wake up and rise?
    You mean when you rise up and leave?
    I mean when I leave and do not return.

    I wished I could tell her about my circadian rhythm
    and nyctinastic cycle
    and random bouts of cathemeral confusion,
    nothing to do with the sun,
    all to do with her.
    But she would take it as some kind of metaphorical auxesis
    when in actuality it would be some kind of metaphorical meiosis...
    reality, in other words.
    She would not believe, period.

    I miss the rest of you,
    and your body too.
    I need the rest of you,
    and your body too.
    I want to make to the rest of you things not yet envisaged indulged in conjured up
    and to your body too.

    I wish to stop using these strange words
    and instead retreat to the safety of love dove above
    while still laying lying rising upon around inside and applicable prepositions
    all to do with the rest of you
    with your body
    with me curling upon your naked lap
    and falling asleep among mixed scents of freesia and peony and hyacinth.


Inspired by my dentist

    “Into each life some dentist must fall.”
                        ~Henry Wadsworth Longdenttow
    “It’s raining dentists, hallelujah!”
                        ~Geri Hallidentell
    “Return to denter”
                        ~Elvis Presdently


    This is the first in my dentist collection, hopefully the last,
    and I do not mean “My Dentist collection”
    but rather “my Dentist collection”
    and I could start explaining the twain fathomless inequalities inside this diptych
    or even create a triptych approach
    but I’d rather proceed with the condents of this poem
    before I lose my inspiration and a front tooth
    (which I may still lose, depends whom reader I meet after this poem).
    PD. (same like PS. but Post Dentum) There are no typos in this collection.
    PPD. (Same as PPS. etc.) Dentum not Dentistum, for reasons undisclosed.

    Inspired by my dentist

    I was looking for a dentist with dentistry as profession and shoemaking as hobby,
    one can hardly trust a dentist but one can always trust a shoemaker,
    took some time, finally found one just when I stopped chewing and started drinking.
    Food I mean, for both.

    He had this billion dollars piece of machinery
    with knobs and levers and gauges and chrome bars and monogrammed silk towelettes
    and a variety of screens, one shaped heart
    (I learned later on it was for the fees)
    one shaped finger
    (I learned later on which finger it was)
    twenty-three shaped classical $:3 ... oops, shifted 4 by mistake... 4:3 rectangular
    showing us in polychromatic detail and dynamic angles my collection of teeth
    the way the application said they were couple years ago – almost perfect
    the way the application said they are now – perfect disaster
    the way the application said they will soon be – perfectly gone
    and then an animated view of the path followed start to horrifying end under no guidance
    compared to the path to follow start to glorious end under his (my dentist’s) guidance
    if I would just sign here (a robot shoved a pad under my nose, metaphorically speaking)
    and there (another robot, same nose, similar metaphor)
    and yonder (sexy assistant, same nose, no metaphor).

    I left inspired to the depths of my caries, almost singing if not for the anguish.
    Glorious color pictures of cliffs and crevasses in my pocket
    (“see, this is like the Grand Canyon ha-ha,” he said)
    one glorious deep cleavage in my mind
    (“see, this is where your grandkids’ inheritance ends oy-vey,” my mind said)
    and all of me one befuddled confusion.
    Dentusion came to mind,
    knowing I would not find it in whatever dictionaries the Internet threw at me.

    Repired by my dentist

    They did not have to tie me to the chair or put me to sleep or sit on me
    frozen as I was with physical and financial fright,
    all them five seasons of deep dental archaeology
    and high dental architecturology.
    I didn’t even pay attention to the sexy assistant, she was invisible to me
    with her red Cartier pumps
    and Hermes watermarked nylons
    and Tiffany one-carat ring
    and checkered silk blouse golden buckled belt lilac perfume blue fingernails 3-stories hairdo...
    completely transparent, I tell you.
    I hated when he tsk-tsked and hmm-hmmed and oops-oopsed
    with all of me except my mouth shivering underneath the surgical sheet
    and the frequent dental jokes exchanged with his assistant did nothing to my self-confidence
    like “I wonder if there’s enough gold in Fort Knox”
    like “I wonder if he’ll dare rob Fort Knox”
    like “Will he need protection like Fort Knox?”.
    And more Fort Knox jokes, hell, what about some 60s elephant jokes?
    And even with my mouth wide open there was no way for me to respond
    without risking a deadly waterboarding effect on my lungs.
    I wrote my responses at home and sent it to them by registered post
    they never answered, cheap bastards, saving on stamps.

    Then one day the final drill was shelved away
    the final screw was tightened in
    the final mirror was placed in front of me showing the micronic perfection of porcelain teeth
    using forceps to force me into a big smile
    and it was the moment to scream in horror and bolt away.
    I screamed in horror and bolted away. I knew what was to follow.

    Despired by my dentist

    I took a mortgage on the house.
    I took a mortgage on the mortgage.
    I took a mortgage on the mortgage I took on the mortgage.
    I stopped eating
    (so why the hell you needed teeth, you ask)
    I stopped peeing
    (so why the hell you needed teeth, you ask, and I don’t know why you ask)
    I stopped hiccupping
    (so why the hell you needed teeth, you ask, the better to eat you with! I answer).

    I had some welcome help, fortunately.
    My niece donated me her piggy with all of four dollars and sixteen cents in it,
    I counted twice separating the quarters and the dimes and the cents.
    My brother in law suggested that I rob a bank in Mexico
    from his jail in Mexico where he is still jailed for bank robbery in Mexico,
    his second attempt at helping had to do with a hammer and a chisel and suing the dentist
    his third attempt at helping had to do with asking me for a loan, strange this one.
    I tried various lotteries,
    bingo establishments,
    translating Robinson Crusoe to Yiddish,
    selling my stamps collection (a bit of mold did not deter me)
    selling my poetry (one laughed, one called the cops, one set her poodle on me)
    selling my soul to the devil (flat refusal, age discrimination)
    selling organs (mine, found my kidneys and a quarry are different in size only)
    digging for oil (in my garden), gold (in my garden), emeralds (in my garden)
    participating in Wergle Flomp (tried also TS Eliot, James Laughlin, Norma Faber,
    Dead Poets Society where they said Death Becomes You and I should stay that way)
    solving Fermat’s theorem on a single A4 page (sadly I ran out of A4’s)
    selling an original Elvis scarf (DNA proven)...
    The welcome help was insufficiently welcome, unfortunately.

    Right now my only hope lies with whatever kind of pending Armageddon
    and devising ways of how to prevent preventing it,
    work in process...
    and tomorrow my wife starts visiting same dentist too.
    I wonder if Papua has any extradition agreement with the US.
    OMG!... or would OMD! be more appropriate?


    Sounds like ‘happy end’ which decidedly it is not
    oh, the misunderstood wonders of random phonetics.
    Originally it was supposed to be ‘Expired by my dentist’
    but I leave it to hordes of posthumous generations of academia
    to debate and decide if my choice of title was adequate or desperate.

    I am presently in Papua.
    Protected by layers of local officialdom
    like the chief of local police who hates anything dental and American
    and the chief of local government who hates anything dental and American
    and whose gigantic aquarium is lined internally with my now defunct stamps collection
    and the chief of local surgeons who hates anything dental and American
    and whose tower of strength I am –
    every time he feels mentally down he calls me in for a scan of my kidneys
    after which he starts ROFLing.

    My poor wife, oh, my poor wife
    she begs me repeatedly to return home and face it like a man
    promising me everything imaginable

    even sex next time the Haley comet arrives.
    But I have a better, pretty devious plan.
    You see, there is a bounty on my head that keeps inching upwards with each passing day,
    once it reaches the proximity of my debt she will sell me out to the authorities
    and with the bounty thus collected pay all our dues, proudly,
    smiling widely and whitely (she too).
    And they lived happily ever after, whatever is left of it...




Strange Metaphors

    If youth would be metal
    yours would be T-10 steel.

    If mind would be dust
    yours would be granite.

    If beauty would be candle flame
    yours would be sun flare.

    Strange metaphors.
    And if passion would be dung beetle?

    I watched her
    the distance suddenly magnified thousand fold
    the visibility suddenly magnified billion fold.

    Strange metaphor.
    If passion would be dung beetle
    mine would be a tyrannosaurus rex herd chased by a river of lava.

    I saw her smile
    she wasn’t thousands of miles away
    she was couple paces away.

    And mine? she asked.

    I saw her smile
    she wasn’t trillions of miles away
    she was molecules of air away.

    If passion would be dung beetle
    yours would be tyrannosaurus rex with T-10 fangs and granite claws breathing sun flares.
    Chased by a river of lava?

    If you would be here we would make love.
    No metaphors? No T-10, T-Rex, etc?
    I wasn’t disappointed, I was breathless.
    Use the strangest metaphors.
    Then use your imagination.

    You mean if imagination would be atom size
    mine would be universe size,
    this imagination?
    This imagination exactly.

    Strange metaphor.
    I used it.
    I never recovered.


Will we ever, ever, ever, ever make love in the rain?

    My best sentence ever, in context.
    My best rhyme, rhythm ever, in context.
    Used it more than once, quoting myself is a favorite pass-time, in context.

    Of course, one should be able to read it, in context, perfectly
    in order to enjoy it, in context, fully.
    The first three words closely chasing each other
    then a short breathing interval
    next two words again closely chasing each other
    again a short breathing interval
    then the following three words chasing each other at a slightly slower pace
    and finally a shorter breathing interval
    followed by the last three words as if written on the following line
    and sounding as plaintive as a lone wolf’s call in the wild.
    Presaging death
    Yes, I know, reading a poetry line is a bitch
    but a bitch it should be if you want to understand it, to feel it, to live it. Like I do.

    The line could go with

    Then I asked the fading fairy calling after her in vain
    Will we ever, ever, ever, ever make love in the rain?

    Or it could go with

    We made love upon the railway waiting for the hooting train
    Will we ever, ever, ever, ever make love in the rain?

    But it could never go with
    Never did.
    Never will.
    Not that I ever gave up hope, oh, the inherent oxymoron,
    but it gave up hope, on me.

    Which does not prevent me from keeping on singing, keeping on hoping.
    Keeping on living it.

    Please allow this craving gobbet of my flesh ask you again
    Will we ever, ever, ever, ever make love in the rain?



    You opened your legs,
    in V.

    You were on your back of course
    your legs at ninety degrees to your body of course
    the sun just showing up behind the window sill rising from the apex of the V
    the absolute purity of the encounter
    source of life meeting source of life upon the round perfection of my eye’s pupil
    each end of each single curl of hair making it seem like the sun was shining out of it
    blinding me into the sightlessness
    of an oracle.

    Oracling what?

    I did not correct you,
    it was inappropriate to correct you
    I agreed with you in full that the word should have existed
    should have been created, venerated
    was the best suited for the magic of that passing moment...
    the moment passed.

    The sun rose, indifferently.
    The legs closed, challengingly.
    My eyes glued to the ‘it was there’ moment in time and space
    unable to move, blink.
    I blinked.
    The moment parted to that no-return land so rich with moments parted
    and I felt like crying.

    Don’t cry, you soothed me
    and let my head sink upon the welcome of your breasts
    singing me to sleep with a lullaby I never heard before.

    I did dream of that V
    and promised it that next time I visit Capela Sistina
    I will sneak in at night and paint it, crudely even,
    somewhere close to where God’s finger touches Adam’s.
    where it belongs.


Qui fuit rana nunc est rex

    Der Froschkönig oder der eiserne Heinrich
    Le roi grenouille ou Henri de Fer
    De kikkerkoning of de IJzeren Hendrik
    El rey rana o Enrique de hierro

    or, let’s keep it simple, The princess and the frog
    probably translated in as many languages as the Bible,
    maybe more
    which boy didn’t imagine himself the frog? (ok, you excluded)
    which girl didn’t imagine herself the prinncess? (ok, you excluded)
    oh, the magic
    oh, the happily lived ever after
    oh, but imagine the ending could have been oy vey.

    Imagine the princess would have been the same.
    Imagine the frog would have been a Panamanian golden frog
    with its abundance of bufadienolides and guanidinium alkaloids to their kinds
    and the prince would have still ended prince
    but the princess would have ended dead. Poisoned.
    Oh, the tragedy,
    what a theater masterpiece a Shakespeare or an Ibsen or a Brecht or a Chechov
    (list not exclusive)
    could have made of it if only they would have imagined it...
    what a comedy masterpiece a Lloyd or a Chaplin or a Keaton or a Laurel & Hardy
    (list not exclusive)
    could have made of it
    if only they would have imagined it...
    what a musical masterpiece a Kelly or an Astaire or a Minelli or a Monroe
    (list not exclusive)
    could have made of it
    if only they would have imagined it...
    etc. etc. etc...

    I keep wondering and I guess I’ll never know –
    would the prince’s kiss have been as poisonous
    as the frog’s?

    I wonder and I wonder and I wonder...
    and then I go out there
    and I imagine.



    The bear towered above you
    reared up
    huge paws on your shoulders pulling you in to his hairy chest
    the huge mouth in the huge head opening
    a one foot long tongue...
    you exaggerate...
    starting to lick your face like it was a giant honey lollipop dipped in cake frosting.

    You giggled.
    He’s not a bear...
    he’s a dog...
    his name is...
    he was once a puppy...
    I can ride him...
    he jumps so high...

    The sarracenia purpurea surrounded you
    raised their heads
    gooey glue flowing around your knees climbing towards your neck
    towards your hair
    smelly enzymes starting to digest your skin...
    you exaggerate...
    perfuming you into a mix of lily and lilac and jasmine and ripe crushed cherries.

    You giggled.
    It’s not a sarracenia...
    it’s a dahlia...
    I planted them...
    they are gorgeous...
    do you know that...
    there are three kinds...

    Death hung from a tree
    its cloak gone
    the skull bobbling above the whitened ribs aiming its rotten teeth towards you
    with the bony hand holding the scythe making a sharp left to right movement
    aiming to slice you...
    you exaggerate...
    and splintered to pieces with you rolling on the ground laughing yourself silly.

    You giggled.
    It’s a plastic skeleton...
    left it hanging...
    I’ll replace it...
    was on sale...
    it’s a wind chime...

    For a moment you watched me intently.
    Say, why are you trying to frighten me? you asked. You were serious.

    Because I am trying to get you to jump up on me in fright
    fingernails digging into the nape of my neck
    teeth hanging on to my bottom lip
    legs rolling around me to crush us together
    nipples boring holes into my lungs...
    and my ears?...
    and your ears fluttering us to clouds we never visited before.

    So why didn’t you say so to start with? You were serious.

    You jumped up on me in rage
    claws digging into the nape of my neck much past the vertebrae
    fangs biting alternatively top bottom tongue lips
    baby boa legs rolling around us three times and still going
    with nipples puncturing all the way in to chest to out from back...
    you exaggerate...
    and your ears fluttering us like giant condors to heights out of this existence.

    When all exaggeration was over we all crashed down,
    an undefinable and unidentifiable potpourri of human parts
    dog parts
    dahlia petals
    and plastic bones.

    It was worth the exaggeration, I said.
    Exaggeration? What exaggeration? you said.



    Why is it always ‘dirty old men’
    and not ‘dirty young men’?
    Not that I am old, but still...

    Why is it always ‘lecherous old men’
    and not ‘lecherous young men’?
    Not that I am old, but still...

    Do you really think there is so much of a difference,
    any difference
    With the only real difference hiding in opportunity
    in capability
    in knowledge that the horizon nears
    and contrary to popular belief and scientific evidence
    Earth is flat
    and once you cross over the horizon you fall
    and keep falling, never stopping.
    Some kind of gravitational anomaly, huh?
    And any kind of beautiful dirt lost forever, there, behind.

    And for the sake of completing the argument – why men?
    Why not dirty old women?
    Why not young, fat, lithe, virgin, experienced, middle-aged, cranky bitches, romantic does
    lecherous women?
    Not that they will ever admit being old.
    Or young, fat, lithe, etc. - but still...

    And lecherous?
    Lecherous for craving a moment of fire, a loss of breath, a heartbeat’s rush?
    Ha! Rather suicidably happy, won’t you say?


Superman Variations

    It actually started as a game of kinds, led by my son who jokingly called one of our neighbors Superman. Said neighbor was short of stature, fat, wore thick-lensed eyeglasses, was in his forties and spoke with a lisp. None of which could lead to his Supermanship if it wasn’t for his uncanny ability to... sink the ball into the hoop from any position on the local paved game court; if within range of his throw, of course. He became a favorite player with any of the neighborhood teams, his job being just waiting for the ball and then throwing it. Superman indeed.

    Then we got in one of the houses down the street our Superbman, this time nicknamed (against my futile protests) by my wife, a guy built indeed like a superman with all those ripe triceps and biceps and quadriceps and other ceps which seem to drive women, my wife included, bubbling with forbidden passion, and which situation I unashamedly abused from time to time. Followed Supperman for another neighbor whose punctuality for arriving home at supper time helped us set our watches, Sufferman for a guy of continuous sad countenance, Supermean for the one who constantly chased cats off his grounds, Snoopyman for the beagle owner, Snifferman for the local junkie, Big Mac became Super Mac, Snookerman, Sparrowman, Schniderman (this happened to be his real name), Sugarman (actually a visiting suggar daddy to a suitable lady)... what about Superwoman you ask? OK, you could claim we were all a bunch of misogynistic pigs, but as long as my wife was included in the decisions you could hardly claim this, right? And the ‘all’ anyway included just me, my son and my wife.

    We did not expect the next “challenge” in our lives to have anything to do with things superly or supermanly or superwomanly, and yet...


    “Look!” she, my wife, said shoving a corner of newspaper under my eyes. I looked.

    Your own island in the Pacific for 1 dollar, on 2 conditions: first – you send us 1 dollar; second – you survive on the island 4 consecutive weeks. There followed a description of conditions and sponsors and related institutions which made me raise my eyebrows in wonder.

    “It has to be a hoax yet it cannot be a hoax. This thing is worth billions, why doesn’t a billionaire buy it for full money?”

    I made some inquiries to a lawyer friend, and he confirmed there is no hoax involved. “Palms, coconuts, white sand beaches, no wild life, clean water springs... virginal island. Running for the 10th year now, no one made it to the end. Income goes to good causes, at least.”

    “So why doesn’t anyone succeed there?” I insisted, ready already to invest my 1 dollar.

    “Because,” he laughed, “you have first to beat the lottery odds, and secondly the local mosquitoes odds. Good luck!” And with that he disconnected.

    Mosquitoes? Ha-ha, is this all that this is about? Ha-ha. We played. We beat the lottery odds. We won. Now just a small matter of mosquitoes odds.

    We were allowed to take with us whatever we wished, as long as it was not grossly polluting and as long as it did not include atomic bombs. So we packed all the varieties of mosquito repellants we found out about if as spray bombs, if as stinking candles, if as electronic buzzers, if as pills to be swallowed; then all the varieties of mosquito killers if as fly paper (forty), if as chameleons (two), if as sarracenia purpurea (ten), if as HV lamps (four); then all the varieties of protection stuff like nets, impregnable tents, densely woven clothing, scuba face masks; and then some slightly more offensive stuff like a miniature flame thrower, lots of fly swatters, a couple powerful vacuum-cleaners, even a small revolver with six silver bullets – one never knows. As a second thought I added some garlic heads and a silver cross too. If it won’t help, it won’t make any harm, right?

    “Is this all?” asked the imperturbable driver who came to help us load all the stuff on the way to the airport.

    “Isn’t it enough?” I asked back, slightly offed by the question.

    “Nothing is enough,” he retorted quizzically, and we left.

    “Soon we’ll own an island,” glowed my son, glowed my wife, glowed I... though my glow was slightly on the apprehensive side, after my short exchange with the driver.

    We arrived there Tuesday morning. We signed a no-claims paper. By following Saturday we were already back on the plane, practically running for our lives. Well, at least we survived.


    OK, let’s put it this way – I am a registered mosquitos hater. There is such thing. Now I am also a registered mosquitos fearer and I didn’t know there was such a thing. We were told that some guy before us brought with him a plastic bubble quarter of an inch thick all around to live in, and two weeks later he begged with a screaming voice to be removed from the island. He is also registered there.

    I sat now huddled under the shared blanket with my wife and son, each of us still shivering at some or other degree of Richter, each of us looking as if an army of porcupines decided to have a stampeding ball all over our bodies, intimacies included. From time to time (at, say, three milliseconds intervals) we would moan not daring to scratch again an itch that just stopped bleeding and started some process of healing.

    “Mosquitos the smallest of which is the size of a big bat?” moaned my wife.

    “Mosquitos the biggest of which is the size of a small albatross?” moaned my son.

    “Mosquitos,” I moaned, saying it all. They were both kind of exaggerating, probably. Both were figuratively expressing what they thought they had literally encountered. And I, what did I think? I did not, I was too busy scratching.

    But an invisible mosquito that is able to cut through steel enforced nylon nets, eat repellant candle, short-circuit HV lamps and get us tangled in waves of fallen fly paper must be a special kind of mosquito. Oh, they also ate the sarracenia purpurea. And we saved the terrified chameleons from the beach hole where they were hanging on to each other shivering for dear life. My latest thoughts were (are still) that this was some secret army test base and we were all guinea pigs for the latest in bio warfare.

    “So what will we name them?” I whispered, afraid to wake up a sleeping scratch.

    “I think... Super Man-Annihilating-Mosquitoes,” whispered back my son, “Supermam,” and we all agreed.

    I didn’t tell my family, but later on that night I started shopping around for an atomic bomb.


Slight Exaggerations

    I hope one day you win an award for your poetry, she said,
    though she was three times as talented (slight exaggeration, rounding down)
    and three times as young (slight exaggeration, rounding up).
    And what has one to do with the other? she said
    and there was not even the slightest exaggeration in her raised eyebrows.

    I hope one day you are as famous as Shakespeare, she said,
    slightly exaggerating my talent
    slightly exaggerating her comment.
    Do I now? she said
    and I had to apologize, not exaggerating in the slightest.

    It was one of those walk-in-the-park events...
    her dogs chasing wildly any promising smell wafting their way
    her cats napping sagely inside their ‘here lies a stupid cat’ box drawn on wheels
    (...or they’ll never forgive me? she batted gigantic green lakes my way)
    her (?) crow holding a bird feeder in its beak and flying rounds about us...


    I holding a hand (hers) not dragging the box
    she holding a heart (mine) dragging metaphysical feet through metaphysical lust mires
    sixth walk in a row now, as platonic as thread to needle
    as butterfly to flower
    as arrow to bow
    and some other stupid metaphors none of which points to anything
    except to the befuddled state of my mind comparable, probably, to Krakatoa 1883
    no exaggeration, even the slightest, intended.
    Platonic? OG, why?
    Cyclonic? OG, when?

    The dogs stopped running, laughed at me, then continued chasing invisible squirrels.
    The cats stopped napping, laughed at me, then continued laughing... damn cats.
    The crow did not stop flying, it couldn’t,
    it couldn’t laugh at me as well or it would drop the feeder, which doesn’t mean it didn’t laugh.
    I stopped.
    She stopped.
    Why do we stop? she asked
    (remember, this was the sixth walk already but the first times we ever stopped).
    I asked her if the dogs would eventually eat me if... if what?
    if the cats would eventually eat me if... if what?
    if the crow would eventually fit me inside the bird feeder if... if what?
    if she would eventually eat me
    or reconsider the award or reconsider the Shakespearean fame
    be these even slightly exaggerated... if what?

    Platonic I said above?
    Cyclonic I said above?
    Krakatoa 1883 I said above?
    Slight exaggeration, whichever direction, sorry.

    We shredded platonic to its atomic constituents
    we reinvented cyclonic to its ferocious rudiments
    we relegated Krakatoa 1883 to a footnote in the madness of our us there moment

    and when it was all over the dogs stopped laughing at me and didn’t eat me.
    Even the cats stopped laughing at me, though one is never sure with cats
    I could slightly exaggerate here, they surely didn’t eat me.
    Neither did the crow engage in any adverse activity,
    maybe too tired from carrying that feeder around.
    As for her...

    Her, she, the one, the fire to my sigh the saber to my moan the whip to my howl
    she did not eat me.
    She did not even admonish me (slight exaggeration,
    she did admonish me slightly for being of such dull and delayed understanding).
    Do you have a pen?
    She nibbled on my bicep until she tasted blood
    broke the pen and poured some ink into the wound
    and stood up to leave.
    Your tattoo. The only one you’ll ever have. My heart.
    Then she left.

    She took her dogs
    she took her cats
    she took her (?) crow
    she took my heart.
    No exaggeration, absolutely none.



    I had a dog, his name was Tiger
    but he preferred me to call him Titi.
    No idea why, maybe to compensate for his ferocious nature
    maybe because he felt he was entitled to it
    no less than Churchill to Bulldog
    or Armstrong to Satchmo
    or Elvis to King.
    And God forbid I called him by his given name, he would bite first
    and apologize second.
    And I loved him to death. Which naturally brings me to Didi.

    There was a death, her name was Death. Not mine, mind you,
    nevertheless I decided to call her Didi
    no idea about biting or apologizing expected
    yet lots of ideas about getting on familiar terms with her.
    One (I) never knows
    and probably soon one (I) will know
    so better prepared than sorry. Right?
    Not that this will in any way prevent the sorry or will make sorry matter in any way,
    Hi there, Didi, it’s me again, your nemesis again.
    do you mind my Didi’ing you?

    Didi didn’t mind, of course...
    she laughed her skull off, of course...
    my nemesis indeed, hahaha... and I turned green with disgust, of course.
    She was as ugly as ever, of course,
    I didn’t mind, of course.

    Say, how do you spell it?
    In English?
    In whateverish. Is it Didi? Or Deedee or DD or Diedie?...
    where she put a piece of toilet paper over one eye symbolizing a wink.
    D-I-D-I, I spelled it out.
    Like P-I-P-I, you mean?
    I gulped. Never thought of it, did I just proscribe my favored advisor position with her?
    No chance, she said, confirming that which I knew already – she was reading minds.
    Only when I choose to.
    Only when you choose to. Sure.

    An embarrassing silence followed,
    she picking her teeth with the sharp end of a telephone pole
    I licking a lollipop.

    It is actually a nice name, you know?
    in nice human company with Mimi, Kiki, Riri...
    Aha – Rogers, Dee, Rihanna, Woof-Woof...
    and she roared covering her eye again with the piece of toilet paper.
    At least the paper was clean.
    Took some time for her to calm down and for the Tsarsky Kolokol to stop tolling in my head.
    Does it qualify as a miracle? Does it mean you hear it? Does it mean we are friends? And you love me?
    It certainly meant nothing of the kind.
    It certainly means nothing of the kind, it’s just easier for me to rant about you.
    Say, won’t you use my lollipop stick instead of that disgusting telephone pole?
    She threw the pole into a momentary incinerator then took my lollipop stick.
    Disgusting, she countered, making sucking like noises.
    I found out later she carried a sound simulator under her hood
    and used it mainly to annoy her human victims;
    once she was just an executioner
    lately it seemed she started taking sadist pleasure in the executions.
    Looked like some sorts of human sicknesses were cross-species contagious.

    On a scale of one to ten – which kind of friend I am?
    Everybody else is a one but you are the only one who writes me love poems. So twelve.
    And before I could spot that blob rolling down from the orb
    she pulled her usual Houdini and disappeared.

    There was a round spot of sizzling grass just underneath the place she sat on
    and if I didn’t know any better then I didn’t know any better
    but if I knew better I would have said
    no, I can’t say it,
    but if I didn’t know any better but knew better than not knowing any better
    I would have said that Didi...
    c’mon, can’t be
    I would have said that Didi shed

    Many years now after this poem was written and damn if I know what I wanted to say there.
    Does anyone
    does anybody
    hey, did I ever?


The Interview

    Didi! I called.

    She appeared almost instantaneously.
    Yes, we had this kind of relationship.
    Yes, my love.
    Yes, we had this kind of relationship.
    Tell me, why do you use a scythe and not a boomerang?
    Yes, we had this kind of relationship.
    Actually at the moment she was not carrying her scythe at all...
    I left it for disinfection, what with COVID and all these new mutations...
    Yes, we had this kind of relationship.

    Say, is this some kind of an interview?
    Yes, both.
    Both what?
    Some kind AND interview.

    She removed her surgical mask and stuffed it between the ulna and the radius
    then greeted me safely olecranon to elbow.
    You mean you can get the virus? I asked incredulously, not part of the interview.
    No, but you can and I don’t want you to blame me for it eventually happening.
    Aha, I see. Actually I didn’t but I had to get back on track.
    So about that boomerang...
    Matter of fact the whole scythe thing is a misunderstanding
    a myth which I do my best to perpetrate since I find the scythe... sexy.
    Imagine me holding a lollipop in my hand,
    or driving a thresher or mending a sock
    or the political implications of brandishing an AK-47 rather than an AR-15.

    Aha, I see. Actually I didn’t.
    Now, regarding the hood, care to expand on it as well?
    Another myth.
    Listen, you know what temperatures we have in hell?
    Anywhere between 500 to 5000 Celsius, do you see me wearing a hood thus?
    But modern clothes manufacturers find hoods attractive, mysterious, sexy... again haha,
    so I join in perpetrating this second myth as well, of course.

    Aha, I see. Actually I didn’t.
    Is there another myth you would like my readers to myth about, Didi?
    There are many.
    For example I do wear sandals in winter
    my hearing aid...
    your hearing aid?... needs new batteries quite often
    my target acquisition accuracy is presently 98.3 percent
    my brother is vegetarian...

    The interview was clearly taking an anti-climactic direction
    so I had to do something to save its impact and the promise to my readers.
    Aha, I see, I interrupted. Actually I didn’t.

    Didi, care to make a statement about nowadays humans and nowadays ecology?
    Try to keep it short, please.
    Why? Are you or your readers afraid of the truth?
    Not really, but I have to keep this interview reasonably short, you know.
    Truth has no defined size, you know.
    I knew only too well. Yes, I know. I wasn’t so sure my readers knew.
    OK, let’s start with humans.
    Slavery. Crucifixion. Slavery. Inquisition. Slavery. Hunger. Slavery...

    It wasn’t going the way I expected though I should have expected the way it was going.
    Sorry, Didi, nowadays please! I emphasized.
    She continued unperturbed.
    World war one. World war two. Korea. Vietnam. Afghanistan. Rwanda. Ukraine...
    I felt kind of impotent.
    Didi, maybe skip to ecology and its various aspects?
    Sure, why not, my pleasure, some of my greatest achievements ever, hallelujah!
    Sounded strange to hear her hallelujah’ing.
    Greenhouse effect. Exxon Valdez. Chernobyl. Amoco Cadiz. Baia Mare cyanide. Kolva River...
    Fine, I understand your frustration...
    ...pleasure, you mean...
    ...but don’t you have anything positive to say?
    Positive your parallax or my parallax?
    It was a good question. Didn’t expect death... oops, Didi, to err into philosophy.
    Say, what about a shared point of view, can you think of something positive we share?
    She laughed, a short nerves grinding kind of laughter
    like fingernails scratching a dry blackboard... brrr...
    Sure. Man.
    And woman, to keep with nowadays, haha, political correctness.
    (she spelled I.E.) human.
    (she capitalized the H with unexpected reverence) greatest creation,
    your parallax view.
    (again capitalization, again reverence, even a curtsy) greatest pollutant,
    my parallax view.
    See, positive both our parallaxes.

    I felt my interview just hit a stone wall, head on,
    it was time to salvage whatever was still salvageable.

    Didi, what is your opinion about modern poetry?
    If it wasn’t for the hood
    I believe her head would have exploded into its basic bone components
    so sudden and thunderous was her laughter.
    Hey, my friend, you should warn me when you decide to make me laugh this hard,
    she hiccupped and poured a bucket of rainwater over her head.
    The water sizzled and hissed hastily away while she placed a few plastic bags over her skull.
    Just in case you make me laugh as hard again.
    I guess you have your answer, though.

    I had my answer, though.
    But I had to take it one step further anyway, suicidal that I was
    and with my followers prodding and asking and demanding an otherworldly kind of opinion.
    Didi, what is your opinion about my poetry?
    The plastic bags did their job.
    Her skull did explode to its basic bone components
    as she laughed and laughed and laughed
    my mechanical 24-hours chronometer reaching its mechanical set limit
    and hitting it and hitting it and hitting it again and again and again
    while my head hit and hit and hit the brick wall in front of me again and again and again
    yes, everything in threes, so intense it all was.
    Finally she calmed down
    reset all her skull bones in their God (sorry God for calling your name in vain) emplacement
    for a moment hesitating with two front teeth... finally it was all done
    she sat down
    pulled me over on her knees
    (believe me it was uncomfortable in more than one aspect)
    and whispered in my ear.
    Your poetry is great, son.
    You’ll never make it, son.

    And she poofed away.
    I mean literally poofed away letting me fall on my ass on the cold tiles floor. Bang!

    I closed the mike.
    I transcribed the recording as true to life, haha, as I could to written form.
    I published it.
    If none of them, God or Didi, strikes me down it means I’ve done a flawless job.
    I don’t know if I’ll ever interview her again
    but if I do I will have to do a better preparation of it, I think.
    Until then
    please let me enjoy my well-earned glass of Belgian beer
    and forget about life.
    Or about death.
    Or about Didi.
    Hmm, was it some kind of an echo?



    I’m certainly set on conquering you.

    Like conquering the Everest.
    Certainly not the first to reach the top
    yet certainly the first to descend from the summit
    without leaving any debris behind,
    not even a torn button.

    Like conquering the moon.
    Certainly not the first to step on its dust
    yet certainly the first to lift-off
    without leaving any mark behind,
    not even a boot imprint.

    Conquering your virginity.
    Certainly not the first to reach its abode
    yet certainly the first to touch you
    without even touching you,
    the impossibility inconsequential.



    But I cannot pare down my sentences
    until they are the defined sizes defined in manuals defining sizes
    as advocated by those advocates of advocable size and form
    in the name of good practice
    and modernity
    and various proscribings proscribed by various proscribers
    who believe they had touched the hand of God...
    haha, maybe the dirt part of the sole of His shoe.

    And I cannot winnow my text free of this and that and other words
    as literally illiterate literati advice
    be it from the height of their thick heels or oversized shoeboxes or oak lecterns
    that they misconstrue for the heights of an Olympus
    refusing to accept the ants’ opinion these are just ant-hills
    and even if they add a few thick books underneath
    they will still not get anywhere higher than the absolute height of the absolutely

    And I certainly cannot condense whatever my mind forces my hand to scribble
    the way bloggers blog and advisers advice and professors profess
    using a variety of nouns and pronouns and verbs and adverbs
    aiming at those low of culture
    and many of quantity
    that will get them sufficient hits to sell their sites to soap and soda pop advertisers
    and to hell with beauty
    and to hell with the realities of beautiful minds and hearts
    and hello to dollar streams.

    Applicable also to all other known and unknown synonyms like crimp and crop and cut
    and expunge and exfoliate and excoriate and extract and whatnots.

    if I do
    then telephone books will compete with me in beauty
    and ancient telegrams will compete with me in brevity
    and I will gain access to all those layers I wish not to
    and lose access to all those layers I wish to rob of heart.

    I am slave to my beauty, sorry, inextricable.
    And who the hell wants to be extricated anyway?


Memories of inexistence

    When another entity divided existence
    into an out of body experience
    and an in of body experience,

    When another palm molded its memories
    upon the molds of skin
    stretching upon the molds of flesh,

    When no holy spirit
    and nothing remotely holy
    demanded entire submission,

    Who was the copycat
    was I
    was you
    was there a cat at all or just the one named human frailty?

    There was never love
    there was always love
    not another
    everything relegated its place dishonorable or honorable
    in time.

    Images seen cannot be unseen
    they can only be buried under layers upon layers upon layers of hours, days, years
    and yet they still burn themselves upon the retina of the mental eye
    the only survival tool in existence -
    and failing


    Life trudges on.
    Absolute blindness,
    around the corner.


Thank You

    for allowing me to take the liberties I take
    with your body
    with your mind
    with your life...
    wish you allowed me to take all other liberties I wish to take,

    for paving my road your intelligence
    and seeding my words your flowers and nightingales
    and painting multicolor vertical stripes upon my black’n’ white rainbows...
    wish you were the hummingbird suckling life from my mouth each morning,

    for softly breezing into my life the way of a hurricane
    for gently warming my pillow the way of a volcano
    for innocently touching my chest the way of a viper...
    wish you were the sun and I your hydrogen entrails, maybe we are,

    for being my Scheherazade to your Shahryar
    my Siren to your Odysseus
    my Galatea to your Pygmalion...
    wish you were my You to your I.



    pets, one

    I took my goldfish for a walk.

    I tried to fit a collar and leash to its neck but I failed miserably. So I fit a collar and leash to its bowl and dragged it behind me. Not on wheels since then it wouldn’t be like walking a pet, right?

    Strange, I felt like Moses crossing the Red Sea, like a snow-plow plowing through melting snow, like a red-hot knife through a butter lump... throngs of people opening wide passages in front of me and closing in back of me... oh, all those murmurs of appreciation around.

    Such nice people.


    pets, two

    The turtle and its son were delighted. They allowed me to collar them and leash them, they were just so goddamn slow... luckily I took sandwiches with me, a lot of sandwiches. Took also a few cabbage heads in case they got hungry, they were always hungry.

    People still so nice, so attentive, happily freeing our passage, screaming with unadulterated joy and skittering away to tell their dear ones.

    We were back home one week later, slow, told you, but we had such a nice time. Especially when I fell asleep atop the turtle as it waddled its way home.


    pets, three

    I had a permit for the rhino. The approval commission was talking strangely about nut and nuts... crazy people, rhinos don’t eat nuts; finally they approved.

    I was delighted, everyone was delighted leaving passages of three Moseses abreast crossing the Red Sea every time I walked Rhiny in the park, the only inconvenience being that I needed to scoop everything (a lot) he was expelling in his passage. Luckily he himself dragged the large container and large shovel necessary for the job.

    Strange the number of For Sale popping lately in the neighborhood. Cosmic radiation maybe? A volcano? Man-eating mosquitos?


    pets, four

    I had no choice. Damned bureaucrats threatened to take Rhiny away if I didn’t agree to the experiment: Only a person like you can befriend... Only a person like me? Meaning?

    They wanted my pets to be a horde of mosquitos. Pets? Pests probably!

    Well, I tried. Couldn’t fit collars to them, couldn’t fit leashes to them, they kept biting my hand raw and didn’t appreciate when I took them for a stroll, free in a huge plastic bag tied to my back. Passers-by found it strange. Strange people.

    Actually... I got quite attached, broke my heart to return them.


    pets, five

    Anna was a banana. OK, hear me out before you judge.

    I found her on a table and her smile conquered me. Smooth, soft, innocent... took her home and after a restful night on my pillow, tied a rope to her and dragged her for a walk, emoted people throwing flowers and garlic at me.

    Six Moseses abreast... etc..

    See... here my rhino peed... here my goldfish yawned... my turtle fell...

    I knew it was a doomed relationship, she died a week later, rotting in my arms. I buried her in the backyard. Thank you Anna for choosing my love.


    pets, six

    Three chickens, the perfect pet. Easy to collar, to leash, to walk, with the beneficial egg thrown in from time to time... oh, the pleasure of feeding the masses. Children chasing us joyfully through the park followed by parents enviously chasing their children and a few cops joining in the joyful chase, all of us embracing life.

    Sometimes I tied tiny flags to the chickens legs, sentimental patriotic me, with parents throwing wooden crosses our way unaware that we were atheists, sorry. They ran away when we tried to return the crosses, too embarrassed to accept our thanks. Thank you!


    pets, seven

    I got a goat, they have this incredible sense of balance.

    At first he disappointed, failed halfway up a climbing wall, failed at skateboarding... and then he found his calling on the park’s battle beam. Winning against kids, adults, remote-control bulldozers, lost only once against a mountain goat. Becoming a sensation and making a nice bundle for my betting-pocket. The Red Sea was now closing in on us.

    I ended in tears, once, when a father insisted his paralyzed boy fights my goat and the goat let him win.

    He’s now retired, after eating my sofa and my stamps collection.


    pets, eight

    Dino is my dino. Sadly, people are prejudiced against them. Dino’s just a 4.5 tons baby, vegetarian and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Being too big to fit in my bed, he sleeps in the garden next to Rhiny. I will need a new house once he’s grown to his full 45 tons, but until then we enjoy life. In the park, mysteriously mostly empty once we get there, he does fetch and roll and play dead, delighting a few courageous children who stick around. They even ride him as he trots happily around, until mothers start screaming.

    People are disgusting.


    pets, nine

    Dina is my love. Love like lover entity not like non-human entity. She wears a self-made collar, no leash, and she calls me pet. What more could I ask?

    I accepted her ultimatum regarding cat pets (fourteen now), I rejected her ultimatum regarding flea pets (seventy-three now), and we crave together our next pet (due in four months).

    Pet, says Dina, what will we call the pet?

    Hmm, say I, boy Peter, girl Petra.

    And everybody rejoiced and frolicked sensing our happiness. It was then that Dino told us he is she and pregnant (how the hell?).

    Life IS beautiful.


    pets, ten

    Neighbors. Petitions. Internet bullying. We’ve had enough. Got a national TV contract for a reality show, rented a few semi-trailers and moved my entire menagerie to the countryside.

    Freedom, finally!

    Peter and Petra (twins) chasing Dino Jr., joined by Rhiny, turtles, goat and the rest (goldfish excused), pooping all they want. The TV crew vegetating safely inside their steel cage. Planning a nursery for old dogs. And I even took back the mosquitos jar.

    Love is in the air! Everything female got miraculously impregnated and a variety of tiny noises starts filling the air: chirp-chirp, baa-baa, meow-meow...

    Oh, Eden’s garden!



    My poetry, I said, was once
    every bit as altricial as a newborn kitten.
    it is every bit as mature
    as a full grown cat, I said.

    She looked at me, maybe weighing her various answers.

    What age the cat? she finally said, not entirely innocently.

    It got me to thinking.
    It got me to wondering as well.
    I was certainly not the happiest
    I was certainly the most bemused at the moment.

    What age the cat? I finally said, placing my fate in her hands.

    She was brutally honest,
    she was always brutally honest thus I fixed my eyes on her lips
    and waited for them to form the words.

    They formed the words.



    What love there gives, what love there is, there was
    If love it be then let it speak by laws
    Unborn as yet, unless by lovers oath
    That day is come whence they be joined in troth.

    And if the sun does fall into the sea
    Before the blood has sealed that young decree
    Let it be known that God is not exist
    And love is word bereft of soul and gist.

    Thus let there love be write its bible verse
    Or else this world be nothing barring hearse.


Mish Mash Mard Bill Ball Bard Co Vid Vard

    If I be a bard and the Bard Arthur’s heir
    And Covid be niece to his belle Guinevere
    We’d lace triptych sonnets with poison dart frogs
    Then dance to our joy in vindictive Dutch clogs.

    If I be a bard and the Bard be my friend
    And Covid of treacherous Iago-like blend
    We’d write hellish nightmares in Hamlet’s own style
    To feed down his ear and play verse to his vile.

    But I be no bard and I nowhere Bard either
    And Covid no joke and so glorious neither.



    120, one

    It was an official Guinness record registration party with referee present, balloons, cakes, family members from all over the globe gathering for the occasion.

    “Happy birthday, dear lady, we wish you many more years of the same.”

    She smiled good-humoredly, toothlessly.

    “Thank you, but if many more then I wish me not of the same, if you do not mind.”

    Sharp as ever. Old as forever. A few days later they found her clutching a note at her chest, the smile frozen on her face: I tried. The experiment failed, it was more of the same. Not for me, sorry.


    120, two

    A stout young woman sat next to an old woman, breathing laboriously.

    “Granny, congratulations, you are now 120, the oldest person alive,” beamed the great granddaughter, her face a moon of happiness.

    “Yes, 120 and the last 100 fat. And lonely. Careful, child, you are now 20 and your next 100 will be fat. And lonely.” She was at an age where people can speak their mind and not worry, at least not for long.

    One year later a lithe young woman placed a bouquet on a grave.

    “Thanks granny, you saved my life,” her face a sun of happiness.


    120, three

    A stroke. 120 and paralyzed from the neck down, the old woman sat unmoving, her lifeless hands in her lap. Once an elegant beauty, now a lifeless shell.

    “You can try to stimulate her by touching her carefully,” whispered the doctor, and the son watched his mom, his heart breaking.

    “Mom, here are your Cartier hand-bags,” he said, placing the leather under her fingers. They stayed inert.

    “Mon, here are your rings,” he said, loading gold on her fingers. They stayed inert.

    “Hey, mom, here is your granddaughter,” he said, placing the young lady’s hand over hers. The fingers twitched.


    120, four

    “They will never let us marry, Jared.”

    “They will not, Mabel.”

    “And yet we only 120 years old and in love like... 120 years oldies.” They laughed. “What shall we do about it, Jared?”

    “Well, we’ll consume our love without marrying, this is what we’ll do,” he declared rebelliously.

    They placed their dentures in the same bowl, the only way they could kiss. Then, hand in hand advanced their electric chairs to the pool edge.

    “See you there, my dear.”

    “See you there, my dear.”

    A last whirr...

    They met there. They had to, otherwise it would break my heart.



    I wrote you probably tens of poems
    maybe hundreds
    maybe... hey you count!

    I’m too busy writing
    hope you’re not too busy reading
    at least

    Give each poem a name,
    a flower name not the engenderer’s christening name
    any name
    rose chrysanthemum petunia hyacinth buttercup poppy dandelion chamomile
    maybe even lofty Latin denominations
    Rumex acetosa Viburnum opulus Convallaria majalis Primula vulgaris
    there may be enough names
    I hope
    to name all the poems I wrote you by
    and then glean them all in one giant nosegay, an oxymoron of sorts,
    weighing several tons
    and needing a forklift to lift
    depose in your lap
    crush you
    with my definition of beauty,
    your beauty.
    Hopefully not missing a wrinkle
    a fold
    a beauty mark
    a hair
    a forgotten scar
    (except whatever lies still undiscovered)...

    while you take your time drinking your coffee
    and walking your dogs and talking to your cats and drinking your coffee (again)
    and watering the plants
    and feeling every breeze
    and listening to the noisy birds eating seeds by the window
    and living.

    I close my electronic ink-well for now
    for a short while
    before I flood you again with my electronic ink
    and its reds
    and blues
    and greens
    and, yes, sometimes its black-and-whites.

    Oops, the ink-well cover cracked... I guess I tightened too much,
    no problem
    I know where to buy a new one
    many new ones
    one thousand seven hundred forty-three new ones, but who‘s counting?


The many fifties, of life

    When I was fifty,
    some twenty odd years ago
    I was young
    and nimble
    and strong
    bending nails between thumb and forefinger and crushing pebbles to dust in my fist
    and in love... oh, so in love
    probably part of the fifty-syndrome
    guess doctors should know it by now
    and I should start writing about it by now during my long sleepless nights.
    Hey, it was almost like yesterday
    the fire in her palm
    and the stars in her eyes
    and the wind in her hair
    all mine.

    When I was fifty,
    some ten odder years ago
    I was young
    and nimble
    and strong
    bending nails between thumb and forefinger and crushing pebbles to dust in my fist
    and in love... oh, so in love
    probably part of the fifty-twice-syndrome
    guess doctors should know it by now
    and I should start writing about it by now during my long sleepless nights.
    Hey, it was like yesterday
    the fire in her palm
    and the stars in her eyes
    and the wind in her hair
    all mine.

    When I was fifty,
    some none oddest years ago
    I was young
    and nimble
    and strong
    bending nails between thumb and forefinger and crushing pebbles to dust in my fist
    and in love... oh, so in love
    probably part of the fifty-thrice-syndrome
    guess doctors should know it by now
    and I should start writing about it by now during my long sleepless nights.
    Hey, it was yesterday
    the fire in her palm
    and the stars in her eyes
    and the wind in her hair
    all mine.

    But now the days are short
    I'm in the autumn of the year

    as good-ole-blu-eyes-unforgettable-rip-frankie would have said it, said it,
    and I finally reached my fifties
    with a dash of gloom thrown in
    and a dabble of dusk thrown in
    and a spangle of dolor thrown in
    and I walk the streets talking to parrots eventually buzzing by
    breathing-in dust mingled with perfumes eventually crossing my way
    letting the stone eventually finding its way in my shoe hew its way into my sole
    and soul
    and as I bend nails between thumb and forefinger and crush pebbles to dust in my fist
    I look back at all those recurring clumps of fifties
    and all I can do is my best not to cry.
    Hey, it is today
    the fire in her palm
    and the stars in her eyes
    and the wind in her hair
    none mine.

    It was a very good year
    as good-ole-blu-eyes-unforgettable-rip-frankie would have said it. Said it.




    A goddess, once.
    Turned whore. Now.

    So cheap, so accessible, so screw-and-dump’able,
    so careless in her choice of clientele
    and of her numberless numb pimps

    those selling her curves to the lowest bidder
    be it at 10 bucks, at 3 bucks, at 1 buck a “session”...
    sometimes for free
    building on eventually hooking the claimants to her favors
    for a next occasion, a next session, a next screw-and-dump payable this time.

    And she still a beauty.
    Oh, she still a beauty,
    a worn out torn inside beauty
    underneath all those layers of thick make-up and counterfeit silk and plastic glitter
    and perfumes mixed alongside foul smelling foods
    by sebaceous hags and greasy geezers
    exchanging greetings with greeting card composers.

    Computers, word processors, poetry writing algorithms, internet
    and suddenly we are submerged by a world of written Golems
    and writing Golems
    and aspiring Golems
    and what is there left for an honest non-Golem poet
    except lie down
    and let himself be trodden to death by that massive Golem cattle stampede.
    Or herself. Or whateverself.

    And she still a beauty.
    Oh, she still a beauty
    and I in love with her since my day one
    and I still trying to find underneath all those stinking layers imposed upon her

    the lilac.




    Pompous words of kind a Shakespeare character in a play would mouth
    had Shakespeare but be alive this day,

    Pompous notes of kind a Verdi character in an opera would sing
    had Verdi but be alive this here,

    Pompous colors of kind a van Gogh flower in a painting would reflect
    had van Gogh but be alive this now,

    Pompous formulas of kind an Einstein brain on a blackboard would inscribe
    had Einstein but be alive this time,

    Pompous verses of kind an I would try to verse
    and fail. Though alive.

    And someone’s gonna blow their top with a stream of obscenities and lengthy harangues
    along the lines of
    “how does he dare include such illustrious selves on same page with unillustrious himself?”
    to which I’m gonna answer with a stream of obscenities and lengthy harangues
    along the lines of
    “how does one so ignorant as yourself dare express a meaning as ignorant as this?”

    Because, see, gents and dames same as and more than those hereby mentioned
    have nothing to do with pomposity.
    They have everything to do with this is the natural way they are or were.
    And the only way I can try and aim for whichever proximity to their genius
    is by infiltrating my own words with a certain level of pomposity,
    looking for that delicate balance
    where pomposity ceases being whatever its dictionary definition says it is
    and becomes
    the natural way I am.


Longevity (or Ha. Ha. Ha.)

    I knew I was gonna live forever. Upon a time. Fact.
    I did not count years, hours, milliseconds,
    it was not necessary
    forever being so incredibly long.
    I knew I had time to read all the books in the world
    see all the movies in the world
    buy all the records I wanted
    and listen to all the songs I wanted, not only Elvis. More than once.

    I lived, forever.
    Until around 80, 90 percent of the living thing
    I found out it was about 80, 90 percent of the living thing
    and I was gonna die forever. Soon. Fact. Surprise surprise!

    So I started counting years, hours, milliseconds,
    mainly milliseconds the numbers being so incredibly large they felt like forever.
    Vagaries of Fata Morgana
    alas, quashed by awareness of said vagaries.

    I knew I did not have time to read all the books in the world be they Kindle now
    see all the movies in the world be they DVD now
    buy all the records I wanted be they CD now
    listen to all the songs I wanted. So I re-listened to some Elvis, at least that.
    I enumerated the technological wonders I witnessed, not being impressed much.
    I enumerated those alive I mourned their dying
    those suddenly famous out of no fame
    those suddenly infamous out of no infame.
    I stopped sleeping, started writing mourning the milliseconds lost not writing.
    I started repeating myself, not because I forgot but rather because I kept remembering.
    Longevity suddenly measurable. Measured.

    I am not ready, ha ha ha.
    No one ever is, ha ha ha.
    No one ever said “I died” and meant it. Ha. Ha. Ha.


Lesson in Geography (or Pamphlet)

    Country: Womania.

    Inhabitants: Womanians.

    Language: Womanian.

    And unlike Atlantis, it left no legend behind, once it disappeared roughly five thousand years ago swallowed by the Pacific, or maybe it was by the Atlantic?

    A seafarers nation rich in agriculture and sciences and art, self contained and self sufficient and in need of no one and nothing it couldn’t provide on its own, including its progeny. How did it manage with the progeny, you ask?... my limited resources are not entirely clear on the matter but it seems that they developed the science of cloning long before modern times. And they never needed Manians. From Mania. Speaking Manian.

    Five thousand years ago. And then that cataclysmic upheaval and the volcanoes eruptions and the terrific tsunamis and Womania had to take to the sea and find a new abode for life. Spreading all over the world and ending in savage hot places and cold places and light places and dark places and with Manians places, all of them. Losing their liberty. Losing their life.

    Took thousands of years, will it take thousands more?

    Oppressed, subjugated, sold, raped, locked, beaten, murdered, denied basic rights... loved too, appreciated too, sometimes, some places, extremely so, undeniably so. The struggle goes on.

    Womanians. Equal humans. Equal.



    OK, stop!

    You, you mister poet, don’t look behind your shoulder
    I’m talking to you
    and don’t try to hide behind a grass blade,
    you’d need a grass blade from Brobdingnag to hide you, anyway,

    yes, yes, you!
    and if yes you is yes I
    then the better,
    means we understand each other.



    What’s this nonsense that you broom
    with all associated gloom and doom and gobbledygookoom

    that you peddle
    like a treddle
    spreading legs for coin or medal

    letting spittle
    dark and brittle
    taint your words with no remittal?

    I know you cannot control it any more than I, ha-ha, can control it
    but hey, man up
    or woman up
    or whatever politically correct allows you to x up
    and put a lid on all that stinking mud flooding your pages,

    Darkness, and Drear, and Didi... oh, all that Didi stuff,
    I do not say disconnect
    I just say stop!
    at least for some moments
    and gather your manhood and I mean NOT the sexual one
    and your lost marbles and I mean DO the mental ones
    and go back and sing that which makes you:
    beauty!!! and lust!!! and humanity!!!

    in all their frailty
    and aroma
    and divinity.

    Paint blue
    in the sky anew
    Pour fire
    through grey of attire
    Plead guilty
    to what others coin filthy
    Your truth
    clean and couth
    Your pain
    clear and plain
    Your joy
    God’s lost toy.

    I turned my back on the pissed-me in the mirror, promising nothing
    which is a bit of a lie
    since I promised to try

    starting with this here poem.

    Thus I stopped, though
    truth be said
    I don’t know for how long.



    I’d like to jump back to that point in time
    When time was nothing but a rhyme for rhyme
    Forever was...well... like forever long
    And death, oh boy, a Halloween sing-song,

    I’d like to find that keyhole once anew
    That blocked the world around my line of view
    Permitting dreams and butterflies galore
    To paint in pinks mine overwhelming lore.

    But all I can is close my weary eyes
    And hum a song while everything else... dies.


    Hey, wake up dude, you promised just ago
    To rave in yes admonishing the no
    To rescue kittens from a viper’s nest
    And have love poems tattooed to your chest,

    To dance on soles that times may hurt and bleed
    To let the sun embrace your mind and creed
    Your winter days to hum of nightingales
    And seed the snow with summer’s waking tales.

    Thus wear your shoes, your belt, your hat, your art
    And let the never never win your heart.


    Oh, girl asleep, upon your wooden bed
    While yesterdays with your tomorrows wed
    Your lashes lift to dance to life’s refrains
    Away! you shadows, and unholy stains,

    Oh, girl awake, bewitching mountain’s sprites
    And calling rains to marry morning’s lights
    Your breast alive with poems as nonesuch
    My body craves your nail’s impaling touch.

    Oh, girl away, disrobe your silken wear
    And send my way the joys of bare and fair.


Lovers. Apart.

    We will end our way
    We will end our day
    Far away.

    Cloaked by laughter’s dark cowl
    Two the souls on the prowl
    Rave and howl.

    It’s a love lost to theft
    Of its moments bereft
    Nothing left.

    The enchantment of those
    Winks when urges oppose
    Rhyme and prose

    Decimated by laws
    By a rule by a clause
    By a cause.

    All the fires of hell
    Kneeling down to the quell
    Of the knell.

    Daggers sunk to the hilt
    Wishes trapped in the silt
    Lovers wilt.

    Last of aleph to beth
    Lovers kiss, one last breath...
    Hello Death.


One of many possible ends

    The way I want you to not remember me

    a knight in shining armor
    on a black stallion at night
    on a white stallion at day
    on a nondescript donkey the rest of time in the hills distributing yoghurt door to door...

    Here you do it again
    start seriously end mockingly,

    I said to not remember...
    Yes, including stallions in the not remembering.

    She upped and left. Just like that.

    All I was left with was four walls
    I could choose which one to bang my head against.
    I took the precaution to mothball my shining armor first.


Another one of many possible ends


    She grabbed my arm and jumped on the stallion’s back
    just as it started giving in to furious trot.
    Will they ever catch us?

    Her breasts pounding my back
    her fingers locking my ribs
    her unworded promise smoldering.

    I prefer this version.
    What comes next?

    I had to think fast, I remembered the previous four walls, etc.
    the problem being that I was a slow thinker.
    By the time I got to my third ‘ahm’ she upped and left.

    Four walls, etc.


Still another one of many possible ends

    There were no stallions involved.
    No donkeys, armor and the rest.
    Just us, embraced
    high in the mountains
    huddling next to a low flame
    a few dogs sleeping close to us
    many wolves howling away from us
    the rest of the world gone to hell,
    sparks, moths, fireflies...

    Take me!

    I took her,
    high in the mountains
    next to a low flame
    a few dogs sleeping close to us
    many wolves howling away from us
    the rest of the world gone to hell,
    sparks, moths, fireflies...

    The best version, yet.

    The gone to hell world embraced us
    with its artificial howl of blaring music, stampeding feet, phone rings.

    The roar of the plane’s engines lost on me
    as I closed my eyes
    still following those tiny burning specks I kept collecting away from her hair and skin
    and keeping between thumb and forefinger
    hoping they consume me



    I guess that if you’re a poet, woman poet,
    death is a he.
    I guess that if you’re a poet, man poet,
    death is a she.

    I guess that if you are death,
    both are right.

    I guess that if you are dead
    you don’t give a damn.

    I met death a few times, at a guess probably a few billion times.
    I did not meet life even once,
    I mean – life’s a loan, the return results in death
    so what is life bar postponed death?
    Hence, no, never met life yet. Probably doesn’t exist. At a guess.

    So what’s this poem about, what guesswork beyond what’s already said?

    About miracles. No, they don’t exist. Fact.
    About hell and heaven. No, they don’t exist. Fact.
    About gods, angels, saints. No, they don’t exist. Fact.
    About death. Oh, it so does exist!
    So pleasant except for the fact that you have to die
    taking the guess out of the guesswork and making it solid reality,
    as solid as tombstone, I guess.

    Thus... guesswork?
    I sure hope so.
    I sure take trust in my hope.
    I sure take faith in my trust. Fact as well.



    If I curse God
    and God doesn’t smite me
    doesn’t it mean there is no God
    or that there is but doesn’t care?
    Both of which are horrible conclusions.

    And please don’t tell me about His grand plan.

    Because it cost the millions who built the pyramids
    and the millions who died in the black plague
    and the millions who burned in the extermination camps
    and millions more,

    is any plan worth these millions?

    With nothing to show for it.

    Of course, it may also mean that I believe there is a God
    which is already an achievement.


I watch you sleeping

    I watch you sleeping
    so quietly,
    a baby
    my baby
    quite old a baby
    my baby
    a baby.

    I watch you sleeping
    so beautiful
    quite old and still beautiful
    so beautiful

    I watch you sleeping
    so full of hope
    so full of tomorrows
    quite old and yet so full of the fire of life
    so full of tomorrows
    so full of hope.

    I watch you sleeping.
    I wonder what will I tell you when you wake up
    to today?



    Lucky Babylonians.
    Lucky Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Scandinavian, Mayan and some others
    with as many gods as they wished. Or needed.

    So they could choose who to follow
    the good or the bad
    the beautiful or the ugly
    the belligerent or the peaceful
    the male or the female
    the this or the other

    and if unhappy they could sweep allegiances
    create new ones
    scrap old ones
    freedom of choice
    “a god as you wish...” menu
    unless if someone decided to burn you on the stake
    if they didn’t like your choice from the menu.

    So more difficult today with monotheism
    where you have to marry incompatibles into a single persona
    like vengeance and forgiveness
    penicillin and atomic bombs
    equality and slavery
    wealth and poverty

    a preset allegiance
    accept it as is
    take it or leave it
    “a god as is...” menu of one
    and still someone could decide to burn you on the stake
    if they didn’t like your choice of your menu of one.



    Even I get bored with it.

    I could have called it Variations on the Same Theme
    or Rant in Fa Minor to Pen and Paperstra
    or Rants 2.0 Ver.31
    and whatever else
    and yet, it is so much stronger than me that first I puke then I write
    rather than the other way around
    like getting sea-sick just at the sight of water sloshing in a glass.
    But as usual with me, once it is there it must be spilled on paper,
    yeah, so called paper so let’s call it paper.
    So here it goes, no excuses offered.

    If nobody likes my poetry
    then everybody must be out of their little tiny degenerate minds.

    Now, I know this is a statement that a Bukowski could have gotten away with
    because of who he was
    and a Neruda could have gotten away with
    because of who he wasn’t
    yet an I will just alienate even more
    whomever I do not have anyway because of who I am and who I am not.

    And still, I say it, because this happens to be true.

    There are several possible scenarios leading to this debacle
    and I’d like, between me and myself, to leaf through a few of them, OK?

    Starting with the easiest assumption - nobody likes my poetry
    because nobody reads it.
    And since I own neither the means nor the relations nor the machine to make it happen
    this is the easy excuse. And it is NOT meant as an excuse, mind you.

    Next assumption deals with those who are supposed to read it,
    the very few I am able to afford
    like magazine editors I approach directly or contest runners I approach officially
    and to whom I pay not so symbolic reading fees or participation fees.
    and here it gets a bit touchier.
    I have no idea what they do with my money or if they do with my money
    but with hundreds (thousands?) of applicants
    what chance there is they dedicate to my poem more than the minimal look over
    (read just the title, skim first sentences of each stanza, skip to the end...)
    or maybe even just getting lost in that slush at their self-anointed divine feet
    irrelevant what they say.
    Of course, and in addition,
    how the hell could one bull’s-eye-hit that very poetic soul that beats in unison with mine?
    or how do I choose in among my thousands to offer those that might meet their taste?
    or what is the statistical chance of choosing among the thousands of them the right one?
    Selling-the-game? Cheated-outright-front? Choosing-among-acolytes?
    So many the examples...

    Let’s follow with style.
    I have my style. Not really a style but a way of expressing myself. Several ways.
    Yet none follows any pattern set forward by the self-appointed gurus in the matter
    and if those choosing are adepts of those guruing (mostly they are)
    then I guess I am in a minority of one
    and my choices are greater to win the national lottery than to win the access to their minds,
    brain-washed minds mind you.

    There is also the chance of “minorities”.
    Clearly some editors prefer some “minorities”
    (and I keep invertedcommaing the word
    since these are not necessarily “minorities” in numbers
    but in sharing either some obvious or some presumed societal handicap)
    either unconsciously so or declared so or undeclared so yet obviously so
    since they belong to the same group.
    And if I keep bumping my fleshy head against such steely gate – guess who’s gonna split first?
    And how am poor I to know and how am poor I to choose and how am poor I to penetrate?

    So many the attributes that I do not possess and that could easily turn me overnight star, but,
    is it the kind of stardom I wish to star in?
    Certainly YES, because I own the quality.
    Certainly NO, if all the intent is to nicely place my books on some shelf, never open it
    and from time to time masturbate with me in whoever’s mind.

    I could easily philosophize for another couple pages
    analyzing and justifying and trying to understand my position, so low on the ladder
    but I will skip to directly to the last
    and certainly not least
    argument in favor of the fact ranted about.
    Yes, I could be a talentless
    stuffed, pompous, vain, conceited, euphuistic, windy, bitter-old-popinjay
    and the only one who doesn’t see it is myself because of being a
    stuffed, pompous, vain, conceited, euphuistic, windy, bitter-old-popinjay.
    I hope not but when it comes to me I am Mister Subjectivity, as expected.
    Well, in such case
    I feel like I should apologize to all those illustrious names I, at times, wrote next to my name
    and promise them, and others, that I will keep on doing just the same.
    Tomorrow, the day after and so on until that day with no after following it.
    Because I am that kind of crazy.
    Because I feel it is my calling. Emphasis on “my”.
    And the rest... well, respectfully, the rest can all go to hell
    where I am headed anyway for such injurious speech.

    See you there!


    PS. To all the unknowns who found a way to steal my poetry
    and make money with it –
    I admire you.
    I admire also my poetry.
    I also promise to haunt you until my yonder
    then until your yonder
    and then hold your head under the clouds until you drown.
    And I never break a promise, even the one not to die before I die.



    Pieris rapae

    There was this butterfly chasing me relentlessly, randomly the way of butterflies... left, up, down...

    Started wondering, maybe it was an immortal princess whom a bad witch changed into butterfly, now looking for a mortal’s kiss so she could turn back to her human, bitchy, haughty self.

    Or maybe a prince? Obviously gay, cursed by a vengeful witch (another one) for not marrying her ugly son.

    Or, maybe, it was just a butterfly, butterflying its way around oblivious to sweaty, short-trousered sandals-feeted me?

    I guess I’ll never know, it disappeared. I hope no chameleon made its meal out of it.


    Aglais io

    I exited the museum, dazed. I fell in love with those big, beautiful eyes...

    “Correct,” said the witch, “This was a princess whom I witched into butterfly. I can return her to human form, life... are you willing to pay?” Of course I was. “OK, I take only credit cards, here... your PIN...”

    I was broke. And deliriously happy.

    The princess bought some Chanel clothing (God, my check will bounce...) and flew over to England where she took back her estate on base of DNA analysis.

    She never thanked me. Never refunded me. Now I’m jailed... the check DID bounce.


    Papilio machaon

    It bewitched me, beautiful like an angel, more beautiful than an angel, I was possessed.

    “I cannot change her into human, I can change you into butterfly. Are you sure, prince?” I was sure. I just didn’t know the devious witches ways. After I released my human position she changed my butterfly into human, something about “balancing it out”, and gave her my title, my possessions. Mercenary souls, grrr... watching the princess remunerating her handsomely.

    “Shoo away,” shooed the princess, a butterfly net in her hand, “or I’ll start my collection with you.”

    She’s still collecting. I’m still hiding.


The Little Princess

    There was this strange girl
    and she had some strange questions type

    Is love an antiquity?
    What is the world’s biggest secret?
    What do bombs kill?

    what, not who

    and each time she would ask I would open my worn-out copy of The Little Prince
    and try to locate a precedent to her question,
    needless to say never found one
    thus I would proceed to happily add it to my own personal collection of The Little Princess.
    Hey, are you my little princess?

    If love is an antiquity why is love not an antiquity?
    What secret is bigger than the biggest secret?
    What is stolen when bombs kill what bombs kill and after?

    I bought a new edition just in case
    I tried to read the handwritten heavily edited original though my French failed miserably
    I bought the oldest edition I could just in case
    then I bought a telescope and tried to find that star in the sky
    though it was too small to be found even with my small telescope
    and all I could hear was the laughter I expected to hear when I least expected it.

    Alice in Wonderland or The Little Prince?
    Shakespeare or Homer?
    You or Who?

    That last one caught me unawares.
    I did not add it to my collection as I knew she was pulling my leg, from the big toe up
    playing the prince the rose the snake and other characters
    while drawing line sketches to add to her questions
    in case I had questions to answer her questions.
    All the sketches were line sketches and I played games with myself
    picking a line somewhere in the sketch
    and pulling it until the sketch turned one single long straight line.
    And when I let go it did not shrivel back to the original sketch, making me cry.
    I stopped after three.

    When you look at me what do you see?
    When you look at me and see me what do you feel?
    When you look at me and see me and feel me what do you live?

    Life!? was my answer question
    and my small telescope caught her smiling.
    even though the smile was wider than the telescope.


Details, in no significant or credible order

    Of course it did not happen, yet.
    Of course it could have happened, it did not.
    Of course it will happen, maybe.

    Of course you speak nonsense, certainly.

    OK, let me present her in italics – my woman

    and maybe not
    or maybe yet

    and I love her down to all those insignificant details like talking back
    like one ear slightly bigger than the other and one ear slightly smaller than the other
    like sometimes she dances but not always
    like she is a poet but never writes while she reads.

    Same nonsense, yet different.

    Like she favors words like nonsense
    like she likes big ugly dogs and small ugly dogs and various ugly dogs
    and beautiful dogs too
    and cats
    and I don’t know about ice-cream
    like she likes what she likes and likes not what she likes not
    like she isn’t born yet and yet she answers in italics.

    I guess your temperature must be in the high feverish and low sense.

    Which is already better than no sense or nonsense and what about sens-ual?

    Hey, wait, don’t go, this is me but not only the only me
    there are other mes

    like the one who craves the thunder when your breasts subdue him under
    and the one who burns in fury smashed by your ten thousand curie
    or, perhaps, the poor man crying when he reads his winter dying
    painting you his lust of ages on his thousand last of pages.
    :) :) :) ... mmm... :) :) :) ...mmm...

    ...a very unconventional way of rendering text in poetry, yet, I found no other.



    So now? Do we fuck or make love or copulate?
    What’s the difference?
    There isn’t any.
    So why do you ask?
    Because I’m embarrassed. Because I want to fit your mind’s grove. Because I love you.

    It was the end of a long, hard day.
    It was the end of a long, hard life.
    It was the end of a beginning that seemed endless, not the other way around.
    It was the beginning of the first, maybe, and maybe the last as well. Probably, if at all.

    We spent the entire preceding time if of day if of life
    washing each other’s toes.
    Pulling each other’s underwear down bathing trunks up
    bathing trunks down underwear up
    before shoving each other in the pool or puddle or swamp
    after pulling each other out of the pool or puddle or swamp.
    Walking hand in hand
    sometimes finger in finger
    sometimes head on shoulder, whose on whose?
    up the mountain
    deep the forest
    round the tall lamppost with all tens of peacock butterflies flying round and round us
    sometimes getting tangled in your hair
    sometimes pulling away laughing both you and them
    sometimes hanging on to your ears like some monster living earrings,
    never to mine.
    Naming flowers in bloom
    and re-naming flowers in bloom or out of bloom
    and stuffing your shirt with torn petals
    giving me sufficient excuse to shove my hand down it
    and cup hundreds of them in my greedy hand, cupping your naked breast as well, greedier,
    cupping your nipple, deadlier.
    Watching the moon. Was it full? Was it red? Was it there?
    Watching the sunrise. Was it blinding? Was it cloudy? Was it sunset?
    Telling each other stories
    of queens and knights and rock singers and dragons and virgins and dogs and pollution
    and dead loves
    and scarred loves
    and burning loves and lovers and memories.
    Even poetry, sometimes.
    Feeding cherries, if cherries
    feeding watermelon, if watermelon
    not feeding green nuts, if no green nuts.
    Here... and I licked the spot a nettle carved your skin
    Here... and you suckled the spot a bee made me its possession and branded me
    Oops... and I pulled down your skirt when a naughty breeze tried to run away with it
    Oops... and you sewed the hole in my trousers when I stumbled over an armadillo.
    Well, maybe it was a fallen tree trunk.
    Or a failing memory.
    I prefer fading.

    And now it was time for me to ask So now? So I asked.

    There wasn’t any. Difference.

    You carved your life into me ruts and ruts and furrows
    and dripped your colors into ruts and furrows red and red and green
    and dipped your tongue into reds and greens the tip of it and the tip of it and the whole of it
    and forced me to open my mouth
    and stick out my tongue
    and painted landscapes all over it with the patience of... what? saint? devil? woman?
    Now your turn.
    I took my turn.
    And after my turn was over
    we let the boiling components of life gurgle happily from flesh to flesh to mind
    ruts furrows reds greens tip of tongue whole of tongue saint devil woman
    never healing the wounds,
    never willing to heal the wounds.

    So now? Do we fuck or make love or copulate?
    What’s the difference?
    There isn’t any.
    So why do you ask?
    Because I’m embarrassed. Because I want to fit your mind’s grove. Because I love you.

    The echo died.

    I was too inebriated to place any of the following events anywhere in my memory banks
    raving unmelodiously with mythical words popping up from my subconscious self...
    maenads, thyrsus, kantharos...
    love, you are burning.... I heard someone say,
    thank you, love, for life... I heard myself say.

    I’ll never stop wondering. Did we do it again?



    Vincent following them to Arles, almost everybody knows about it.
    Clytie following Apollo in the sky, very few people know about it.
    Giovanna following Antonio to Russia, almost no one remembers it, knows about it.

    Melancholy, tragedy, drama... wrapped in so much beauty
    so much serenity and power
    so much sensitivity and color and warmth.

    I had one, a single one, once upon a time
    venerating it almost paganly
    waiting for that time of the year when it would pop up miraculously again from dead roots
    then push upwards towards a tiny me
    then further upwards towering above a tiny me
    and then forgetting a tiny me altogether smitten as it was with a giant sun
    until it started bending its head later on in pain, sorrow, wilt
    in death
    until following year.
    Again. Again. Again. Until a no longer tiny me left.

    I saw a blooming field, once, upon a time not so long ago
    horizon to horizon
    earthline to skyline
    and I left the car on the side of the road and started wandering in amongst the wonder
    times walking times running times simply hankering down and maybe praying
    wishing for the wonder to never end
    all those suns above my head still in love with the other sun
    and I still in love with them
    scared of the evening about to come when I’ll have to get in my car again and leave
    the evening came
    and I got into my car
    and I left.
    Following time I passed through the place it was covered with death. Nothing but ruts.
    And rats.

    DNA later. Technology later. Upon a time shortly ago, later.
    Someone invented a dwarf sunflower
    and I tried to follow trend
    and bought
    and planted
    and they raised pitiful heads looking at me pitifully,
    maybe pitilessly
    and died soon after
    in a pain, a sorrow, a wilt a tiny version of me once upon a time witnessed.
    At that time, it was for ongoing revival. This time, it was for ongoing death.
    So following year I bought plastic ones
    dumped them in a waterless vase
    punishing myself for DNA. For technology. For loss.

    Sunflower! the new flower in my life suddenly invaded my life with the new flower in her life
    clapping hands
    dancing on one foot
    maybe even singing, not sure since it was a cacophony of yells and barks and meows
    and I swear one clucking entity
    and I just lay on the ground
    letting tens of legs and paws and talons skip and jump all over and all around me
    exercising various rites of happiness
    of abandon
    of existence,
    while I contented myself with hanging my eyes on that plant-world sun wonder
    and from time to time enjoying a glimpse underneath that one skirt
    that didn’t shy away
    from promising me
    a different wonder.

    But that’s another story... as Irma’s Moustache would have said, again.


...and tomatoes

    First, there were the sunflowers
    rows upon rows upon rows of sun-crowned, long stems
    arranged in concentric rectangles for as far as the eye could reach
    and in the middle of the green army a single, carefully preserved tomato bed
    its perfectly red perfectly round perfectly unvarying beads tantamount to divine design

    “...see, this is my equivalent of the Terra Cotta army,” you whispered,
    “and you are the first guest invited to my palace of taste and flavor...”

    and you kept pulling my sleeve
    goading a resisting me to wiggle my way between the tall sentinels,
    as I kept looking behind my shoulder afraid to disturb
    afraid to be stabbed to death
    afraid to be stoned to death.

    “Is this a corner of Eden?” I asked, awed.
    “Undress,” you answered
    peeling first your layers of clothing then mine
    “now it is,” you added.

    We fell upon each other
    we fell upon the perfectly red perfectly round perfectly unvarying beads of tomatoes
    two gladiators dueling their choice of life and death
    with tomato red squashing underneath us
    and churning between us
    and exploding all around us
    red spots splashing all over the enclosing ranges of flowering soldiers
    and thick juice oozing from within clenched fists
    as we savagely bit half chewed marbles from within each other’s mouth
    and crushed mounds of them between our bellies
    and the virginal red painting our thighs solemnly declared the end to virginity

    We pulled away, exhausted,
    we let fingers smear the drying red into abstract shapes upon the other’s belly
    “I bet we look like two rabid hogs after a dip in a swamp of blood,” you chuckled.
    “No wonder Adam and Eve got kicked out of Eden,” I commented back, irrelevantly.
    “We are beautiful art,” you commented your own irrelevance back
    and we embraced again
    lying there naked, dirty, happy
    no tomato left to squish into tasty pulp.
    “Not all,” you said culling my under developped nipple between eager fingers.
    “Not all,” I said culling your perfectly developped nipple between eager fingers.

    I woke up first.
    Then I started nudging you, trying to wake you up softly yet determinedly,
    “Something’s happening... something happened, love...
    open your eyes... also the left one... also the right one...”
    until both your eyes were open, then open wide.
    “What the f...?” but you did not complete the word, any f word too unfit for the occasion.
    The sun was high, just overhead
    yet the crowned heads around us none of them raised their faces towards their master...
    left, and right and upwards and downwards from us
    they all turned their green, sinewy necks various wrong ways around
    bringing all crowns to watch towards the tomato bed, downwards towards the tomato bed
    in worship
    the tomato bed suddenly the center of their world
    their sun
    the tomato bed...
    “Love, look at me...”
    and you turned your regard and I closed my eyes, tightly...
    no, it was not the sun’s reflection there, deep inside them...
    “love, do you know you have a sun in each of your eyes?”

    We pulled our clothes over our filthy bodies
    and sat down facing each other
    eyes closed
    Until mountain hid sun and everything reverted to its normal self.
    “What was that?” you didn’t ask me, you asked nobody else, you just asked.
    “I believe we witnessed a moment of Eden,” I answered no one in particular.
    “Miracle?” you didn’t ask me, you asked nobody else, you just asked.
    “I believe love,” I answered no one in particular.

    I helped you plant again your tomatoes.
    I helped you cull them when they were ripe and juicy again.
    We never mentioned what happened, never, not even to ourselves.
    We wanted to keep the miracle alive in our memories
    for as long as time was allotted to us.
    And... maybe beyond?

    Once, I was damn sure about beyond.
    Now, I’m not so sure anymore about it.


The non-creation act

    Did death precede creation?
    Did death precede God creating all this darkness and void which He had to undo?
    I.E. chaos. I.E. tohu va bohu.
    Did death ever exist?

    is not an angel
    death is not a super power
    death is not part of existence,
    death is just the end of existence when everything ends and nothing ensues.
    was never created,
    is a myth.

    “Wait a moment, wait a moment,” says death
    “you sing me, you hate me, you fear me,
    you even call me Didi
    and now you claim that I don’t exist? That I never existed?”

    She was right, that voice in my head was right but it was still just a voice in my head.

    “Listen, Didi...” and I swear I could hear the Aha...
    “I am a poet thus I create, I explore, I deride
    and my Didi’ing you is just part of a mockery process I go through
    as part of the process of getting used to the soon nothing idea.”

    She didn’t seem to listen.
    She brought out of nowhere a mirror, removed her shroud and kept examining herself,
    admiring herself
    throwing herself kisses and scratching away invisible skeletal imperfections
    with the sharp end of her scythe.
    “You administered me female pronouns
    you described the depths of my eyes
    the white of my teeth
    you were willing to disregard my lack of breasts...”

    “Now, now, Didi, this was just me using my dishonestly earned poetical license, you know?...”
    “What poetical license nonsense?
    What is all this BS... and I do not know the biblical equivalence of BS, sorry...
    look at me, look I say! - I AM a female of undefined age
    of undefinable beauty
    proudly so
    judging my skeleton by all humanly written biology books,
    here... this is where my ovaries were supposed to be,
    here... this is where mammalian glands were supposed to be,

    I had to stop this deaf-dumb dialogue with myself
    before getting into too embarrassing sexual innuendoes and descriptions.

    “Didi, death, it pains me to tell you this
    but you are a figment of my imagination.
    You are a figment of entire humanity’s imagination.
    No other species knows of you, thinks of you,
    only us, stupid humans,
    who dialogue with higher entities hoping to restrain you
    chain you
    enslave you,
    kill you if possible... ha-ha, killing death...”

    She was hurt, oh God almighty did I hurt her.
    If I could I would have gathered her in my arms
    and embraced her
    consoled her
    even kissed her on the frontal bone,
    but how does one kiss the figment of one’s own imagination?

    “So...” between sobs “I do not exist, I was never created,
    I am just an end
    the embodiment of a superstition, an idea, not even a female,
    not even a female skeleton
    not even a fish...”

    For a moment the toe of the scythe sparked blindingly
    and I was sure I was a goner,
    but she just disassemble it into snath and chine
    sheathed the chine into a thin scabbard
    saddled the snath... and was gone.

    I hated it. I hated myself. How the hell could I hurt such a sensible creature,
    a kind of a temporary friend, a kind of a forever friend (maybe) soon to become?
    Not that I feared her antagonism,
    I just pitied her broken heart.

    And break it I did.
    But I couldn’t lie. Hell, I couldn’t lie to a... friend?

    I gathered the few pieces of rib she left behind,
    certainly those surrounding her would be heart
    and scattered in a kind of follow me, assuage me pattern
    and closed them in a jar. A mental jar, of course.
    One day we’ll meet again, dear Didi.
    One day I will glue all these pieces back where they belong upon your ribs
    and we will laugh together
    and enjoy beyond together
    and ride that snath together.

    But until then
    please stay there, Didi. Beyond.



    Open parentheses
    White face powder recipe from the 17th-18th century: “Steep the lead in the pot of vinegar, and rest it in a bed of horse manure for at least three weeks. When the lead finally softens to the point where it can be pounded into a flaky white powder (chemical reaction between vinegar and lead causes lead to turn white), grind to a fine powder. Mix with water, and let dry in the sun. After the powder is dry, mix with the appropriate amount of perfume and tinting dye.”
    Close parentheses

    OK, back to our reality, agree?...

    let me dip one finger tip in flour
    and start with a white dot on your forehead, right between the eyebrows
    your very own bindi on your very own Bhrumadhya.
    A white bindi?
    Yes, a white bindi.
    And the following spot right on the tip of your nose
    on your very own Naasikagra... there. Nice start. Like it. Like it?
    Are you going to continue with all this Indian Indian stuff?
    Not really, this was just the beginning.

    Two white dots now, one under each eye, slightly elongated, a bit more
    this time symbolizing the tears of Clown.
    Clown? Or is it Harlequin? Or Pierrot? They usually go by one tear only, you know.
    This is my creation, my rules.
    So you shiftshaped me from an Indian Indian to an Italian Indian, right?
    Wrong. And right. And shut up, I need to concentrate.

    Dipping again
    smearing again
    left cheek round and round and round again
    right cheek round and round and round again
    ...aha... nobility class... guess it might be French Indian some two hundred years ago?...
    upper lip from left to right
    lower lip from right to left
    Ganguro Indian kinda...

    And now it gets even more interesting.
    Still flour?
    Still flour.
    Dipping again.
    Starting at the mid bottom of the bottom lip
    halving the chin exactly in the middle on the way down
    halving the neck exactly in the middle on the way down
    halving your chest exactly in the middle on the way down
    down your cleavage... hey, I encounter some textile resistance...
    Shall I remove my blouse?
    Better do, also what’s underneath...
    Shall I remove my skirt?
    Better do, also what’s underneath...
    Perfect, you’re very understanding when it comes to art.
    And cooperative.
    And cooperative.

    Just a small intermission, if you allow me,
    as I place a white spot on your right nipple
    then a white spot on your left nipple
    and then restart from the point of interruption continuing my trail downwards
    momentarily hovering over your belly button
    further on
    further on
    further on...

    Hey, there is no more further on, I wailed, supplicating for your help
    after I searched and I searched and I searched
    and got lost as many times trying to find my way further down
    and not finding
    and trying various detours
    and byways
    and circumbendibuses
    Tell me... do you need guidance? you asked, for whatever reason in a slightly slurred way.
    Yes, I begged, tears in my eyes and shivers in my entire body
    (I was so afraid of getting lost since that time in my childhood when...)
    Then... you can try to climb back... on the other side, you interrupted my ruminations.
    Oh, ahm, can I?
    Oh, ahm, can you.
    Can? Really?
    Thank you! Tnak yu! Thaaen kiyou! (so that you can imagine my thankfulness in full...)

    I started the way you said it – upwards, the other side, slowly,
    guided by... guidance
    until I met L5
    and from there on it was just a matter of not to think of what I just left behind
    and concentrate until I reached C1
    eventually dipping my finger again in flour, in case you forgot the subject matter
    (I did, a few times)
    and once there I moved to the front of you admiring my creation.
    Wait, something is still missing,
    and I drew one downwards curving flour line from your left hip to your right.

    You looked quizzically in the mirror, turning this way and that...
    I remind me of a giant smiley, you smiled.
    Or of an Indian American, you smiled anew
    your eyes fixing me like an insect to the wall.
    And I cannot refrain from wondering, eyes turning from pins to nine-inch nails,
    what’s all this to do with sourdough?
    I guess I turned various shades of red, from the lightest pink to the deepest burgundy
    ending deeper into the infra-red, before I dared open my mouth.
    I see you emulating a fish, what about sound? you inquired,
    or was it all just a ruse to... to... hey, I think I start getting it, I really think...

    You took the flour bowl and faced me an arm length away.
    I guess it is my turn now to deal with sourdough...
    and the grin was so menacing that I cringed.
    Are you not going to... dress something?
    Not yet.

    I suffered.
    Oh, God, I suffered all the way through 'cooperative' and further
    suffered so much so that halfway through my personal Via Dolorosa
    I promised, I pledged, I swore
    that given the opportunity
    I will... go the sourdough way all over again.
    Oh, the torture,
    oh, the horrors inflicted upon me by that inquisitive finger of yours...


Metal Fatigue

    Metal? Or is it mental?
    Or flesh, bones, muscles, blood and the rest of the shit composing me?

    I’m tired, oh God, I am tired,
    tired of my self
    tired of others self
    even tired of Your self, if you kindly allow me free expression.

    Tell me, God,
    to how many parts can a one man split?
    In how many directions can a one man stretch
    How many demands can fit into a one hour-time cube of a one man-flesh cube
    all types compounded and a lot of each of the types –
    emotional, physical, financial, healthical, expectical, helpical
    and a variety of other ‘al’s existing or not?

    I feel at times like a set of once perfectly white Hollywood teeth
    with some of my members suddenly knocked out
    randomly, indifferently, some going on rot,
    holes gaping upon the once immaculate firmament
    and the smell becomes unbearable.
    No, you don’t like the metaphor, of course you don’t like the metaphor.

    Okay, what about I feel at times like a brand mew matches box
    some my members lighted, burned by invisible hands
    and stuffed back into the box by same invisible hands
    so it rattles as ever
    but it gets as ugly as never
    especially after it has fallen in a puddle of cow piss and no match would light anymore.
    Aha, you don’t like this metaphor either.
    You know what? I also don’t like it but there must be one out there that you would,
    that I would,
    that we both would agree to and understand what it is about.

    Say, what about I feel all time like a human abused by whatever gods there are or not,
    you included, with due respect,
    and if the joke would have been any funnier I would have laughed
    but at this stage of the joke’s life I am able just to curse all gods there are or not,
    you excluded, with due respect.
    And if THE button would have been within my reach.
    I would have pushed it and to hell with humanity and all.
    I guess, luckily for all concerned, it is not within my reach,
    luckily for you too since then you’d have lost all your worshipers
    and who would have called you God in such case?

    Come to think of it,
    did you ever wonder, God, why I talk more to Didi than to you?
    I believe you didn’t but I will tell you anyway.
    First of all – she is funny, or at least I can make fun of her
    and she is a good listener, she doesn’t mind at all,
    at times she even laughs.
    Secondly, and this is probably more firstly than the first, she is real.
    She is there as real as day follows night and night follows day
    toiling and greeting and meeting us with no secretarial intervention whatsoever.
    You, on the other hand, so many your secretaries be they priests or rabbis or imams
    but are you really toiling, and greeting, and meeting us?
    See, God, I doubt it, I doubt it very much,
    I doubt very much that you are real, God.

    Metal fatigue, God, metal fatigue.


Spell Spiel

    You belong next to my Room E, she said,
    and seen the equestrian (bovine is much abused) look on my face
    for no other reason than that I did not know she named her rooms
    she hurried to spell it as R-U-M-I
    followed by my own oooh spelling as O-O-O-H
    further followed by her for an intelligent poet you are quite a dumb human
    no spelling necessary (her words, not mine).

    Actually next to my EE EE, she mused further on,
    and seen the vacantian (from vacant) look on my face
    for no other reason than that I was not aware she suffered from any respiratory ailment
    she hurried to spell it as E-dot-E-dot
    followed by my own eeeh spelling as E-E-E-H
    which was the beginning of a respiratory ailment of my own
    followed by her unoriginal by now for an intelligent poet you are quite a dumb human
    and I guess spelling it out is necessary (her words, not mine).

    It was necessary to buy back my credibility with her, fastest possible,
    or chance losing the only reader I’ve ever had in the world
    (one in a few billions is better than zero in a few billions)
    so I rushed out a hurried such a beautiful laugh story between us
    following which her eye teared and she stood up to leave
    following which I guessed that my accent came in the way
    following which I spelled laugh as L-O-V-E
    following which she kissed me like she never kissed a poet before, or no poet either.

    For an intelligent poet this is dumb poetry, she said,
    so many following following each other,
    quite a laugh,
    following which my eye teared and I stood up to leave
    following which she grabbed my hand and winked
    following which she spelled laugh as L-O-V-E
    following which I kissed her like I never kissed a poet before, or no poet either.

    Following which I sat down to write her a laugh... haha, guess... poem
    like I never wrote to a poet before, or no poet either.
    Which I never sent. Dumb human, she was so damn right about it.



    The time insists
    The time insists with words jejune
    The pain persists
    The pain persists way out of tune
    My life consists
    My life consists of moments hewn
    From dark basalt
    And coldest heart of brittle coal
    Sprinkled with salt
    Stolen from crave’s bottomless soul
              and dying June.

    The time insists
    Running amok with rabid dogs
    Its turns and twists
    Awaking swarms of croaking frogs
    In crawling mists
    My new tomorrow slowly bogs
    While I abstain
    From letting joys dissolve to dust
    A yellow stain
    Slobbers upon my mortal crust
              and seizing cogs.

    Upon a time of days ago when birthdays were delightful fun
    I culled the hearts of maidens tens and lighted in their eyes a sun
    I let the cruel despots of love plow ruts dissecting chest to spine
    And planted tears engorged with blood beseeching beauty to be mine
    I kept abreast with seasons’ fall and scattered flowers to the wind
    There was no vow to be ashamed, there was no promise to rescind
    I walked with steel, I walked with stone
    I walked with muscle cladding bone
    Upon the trees the leaves turned green
    And sparrows played within, between,
    Upon a time
    of days ago
    I didn’t fear
    the snow.

    Upon a time
    of boiling lust
    I didn’t fear
    the rust
    From braying ass through feline fierce
    Through kick and claw, through rip and pierce
    I crossed my sword with folks uncouth
    I wove my words with swanking sooth
    I went to bed mumbling soft tunes that would soothe hearts and never die
    Waking the mornings next to breasts seeding with flames my fields of rye
    I fell in loves and out of loves losing my soul beneath of skirts
    Discovering the deadly aim of batting lashes slinging flirts
    The highs of laughter, joys of pain, the sorrows mingled with a smile
    Upon a time of boiling lust devoid of love’s deceitful guile.

    The time has come
    Its armies devastate my fief
    Enraged and glum
    I knock my ship against a reef
    Assailing scum
    Drags my entrails through rising grief
    I watch the clock
    The arms gain speed as they rotate
    The moment knocks
    I know it just broke down the gate
              forever’s thief.

    The time has come
    The time has come to ask its due
    The steady thrum
    The steady thrum that hours spew
    Invades my strum
    Invades my strum like rancid goo
    I shake my mane
    A lion’s head with broken teeth
    The crumbling reign
    The bloom of once, now drying wreath
              that I bequeath.



    I have forgotten things I knew
    Were unforgettable, like you,
    Like your devouring son of smile
    Which made my living worth the while,
    Your whispers kindling drying bark
    And placing in my heart a spark
              ...and lark.

    I cannot call to mind those times
    I’ve been collecting muted chimes
    When I began my sacred quest
    With burning ear upon your breast,
    Your finger trailing falling stars
    From flaming sheets to my memoirs
              ...and jars.

    Reminiscing, I really can’t
    My recollections dim and scant
    Cladding your ankles sandals straps
    And poems deep your pockets’ flaps,
    Your eyes a green I wished to share
    With raving innuendo dare
              ...and flair.

    So many fogs away, ago,
    I pray to hear and not forgo
    The warmth escaping parting lips
    The hell escaping roving hips,
    You lay upon the crumbling sheaves
    With raindrops dripping from the leaves
              ...and eaves.

    You... did not forget anything.
    I didn’t? Hmm, I guess
    I did not.



    (...the way I recorded her story, almost word by word...)

    10:46 AM I’m waiting seven minutes already.

    10:48 AM I waited some more, why doesn’t the flower open?

    11:22 AM Okay, you said I should be patient, I was,
    still nothing showing.
    Maybe I should water it some more?

    02:03 PM I checked regularly every four minutes
    I even asked my neighbor to keep an eye for the time I went to the loo
    and she said I was some kind of nut
    because she’s a nut, and of course they all see the rest of us as nuts.
    But the bud stayed closed. Strange.

    02:27 PM I tried to pry the bud open, just slightly
    in case it was glued or something
    but nothing to show for the effort.
    I’ll see again at 02:29 PM.

    02: 28 PM Cannot wait until 02:29 PM,
    such horrible disappointment
    maybe it is... oh, no!... dead?

    05:45 PM I cannot take it any longer
    the trepidations in my chest
    the pains in my ribs (I lie on the hard floor)
    the fog on my eyeglasses...
    maybe I should hide, this bud may play a nasty game with me,
    I’ll take with me the cat
    the dogs
    the armadillo... no, I don’t have one, just joking...
    the other cat too
    the neighbor’s parrot
    the other neighbor’s fish-bowl and two fishes
    a sandwich
    my blue pillow with a one-eyed Cinderella (the third cat, ran away meanwhile)
    a bible for inspiration
    the Godzilla DVD for inspiration
    a sickle for inspiration...
    the stakeout started
    ended swiftly since one of the dogs started a fight with both of the cats
    I separated them
    bandaged my scratches
    the stakeout started for real.

    07:22 PM Boo! I screamed triumphantly
    rushing out from my hideout
    caring not for dogs and cats and armadillo...
    oh, no! such disappointment.
    No flower. No flower. No flower.

    I finished crying,
    locked the cats and the dogs out of the house just for spite
    and went to sleep red-eyed with the two fishes and the armadillo.
    Oh, I don’t have an armadillo, oh the stress, oh the despair.
    I fell asleep.

    The rooster call woke me up.
    It mixed with the dogs’ yapping and the cats’ scrapping and the fishies’ goggling
    I fed everyone
    looked for the armadillo and didn’t find it anywhere
    I fed myself
    I remembered the parrot and fed it too, it was known for its telltaling nature,
    yawned some more
    scratched some more
    didn’t have to pee some more
    turned to looked at the bud
    and fainted.

    Everybody was licking me when I opened my eyes
    even the fishes wanted to but were scared of the cats.

    And my bud,
    my wonderful bud
    my glorious bud
    disappeared under the auspices of the most wonderful
    the most glorious
    of blooming flowers. Didn’t even know which kind of blooming flower.

    08:12 AM found me sitting on the lone Cinderella eye
    facing that capricious wonder of colorful nature
    while strewn around me exhilarated as well
    all my cats, the third one having returned meanwhile,
    all my dogs
    the one parrot
    the two fishes
    and the armadillo. Finally, it found its way back home.

    (...there is more to her story, but for now I’ll take a break...)



    I have a lover every town in the world populated thirty thousand or less,
    I don’t trust the official numbers
    I count myself.

    I start a love affair every odd day of the week
    based on the Hebrew calendar

    I write a poem every even day of the week
    based on the Gregorian calendar

    and when at times I lose count with all love affairs and poems going
    I hide, for years at a time,
    hoping no one finds me before the next odd day of the week
    reveals itself.

    I watch a love story at the cinema in every town where I do not have a lover
    and read a love story that someone else wrote immediately after
    thus I soak myself in as much love as possible
    and impossible.

    I read a love story I wrote whenever I do not read a love story someone else wrote
    and when neither happen I write one.
    Actually every story I write is a love story
    even those that are not, they only seem not.

    I run a love column on-line and off–line and newspaper-line
    and when I’m out of lines
    I draw new ones.

    Every other Sunday I...

    Hey, hey, lover, stop!
    If I didn’t know better I would say that you put Munchausen in your vest’s small pocket
    with your prevarications.

    And since you know better? And since I don’t have a vest?
    I would say that you are a small child in need of attention.
    And love.
    Since you know that I know better.

    Which kind of love?
    Genuine love. Soul and body. Mental and physical. Every day of your life.
    Every hour, every minute, every second.

    She did know better.
    She did give me love.
    Every second and part of it to the smallest measurable fraction.
    And beyond.
    God, do I really deserve such a lover? I stopped prevaricating, at least the parts I did.

    Lover, this is not one of your better poems, you know?
    I know, lover, none is. I know.

    She loved me even more after this.
    She even made love to me, even though I wasn’t even there.

    Lots of even’s in one breath.
    I know, told you. Overcompensating, I know.


(Another) Chance Encounter

    Some of my poems should never have been written, I said.
    And why do you tell me this, of all your lovers? she asked.
    Because you are the only one that doesn’t count and whose opinion I disregard.
    Aha, afraid to face the truth.

    It was one of our rare meetings, which started losing their rarity as of late.
    She was sitting on a rock she brought along herself,
    painting her oversized toenails with invisible varnish
    and admiring their reflection in the upside down scythe’s chine.
    Do you find I should paint my fingernails too?
    Your hand phalangenails, you mean.
    You don’t have to be nasty about it.
    She proceeded with painting them.

    All of your poems should never have been written.
    But since unfortunately you were born
    you had no choice but write them. All. Even those invading my privacy.

    It was unexpectedly philosophical of her to say it
    and I thanked her voicelessly.
    Hehe, I hear you thoughts, she chuckled. I should have known it.
    Tell me, do you think I should mix some red with the invisible.
    Or it would be too... what is the word?... ostentatious?

    All of you is pretty ostentatious, so I don’t think it would matter much.
    She proceeded with mixing green into the varnish.
    More ecological, you know. Chlorophyll based and all this shit.
    I wasn’t surprised.
    So there is an iota of decency in you, after all.
    Not really, I’m just worried for my job.
    The pay is good so I want it to last almost forever.

    She chuckled
    There is another Didi out there waiting for this Didi, you know,
    with a scythe triple as big.

    Oh, I didn’t know.
    I really didn’t.
    Don’t be, life, you know.
    She let out a roar of laughter that woke up all dogs in the neighborhood,
    it was a bit past midnight.

    Didi, may I ask you a personal question, please?
    You can ask me anything, lover, I winced, as long as it is not about my sexual life.
    Tell me, is there life after death?

    She finished painting all her phalangenails, hands and feet,
    stretched her hands so she could admire the overall effect
    and stood up to leave.

    You shouldn’t ask me, you should ask God’s secretaries on Earth,
    those carrying various titles depending on the way their religion is named
    and yet all peddling the same product. Faith.

    She picked up her scythe the right way around.
    If you ask me, strange way of putting it, there is none.

    And she was gone.
    I knew it wasn’t the last of our meetings so I didn’t worry too much,
    neither about me nor about her.
    How did she put it?... ...life, you know.


Bedtime Story

    Once people lived once on the surface...


    exposed to cosmic radiation and sun radiation and phones radiation...


    rain and wind and snow invading their lives...


    with biting mosquitoes and flies and birds and dogs around them...


    having to smell, taste, chew things growing in the ground and air, touching each other physically...

    Brrr, brrr...

    now we are safe inside our deep underground concrete towns with our daily pill nutrients and our tube babies, progress!!!


    [I asked the plastobot to cover her and kiss her for me. Yeah, finally humanity living its long deserved, good life.]


That Time of the Year

    So I’m standing here before you
    naked, figuratively speaking,
    having reached that time of the year when I’m standing before you
    pissed-off, literally speaking,
    when I’m going to voice my missive of injustice loaded with self-pity
    that I call poem
    and where I start invoking all my gods
    of which I have just one
    and all my dead relatives
    of which I have just too many
    and other various passed away entities
    that carry pieces of the broken pump called heart
    be they friends, all, or artists, some, or politicians, none, or pets, even those I never owned
    and others undefined

    and I will start wailing about the injustices of existence
    life one
    death one
    pains many
    and other uncontrollables.

    That time of the year when I say hello again
    and one of these times will be the last time I say hello again
    to all of you above mentioned
    God, relatives, friends, artists, no politicians, pets and undefined
    and when I apologize anew for the fact that I will never meet any of you again
    and when I tell no one listening how much I miss you all again
    and when I specifically tell you all that I do not care if a bastard care-for-no-one Putin
    or a bastard care-for-himself-only Trump
    or a nameless bastard fuck-you-world that we’ll call for the sake of completeness Covid
    pushed the famous button (is it really red?)
    and sends us all to inexisting hell.
    Or shall I call it existing non-existence?

    Yes, that time of the year.
    When giant worms with sharp teeth chew me from inside out
    and giant worms with goggling eyes watch me squirming from outside in
    and microscopic-and-less me howls his gigantic-and-more impotence
    hurling rocks and curses towards that plane of inexistence
    that could have existed
    and provided us with some elementary hope.
    C’mon, let’s be honest,
    even the most faith-full are faith-less when it comes to facing
    loss. Bitter, horrible, unthinkable loss. Haha, unthinkable and yet there...

    The time of the year when I count, again, all those movies I wish to see, again,
    when I list again all those books I wish to read again
    when I imagine again all poems mine included I will never enjoy again
    and those poems mine exclusively I will never write, not again but rather permanently,
    when I have no choice but apologize again to accurately named entities
    for being soon unable to clean again the tombstones I so hold dear
    unable to hug again the people I so hold dear
    unable to wish well and pray and smile and such irrelevancies of life
    which compose life
    and make it life.

    Who the hell invented life? And why?
    It was so much better
    when the matter now composing life was just a soup of whirling atoms
    an existing hell of elements changing constantly from one to another
    without a brain to try to understand it
    without a heart to carry the pains of existing after the soup stopped being just soup.

    The time of the year when I’m more scared of the coming of next time of the year
    than of its non coming.

    inexistence... oh, the beauty of it.


Silent Usurpers

    One should always be in love.
    That is the reason one should never marry.
    ~Oscar Wilde


    visiting you would trigger a WOW! from you
    two font sizes bigger than the rest of the conversation
    sometimes even more,


    it hardly forces out a wow?
    two font sizes smaller
    if at all.

    I guess it is the silent usurpers at work


    and similar nouns and adjectives.

    Strange how the ne plus ultra pinnacle of a relationship
    turns with time
    into its own suicide bullet.



    It’s raining heavily, you say.
    The sunflowers are blossoming, you say.

    Once it’s going to rain heavily.
    Once you’ll have one thousand blossoming stems.
    Once we’ll meet middle of that field
    crushing five hundred of them to muddy splinters
    as we roll and roll and roll on the ground
    wrestling like the last of the Titans
    for the right to own the ambrosia of the body we hang on to with claws and teeth and muscles
    and such immense tenderness that a snowflake would not crush between us.
    Would melt, though, even a bloc of marble would melt in hell.
    I say.

    We let go
    not really
    panting like the tectonic plates after heaving up the Olympus

    and I start telling you the wonders I see
    while you reciprocate with wonders of your own

    words interlacing
    like our interlaced fingers.

    Next year I’ll have two thousand blossoming sunflower stems, you promise me.
    And I promise you that we’ll crush to splinters one thousand of them, I answer.

    The sun shreds the clouds
    and we wake up on two sides of the same world
    with too much world between us.
    Gigantic, immense this world.



    Stephen Hawking had genius
    he didn’t have body.
    I bet he would have had gladly swapped the two.

    I have genius
    I have also body, moving into decrepit but still – body.
    I don’t have fame, though.
    I would not have swapped anything for fame, mind you,
    except maybe my back pain attacks.

    A meaningless asymmetry
    I am aware, being a genius forces such asymmetric thoughts upon one.

    You probably don’t agree with me, the genius part of it,
    but you’ll have to agree regarding the back pain swapping
    unrealistic as it may be.



    I have a long list of like words.
    I have also a long list of dislike words
    and prominently displayed there is a word that got heavily in vogue
    these last decenniums,
    the word being ‘vagina’.

    At the risk of bringing atop of me the entire feminist nation, please let me elaborate a bit.
    I do not find anything liberating in using the bam slam word
    just because it carries no finesse (it doesn’t)
    no romance (it doesn’t)
    no male imposed subtleties (it doesn’t)
    and actually these are part of the reasons I,
    male poet in love with the opposite (why opposite? rather complementary) sex,
    dislike the word.

    It turns us into dictionary users instead of metaphor users
    into wordocrats rather than poemocrats
    and I really do not see how I could write a love poem alluding blankly to vagina
    rather than finding a hundred different ways to allude to the essence of femininity.
    Why should a female body not be allowed beauty of related expressions
    just because it was at certain times and by certain people - abused?
    Imagine writing a love poem alluding to intestines, another ‘just’ body part.
    And, mind you, the same goes for ‘penis’,
    it doesn’t go with any kind of poetry any more than prostate would go.

    My petty rant for today
    and I’m certain not the last one. Though the last for today.


Visit, again

    Didi knocked on the door (you know Didi by now).
    Usually she doesn’t,
    usually she infiltrates inside through the walls
    or permeates or percolates or perfuses...
    Or perfumes?... she giggled liplessly.
    Perfume is not a verb.
    You’re a poet, you can verbiate it, no?

    She knew the right word, of course.
    She was right, of course. She was also annoying, of course.

    Didi, this pleasure is entirely uncalled for, why are you here right now?

    She settled nonchalantly on my new armchair’s armrest
    modestly gathering her cloak about her femurs so that her ischium ramus...
    and pubic arch...
    ...and pubic arch will not show
    and drilled through me pitilessly with her bare ethmoid bones.
    I was used to it, I remember once she fitted glass eyes inside her orbits
    and this had me unsettled.

    I just read your last poem, the one about ‘vagina’ and things
    and decided to pay you a visit, me being female and all that,
    and have a few words with you about it.

    You certainly know that some define you as male, don’t you?
    I know, but you are not some, you are my friend, correct?

    It was incorrect but I did not see the need to tell her that,
    she being a mind reader and all.

    What other word would you use?
    I would use no word, I would rather allude to it.
    Meaning you are ashamed with it?
    God forbid, no such thing. Fine for a doctor, bad for a poet.
    You know there are other words on the street, words like...

    I cut her short.
    I knew the street words in several languages and none sounded good
    and I did not need Didi to teach me my glossary.

    OK, let’s put it this way: words like vagina and her cohorts have their uses, sure,
    in medical circles, in prostitution circles, in defamation circles
    but not in poetry circles.
    I find using these in poetry as insulting to that sublime creature which is woman.
    You are certainly aware that ‘some’ of these sublime creatures
    prefer to be considered normal and not necessarily sublime.

    And I don’t see the conflict. Which is maybe where the conflict originates.
    So sublime and normal, and let’s throw in also equal, can co-exist.
    Do co-exist! I almost shouted, but I realized she was just needling me.

    She smiled, by painting an upwards curve both sides of her mandible.
    Then she smeared it away... I cannot risk people thinking I’m getting soft.
    You getting soft? And all of you bones?...

    We both exploded in a roaring laughter of some undefined kind
    then I wiped my tears
    and she had nothing to wipe but made as if.
    Actually she wasn’t so bad as... friend, I found myself thinking.
    Wait a few more years, you’ll find by then I am the only friend you need.

    She got off my armchair’s armrest, brushed away some invisible dust specks
    and let her cloak hem fall all the way down to her tarsals.
    Say, are you not afraid that one day your cloak will slide off your shoulders
    and you’ll be standing there, well, naked?
    She pushed her middle finger’s distal phalange under my chin and forced it up.
    Hey, which finger am I using now? she asked.
    The... the middle finger?

    She permeated, percolated, perfused out
    leaving me with a stupid grin on my face.

    I wonder, does Didi have also other close friends
    or is it that I enjoy a privileged relationship here?
    I did not wonder for long as the pile of unpaid bills got three bills thicker this morning
    and it was time I did something for it.

    Ha, I prefer Didi over you any time, dear taxation boys, anytime. And girls.



    Let’s go fishing, she said.

    Took me by surprise.
    Didn’t expect her (does one ever?)
    but on top of it... fishing?
    Since when does death go fishing?

    Do you go fishing with all your friends? I asked, slightly embarrassed.
    I don’t have many friends, actually you’re my only friend.
    I cannot say I took it as a compliment.
    And why would you say that?
    Because everyone else either disregards me or writes nasty things about me.
    You’re the only one writing nice things about me.

    I almost choked to death but, naturally, couldn’t with death chatting with me.
    You make me feel so human...
    ...the last words were almost whimperingly tender.

    Your car or mine?
    You mean you have a car?
    No, silly, I don’t have a driving license,
    Hey, imagine the cop’s face when pulling me over for a traffic violation... he he he...
    we could rent a hearse with driver, though.

    Yes, I could imagine that cop’s face and also pity that poor cop’s widow afterwards.
    And if a cop pulls me over and finds you next to me?
    Don’t worry, I’ll make myself invisible.

    We drove in silence.
    I let her choose a station airing funeral music... I hate it and I like reminding myself why...
    from time to time her bony hand sneaking to rest upon my knee
    and then retreating hastily... this is what human couples do, no?
    until we reached the lake.
    Thankfully no cop pulled me over so I had no one on my conscience, yet.

    She ran towards the water as if being chased by a dozen blond cherubs
    stomped right in and sank all the way to the bottom.
    She emerged couple minutes later on
    water pouring out from her orbs and in between her ribs
    and whatever other cavity she owned.
    You don’t swim, Didi?
    How could I, lover... lover?...
    and she pirouetted in front of me showing me the hollow spots supporting her claim.
    Actually she was more hollow than matter if measured in parts of the volume she occupied.

    What will we do with the fish we catch? I don’t believe you’ll want to eat it?
    Of course not, what do you think I am, some kind of zombie?
    We’ll throw it back into the mater.

    The question proved to be void of interest as we didn’t catch any fish that day,
    I guess they guessed something was wrong with this new fisherman
    and kept their distance.
    She did though jump again into the water and surfaced later with an old boot
    which she made a great show of throwing back in.
    A throw which landed about a mile away, quite a throw.
    You could play football, I ventured, with some prosthetics...
    Tried, they wouldn’t accept me, claimed my weight was under regulation minimal value.
    Didn’t know they had a minimal value.
    They didn’t. They have now.
    You could have added some lead weights inside your thoracic cavity.
    I did. They claimed I made too much noise when moving.
    You could have wrapped it in cotton or something.
    Of course. Did it. Then they started claiming they were not so sure about my sex.
    I gave up sports of any kind.

    She pulled out her fishing rod and started rolling back the line.
    You know, you humans are horribly flawed, horribly racist. Or better said – discriminators.
    Tens of reasons and growing by the day.
    Sex, color, age, language, religion, nationality, social status, weight, beauty...

    I could not refute it, still, it ruffled my feathers.
    And I assume you are not, are you?
    I love all of you the exact same.
    Oh, yes, yet you prioritize the sick, feeble, poor, old, hungry...
    True yet also untrue. I take in also young and strong and beautiful and healthy
    when some of your chosen leaders, only some of them mad,
    send then into acts of violence.
    There are also the statistical accidents.
    There are also the statistical prey to crime.
    There are even the statistical prey to love, be it ever so misguided.
    There are also...

    OK, OK, I grated, just to make her shut up.
    In the end I accept what is offered, I do not choose.

    It was getting late and chilly.
    I pulled a sweater over my head and she pulled her hoodie over her skull
    I was sure that seen from the back we looked like any normal picnicking couple
    except for the glinting scythe leaning against a tree trunk.
    Say, Didi, I was always curios,
    how do you operate?
    What do you mean by operate?
    I mean you have no muscle tissue, no brain... if you forgive me, no eyes, no eardrum.
    How do you move around? How do you communicate with your victims...
    oops, clients?...
    The black eye orbs reflected the small fire I kindled earlier
    even though I was certain there was nothing there to reflect it.
    Tell me lover, do you really think I look the way I look?
    And when I didn’t answer she continued.
    This is just the representation your race decided to impose upon me,
    the avatar of me, if you wish.
    I look differently, if at all, to mammalians, reptiles, butterflies, bacteria and trees.
    And planets too.
    Everybody and everything dies
    and those of the everybodies and everythings that developed some kind of sentience
    imagine me their biased yet limited way.
    God created you in his image. You created me in your image.
    In reality I look completely different but you have insufficient senses to see real me.
    So let’s keep to the way your race sees me.

    So, could be that in your reality you are even... beautiful?
    In my reality I am the most beautiful thing there is.
    Also the only thing there is, therefore I am so lonely.

    Morning found us huddled together,
    her cloak over us
    my sweater over the cloak
    and thousands of miniature critters chittering around us happily.

    After careful, lengthy and minutiose research
    that day registered into the Guinness book of absolute records
    as the only day in the recorded history of mankind when nothing and no one,
    not even an insect



    I forgot
    to water the flowers
    and they started drying...
    dahlia, petunia, geranium

    they implored
    water us!
    and I remembered and I apologized and I watered
    aching for forgiveness
    aching to see their beautiful heads rise skywards

    God forgot
    to water my flower
    and it started drying...

    you you implored
    water me!
    and God will maybe remember
    and God doesn’t need to apologize
    and God will hopefully water
    God should not care for forgiveness
    God should care for seeing your beautiful head rise skywards

    Puny I
    Mighty you
    will you remember?



    Your shoe size once half a number smaller.
    Your shoe size now two numbers higher
    to allow for the swollen tissue
    and that piece of plastic supposed to hold it tighter
    Ha, the joke life played on beautiful, gentle you.

    Your other shoes
    shapelier, nicer, more elegant, never big names but always fine looking
    lying around

    Your shirt, your undershirt
    the practical shapelessness of the practical use
    imposed by limitations and convenience and suggestions

    your real shirts, your real undershirts
    and finely tailored
    and the best buys of seasons of discounted sales you proudly brought home
    when returning breathless
    and rose cheeked
    and full of stories from your hunting travels
    now hanging around desolate, lonely, forgotten on their hangers,

    Ha, the joke life played on beautiful, gentle you.

    Your skirts
    now trousers,
    resilient, resistant, coarse, capable of handling anything rough handed their way
    shapelessly molding
    your shapeful contours,
    burying them in folds of unnecessary cloth and cut.

    Your skirts, your other trousers
    in their breathtaking colors and shapes and sizes and imaginative cuts modern or not
    nicely folded on shelves, hanging from dedicated hooks,
    gathering dust
    and accumulating the smell of now lengthy non-usage,
    ha, the joke life played on beautiful, gentle you.

    The couple precious stones waiting in vain for your neck and fingers
    the few warm blankets waiting in vain for your body to slide underneath
    the hundreds of books waiting, dying to be read,



    I felt my heart.

    Surprise, surprise, it seemed to be saying
    squeezing my chest lovingly, tenderly
    while sending that timid, hesitating, first

    I never knew I had a heart.
    I mean I always knew I had a heart but I never knew I had a heart
    until this day of my heart’s timid, hesitating, first

    Now I know I have a heart
    and from time to time it will greet me
    telling me of its troubles and tribulations
    and waiting for me to return the favor in kind
    which I will not
    since I care for it
    and wish not to hurt
    its feelings.
    But I will certainly return its timid, hesitating, insisting

    Until that day to come when it will smile
    telling me of this wonderful new word it learned to say
    which will be the last word I will ever hear it say
    and the first time I will not be able to
    my heart’s timid, hesitating, first


Debt Collector

    When I was a kid
    just a little few years back
    I used to gather all the chairs of our apartment, we didn’t have many,
    and place them all around me
    tie a rope at the top of their outward facing legs
    from a leg all the way back to the same leg
    and hang on it, by knotting their corners,
    a bunch of towels and tabletops and bed sheets
    creating an impenetrable shield to protect me from the bad world out there
    and the bad inhabitants of the bad world out there
    and the bad intentions of the bad inhabitants of the bad world out there

    and my impenetrable shield would protect me
    and push away the dastardly attacks perpetrated against me.

    And my mom would help me
    keeping me safe
    from the bad intentions of the bad inhabitants of the bad world out there.

    And suddenly I feel this need, again.
    Bunch some chairs together
    tie a rope around them
    a bunch of towels and tabletops and bed sheets
    and crawl underneath and behind it
    knowing with the curse of adulthood filling almost to brim my brain
    that there is no shield to protect me
    neither from the bad intentions of the bad inhabitants of the bad world out there
    nor from the bad intentions of my good friend Didi
    once she decides to forget our good friendship
    and strike through that impenetrable shield and continue the movement
    all the way through me
    to collect her debt

    Not without my mom
    to help
    keep me safe.

    So why crawl? you ask.
    Maybe only to feel child
    once again.
    Hey, hello there my very own... Rosebud.



    The last dog was put to death. The rumor that they were carriers was just that, rumor, but mass hysteria wrenched control away from reason.

    I got up from the wake I held with a few others, tired, disgusted. “Now we lost our soul,” I spit into the TV mike pushed into my face.

    The ominously COXID named virus continued assimilating oxygen from air, water, organic matter and converting it to ozone, the ozone layer getting thicker, lower.

    Exactly 135 years and one devastating nuclear war later the last human died. A few years later... life died. Earth turned desolate.


Of Age, the shortie

    one, shortie

    I cough like a ninety-seven years old, I complained.

    You are ninety-seven years old, she countered.

    Next year I’ll cough like a ninety-eight years old, I complained.

    Next year you may be dead, she countered.

    I hated arguments I couldn’t win. I needed a winner.

    Next year you’ll be thirty-three again, I said. And look like it.

    She shut up. She hated arguments she couldn’t win. But some arguments were worth the thirty-three old-like sex she demonstrated the following minutes. We demonstrated.

    You’re a sneaky bastard, she panted, happily.

    You’re a hot babe, I panted, happily.

    We demonstrated again, happily.


    two, shortie

    She was still the gorgeous woman I always knew. Slightly slower. Some pains here and there. A bit thicker around the middle. Gorgeous.

    My left side hurts when I sleep on my left, she said. And when I sleep on my right, my right side hurts.

    And when you walk?

    My feet hurt.

    I suggested that pain was gravitation driven, massaging her hurting parts. The massage ended as unplanned for and she wasn’t sorry.

    And now my back hurts, she panted.

    Gravitation, what else? I suggested that we report it under major discoveries, and she called me her sweet idiot.


    three, shortie

    One hundred and twelve already? she asked.

    Yes, I answered. Still thirty-three?

    Yes. Do I look a bit older?

    Not even one day.

    I didn’t lie. My mind wasn’t deceiving me even if my eyeglasses moved a few diopters higher.

    I can prove it to you, she added.

    No proof was necessary but she proved it anyway. Then she proceeded to dressing, panting, and I proceeded to admiring, panting of course, what else?

    Life’s been kind to me, I said, not with me but with you.

    At a certain stage I started forgetting my age. But not hers. Thirty-three, eternal.


Re-faithing, so to say

    God gave us prostate, so he could punish us with cancer.
    God gave us brain, so he could punish us with thrombosis.
    God gave us life, so he could punish us with death.
    God gave us mosquito, so he could stay away from punishing us
    with Malaria and Zika and WNV.
    Generous being, God, blessing us with so much given and much more.
    OK, people, now before you start riots going from the North Pole
    and all the way to my doorstep
    brandishing AK-47s and MK-556s and PzH-2000s
    demanding that I be first quartered
    then burned on stake
    then my ashes scattered four winds and all the winds in-between
    with powerful arrays of Makita and Stihl and Bosch and DeWalt leaf blowers,
    let me tell you that this is my faith re-found talking

    from die-hard complete absolute no-God atheist
    to blindly accepting the involvement of God
    (they are all one and the same, sorry religiousniks of one type or another)
    in everything befalling me with this or other dire consequence.

    One baby step at a time, my faith re-born, yeah.

    I guess my leap of faith will follow
    once there is no dire consequence found at the end of said leap.
    Yeah, fat chance (sorry God) with that.



    What happened to that wonderful
    heart-warming mind-melting sense-boggling event
    so much more four-lettered in its figuratively speaking connotation
    than all of its literally speaking brethren and sistern in the dictionary’s most cloistered

    Relegated now to history’s yellow pages
    figuratively and literally, ha-ha,
    alongside Alexander the Great and Attila the Hun and Caligula’s horse.

    Shapeless, once shapeful,
    curveless, once curveful,
    fireless passionless obsessionless, once so searingly fireful
    devastatingly richer now in its less possessions than it ever was in its ful ones.

    The anguish of after replaced by the angst of before
    the fleetingness of a touch by the invasion of an interposed table
    the animal growl by the aching joint whine.
    Jungle by desert.
    Starry eyes by stars.
    Dimensionlessness by the single dimensionality of distance.

    Where have you gone? Sex. And you. And probably I too, tough to admit as it is.

    Flowers suddenly turned botanical occurrences.
    Pebbles turned chemical conglomerates of basic elements.
    Butterflies brainless flittering objects.
    Breathlessness probable heart condition.
    Metaphors figures of speech hiding behind a jumble of vowels and consonants,
    the primitive grunts of hominids about to become hominins.
    About to become troglodytes.

    Some words get forgotten, I know.
    Turned figment of memory. Not even that.


Bitter? Me?

    You must be joking,
    disappointed rather in this so called wonderful world

    wonderful for whom?

    Tell it to the six million Jews and forty million gentiles it took to remove one Hitler.
    Tell it to the two million Biafrans famished to death.
    Tell it to the six plus millions dead of Covid.
    Tell it to... I guess there is insufficient paper in the world to finish this sentence
    the more I go into the past and the more I go into the present
    and the future is just waiting to add its own creativity to the list
    so tell it to each single human wronged into death one way or another.
    Or wronged into abysmal ways of suffering, one or another as well.

    So easy to claim wonderfulness on the wonderful side of the fence
    and relegate to naught the rest of reality.

    What would be the ratio would you say?
    The famous 20-80 or rather an infamous 2-98, and probably less?

    Bitter? Me?
    Oh, no, certainly not bitter
    now that the many years passing teach me additional lessons every day
    and the few years resting force me to understand it deeper than ever.
    Disappointed, simply disappointed.


Memorial Day

    My own, very private very personal
    memorial day.

    A candle for every name I remembered
    two candles for every name I forgot
    three candles for every name I remembered or forgot and loved.

    I bought a pack of one hundred candles
    amply sufficient
    donned my father’s old praying shawl carrying traces of his DNA
    kissed the cover of my mother’s prayers book carrying traces of her DNA
    and set to work.

    I didn’t know.
    The size of the hole each name I remembered drilled in my heart.
    Light the candle.
    The bigger size hole each name I forgot drilled in my heart.
    Light the candle.
    The abysmally gigantic hole each name I remembered or forgot and loved
    drilled in my heart.
    Light the candle.

    I soon ran out of candles.
    I soon ran out of shops carrying candles.
    I soon ran out of place on my table, floor, roof, garden, street...
    ...sorry, call the local nuthouse... answered the police station to the callers,
    and there were many.

    Uncle X1, uncle X2, uncle X3, uncle...
    Aunt YZ, aunt FG, aunt KW, aunt...
    Cousin one to..., friend two to..., acquaintance three to..., whatever four to...

    Didn’t know there were so many holes.

    Didn’t know there was so much place in one heart for so many holes
    so many sizes of holes
    so much blood for so much bleeding from so many holes of various sizes.

    Didn’t know tears do not extinguish candles,
    tears fuel candles.

    Do know, now, that old people do not die from old age.
    Old people die when each passing year drills new holes in the heart
    until there is nothing left
    but hole.



    I was trying to write poetry.

    poetry is trying to write me. Writing me.

    My fingers the tools of its trade
    forced into the swirls and curlicues that end in forming letters
    that end in chaining letters to words
    that end in stringing words to phrases, poems, tomes.
    Of me.

    Dreams (forgotten).
    Pains (continuous).
    Wishes (many).
    Expectations (none).
    Loves (ever present).
    Achievements (so few).
    Memories (fading).

    The speed of fingers insufficient to follow the propositions presented
    probably ninety percent lost
    probably ninety-nine percent lost
    I guess I will have to do with the one percent charily captured, honed, discharged
    before the zero percent turns the corner
    and storms in.

    Strange thing, life,
    says above mentioned poetry and I echo its words,
    one moves from unassailable eternity
    straight into naught
    at the blink of an eye, faster
    I wonder if it breaks the immovable laws of relativity.

    I will know the answer, once it happens.
    Unfortunately, I will not be able to tell
    the Nobel prize in physics forever out of my reach.


Love Eternal

    You forgot me!

    She pouted non-existent lips
    and wagged a boney - well, it was all bones – finger my way.
    Luckily this was done with the not-holding-scythe hand
    so there wasn’t a chance she’d drop said scythe my way.

    What do you mean I forgot you?
    Lately every second poem I write is to you about you alluding to you
    this is a completely unwarranted accusation and I expect an apology.
    In writing?
    If you can write.

    She creaked to a sitting position next to my table...
    You need some oiling, I ventured.
    I know...
    and she made a great show out of pulling one of my papers
    taking one of my pens
    and making a few x’s and x similes on it, followed by a big X at the bottom.
    It’s called a bix – a big x!...
    and she rolled wall to wall several times, cackling like a mad woman.
    And this is called laughix...
    following which she rolled couple more times
    before seating herself again,
    right lateral epicondyle resting on right femur
    left radius hanging over left patella
    right phalanxes supporting her mandible...

    If I didn’t know better I’d say you modeled for Rodin, I said, taking hold of the paper.
    Who said I didn’t? She wasn’t joking.

    Is this some kind of joke? I asked, looking at the scribbled symbols.
    The day I will joke on serious matters will be the day the sun will split in two.
    This is a Didi-type apology in a Didi-type writing.
    You should know me better by now.

    Yes, I knew her better by then.
    Sorry, I apologize.
    In writing?

    And she said she did not joke, ha-ha.
    I added my own scribbles in several languages, signed in same several languages,
    folded the paper and placed it on the table.
    Who keeps it?
    I’ll put it under a stone, so none and both of us, OK?
    Sounded strange to hear her say a word like ‘OK’.

    The paper vanished.
    I knew she kept her word,
    if there was one person in the entire universe who always kept her word
    it was Didi.
    My friend, my confidant, my lover... at least she boasted all three and some more.

    Do you at times wonder what would have been our relationship if I was of flesh and blood?
    And if you did not hold on to that scythe?
    And if I did not hold on to that scythe.
    Truthfully said, yes.

    I was surprised to hear myself say it,
    this was not the answer I wanted to give and yet it was the answer I gave and meant.
    I swear I saw a glint descending from her orb, that quickly disappeared.

    If we’re into confidences already, truth is that I was looking for an excuse to visit,
    I know you did not forget me.
    Yet I am delighted each time you put it in writing, guess I am some kind of narcissist.

    And truth is, you are inspiring to me, I smiled big.
    And I think it is my cue to say good-bye before we fall on each other’s neck
    and swear love eternal.

    Which will never happen.
    Which will happen, sooner than you think.

    She left, leaving me in a state of nonchalant pondering.
    Love eternal... does it exist?



    Not when the scythe will fall,
    this I know
    with an accuracy of a few years each side of the foreseen time
    defining the window of opportunity,


    but rather about the sharpness of the blade
    going all the way from a few atoms to full railway track thickness,
    surely would prefer the atomic option,


    Not if I intend to stop writing
    for the short eternity still ahead of me,
    clearly I intend not
    as intense about the intention as a dog about a fresh bone just thrown its way,


    however will life corroborate adequate circumstances
    to allow said intent sprout into relevant intended words
    or wrap me up into a miles thick silence dry like the top layer of the desert at noon,
    I guess even then I will rip any silence to shreds of itself and of me and of words,


    Not if there is sufficient cruelty to justify a fire deluge
    to cleanse Earth of itself and of any leftovers
    and ready it for the next life experiment that powers to be may intend to carry,
    there clearly is,


    but more so if there is sufficient tenderness
    to smother such cruelty sufficiently
    and force the powers to be think twice about unleashing such fire deluge,


    Not if there is God,
    clearly there is a God for all of faith
    and none will dare claim differently,


    and neither if there is no God,
    clearly there is no God for of non-faith
    and none will dare claim differently,



Woman, anonymous

    The ways of the world seeded salt your way,
    seeded nails, interminable waits, bone splinters,
    the ways of the world were unkind to you.

    Not always
    yet it feels like always
    now that always is so long as to feel almost detached
    from today.

    You understand entropy
    you understand telomeres
    you understand statistics and stochastic actuarial model, at least you think you do,
    you wish you understood less and lived more, laughed more, loved more.

    You open your eyes
    another day, God?
    and you don’t mean another day, God? but rather another same day, God?
    as you lower feet into comfortably worn slippers
    unbend slightly creaking knees
    and dispose with water and soap and comb and rest of morning amenities
    before textiles enwrap you with softness
    and you sit on the balcony
    the coffee you so hate in your hand
    the book you so love in your hand
    the rest of the day you so hesitate in loving in your hand...
    feels good, sun.

    Coffee finished. Book unfinished.
    The day drags on like an arthritis beleaguered crocodile, undecided yet which way to go.
    You enter the bedroom
    upset at the single pillow
    the single blanket
    you touch the ‘other’ side of the bed... already cold, his warmth evaporated
    except inside a tiny crease where some of it still lingers
    and you brush your cheek against it
    trying to soak it in.
    Was it yesterday, was it years ago, shall I open the widow and let it fly out of it?

    Time to start the rest of the day,
    so much left of it
    so little left of it.

    You pick up a pen, hastily scribble a few ideas before they vanish
    touch a few keys in front of the computer before the letters vanish
    pick up a paint brush and smear a few watercolor traces before they vanish...

    shall I clean some dishes before they vanish too?... you smile at yourself
    then laugh loudly
    then remember a forgotten tear which you let slide down
    then lock the door in back of you and exit into the world for a lengthy stroll.

    You miss a hand to hold your hand
    an elbow to rub against yours
    a set of nimble fingers to hastily pull down the hem of your skirt
    when an impertinent whiff of wind suddenly billows it upwards...
    you giggle at the memory
    buy a loaf of bread, some tomatoes
    and are ready to face to world again.

    Until next time, you say to no one in particular
    counting the paces back home.



    Tulips, I said.
    Magical flowers, she said.
    Tulips, I insisted.
    Magical flowers, she insisted.

    We stopped insisting, both of us.
    I downloaded the picture of her latest painting and stored it in ‘lover, paintings’
    then started talking about shoes
    holes in hearts...

    It was late in the night when I woke up with one, hole in the heart I mean.
    I went through a variety of folders
    here is she
    here is she again
    here is, guess who, she...
    I was about to return to bed when I clicked on ‘lover, paintings’.
    Then I clicked on ‘tulips’.
    Then I leaned back into my chair,
    something between horrified and mystified choking my throat.

    The file opened on my screen
    Then the petals started opening wider
    exiting the screen
    penetrating the space of my room
    with a bumblebee the size of my thumb buzzing out and in one of the flowers
    then another
    then back to the first...
    I was paralyzed.

    It flashed through my mind that I will not be telling any living soul, not even her,
    since it would prove reason enough to hospitalize me in some thickly barred institution
    where everything is white
    not only the hair of the internees.
    At most I will write poem about it
    and everyone would think it was excessive use of poetical license,
    ha, poetical license,
    one should see the size of the swell on my finger once I tried to disturb the bumble bee.

    I closed the file
    went to bed
    and succeeded to fall asleep.

    Following day I sent her the file back.
    Sorry love, it is beautiful, etcetera but I do not want to keep it, forgive me?
    One hour later she answered:
    Of course I forgive you, my love,
    but why did you photoshop a bumble bee on it?...
    not that I do not like it but you should have asked, first.

    My swollen finger throbbed even more.


Beyond... maybe, probably?

    The dog turned its head and looked at me with those big, beautiful, warm eyes,
    I was melting, I was dying.

    The other dog turned its head and looked at me with those big, beautiful, warm eyes
    and in addition tilted its head sideways,
    I was melting, I was dying.

    She turned her head and looked at me with those big, beautiful, warm...
    green eyes at me,
    she didn’t have to tilt her head
    I was certainly dead.
    Because this was Eden
    and there was no other explanation to those three heads turned toward me
    with those big, beautiful, warm...
    ...one pair green...
    one pair green eyes looking at me.

    There still isn’t and, believe me, I keep trying.


The house that wanted to run away from its ghosts

    Not run away as in running away, you know,
    even if houses do possess certain motion attributes
    same as all gravitational bound bodies
    circling around the axis of Earth
    and then circling with Earth around the sun
    and then moving with the entire solar system somewhere undefined...

    no, not physical motion
    but rather virtual motion, away.

    It had enough of the glitz of touristic brochures promoting its ghosts
    and organizing visits to it cellar
    with running-nose children trotting around its gardens crushing daffodils and petunias
    and thick waisted matrons farting surreptitiously among the eucalyptuses
    and dogs shitting and peeing in the bushes

    the only benefactors those damn ghosts eeehing and ooohing in the corridors
    shaking floors
    and dropping paintings
    and partying all night long...

    enough was enough.

    What do ghosts live on? Notoriety, of course.
    So the house decided to kill notoriety, accessibility, recognition
    and everything else that contributed to the endless swarm of humans on its grounds.

    It started changing shape, to complicate the life of promoters,
    adding a window here, cutting a corner there,
    painted itself daily in a different color
    and changed its address from name one to name two,
    it changed circulation rules
    parking rules
    dropped a few trees around the gate
    implemented sharp razor wire above the fence
    and scattered some broken bottles shards
    raised entry fees...
    the throngs diminished
    the interest faded
    the upset ghosts moved out to a near-by castle
    The beauty of silence.
    The beauty of decrepit.
    The beauty of death, pending.

    How does that old Rosemary Clooney song go?... This Ole House...
    True, a house owns no breaking telomeres
    but owns breaking bricks
    and breaking windows
    and breaking floors, hinges, water pipes...

    the house closed its virtual eyes
    finally, it whispered to no one listening
    and died.
    It stopped believing in ghosts, so it left none.



    Lately I write strange, non-personal poetry
    I hate writing strange,
    non-personal poetry.

    There is a bit of soul to it, sure,
    a bit of metaphor, of allegory to it
    but insufficient
    and I hate poetry that sells its soul and body to commerciality,
    to politics, religion and collegial dictates
    which mine doesn’t and yet... why does it feel so alien to me?

    I have to find my way back to the reality of my imagination,
    to trope and metonymy and apologue
    and those other fancy words I never knew until I started searching what I was missing
    and found they have names, insufficient
    yet at least partly expressing my intended thought.

    I have to find my way back to love
    and lure,
    all that makes even leftovers of life
    worth living.

    And once there
    curl in the lap of patched up bliss
    and try to breathe fire out of my nostrils
    as upon a time

    be the fire even that of a candle
    of a firefly
    of a wet match.


Once, two

    I believed in patriotism.

    I believed in love, one, eternal.

    I believed in liberty, equality for all.

    I believed in the beauty of rhyme.

    I did not believe in God.

    I still believe in patriotism
    but I know the abuse made of the word
    and the exploitation of human mental frailty
    and the stronghanded manipulation of acquired power, rightly or wrongly,
    pushing patriotism into a modern form of cannibalism
    by some petty of mind and unbalanced of spirit
    dragging other weaklings similar to themselves, too many to disregard
    into dances of death and destruction.

    I still believe in love, one, eternal
    yet I learned that life is an ever changing formless monster
    copulating with statistics and opportunism and uncontrollable chemical reactions
    and circumstance
    and routine
    and consuetude
    and hell what else?
    driving feeble humans off the one path into other one paths
    and why couldn’t we be as one on one on one as dogs?
    strange to accept a lesser creature is so much advanced over us.

    I still believe in liberty, equality for all
    but having learned the nature of man
    I cringe at finding the drive to oppress and enslave and rob
    as natural to mankind
    as is an alligator’s instinct to pounce
    and think nothing about it after,
    everybody else owes us, don’t they?
    everybody else is less important than us, aren’t they?
    we are superior, aren’t we?...
    and I shudder at the thought.

    I still believe in the beauty of rhyme
    even more than ever before
    however I discovered the liberty of non-rhymed expression
    and find it exhilarating in its own right
    with the mind busy mostly thinking
    rather than sifting through adequacies
    and yet
    the magnet of rhyme drags me back each occasion again
    and I feel like a classical master on music
    composing my poems with the random language-provided wonders of phonetics
    ending all words
    bending them to my needs
    and allowing me moments of Eden while still alive.

    I still do not believe in God
    I find it strange conversing with him more and more as days pass
    directing arguments and monologues his way
    at times watching the skies at times watching the earth
    and building theories about his eventual residential preferences
    and landscapes
    and climate
    until I fall asleep mid of a particularly boring presentation
    knowing that I will never witness an answer
    or a random miracle
    or a sign.


Once, three

    Once my mind twirled and tumbled and tossed with lust unbridled
    and my body followed eagerly, swiftly

    Now my mind twirls and tumbles and tosses with lust unbridled
    and my body follows eagerly, sluggishly...

    Hey, what happens? asks mind
    and body looks at its watch and doesn’t dare answer the obvious.

    Once sight of your nakedness obliterated any and all traces of tenderness
    alchemy turning flesh into irreverent, proud steel girders

    Now sight of your nakedness obliterates any and all traces of tenderness
    alchemy turning flesh into irreverent, rusted steel girders...

    Hey, what happens? asks sight
    and flesh pulls up hunched shoulders and continues counting wrinkles.

    Once thoughts of you flooded my brain’s corrugations with ravenous words
    and poor paper reverted to pulp, to cinders, to ash under the onslaught

    Now thoughts of you flood my brain’s corrugations with ravenous words
    and paper does not turn pulp, cinders, ash under the onslaught...

    Hey, what happens? ask thoughts
    and paper tries to explain it in terms of routine, habit, entropy, life.

    Are we getting too old for you? ask mind, sight, thoughts
    and body, flesh, paper rush to answer
    Or we for you?
    and like a well-rehearsed choir line they all join in the continuation
    Or we all for we all?

    I decide it’s time to re-take control of all, yes, paper too part of my being
    and tell them that compared to many we had a nice run
    for as long as it lasted of course
    with that mix of lust and steel and ravenous words and more
    and there’s no reason to ask questions that anyway will stay unanswered

    let’s just rejoice in our scars
    and ever open wounds that will never turn scars
    and salt that will keep penetrating those open wounds that will never turn scars

    I say

    as I place a Mario Lanza LP on the turntable
    and let his incredible voice torture me to death
    with memories that will never get born.


Opus Corpus Duo-s in Oh Major and Choral

    where you play my rapidly indurating inducibles
    and I play your rapidly deliquescing deliriants

    and while we enrich the world with an a cappella of gruff grunts
    and growls
    and groans
    interspersed with a cantata of yammering yells
    and yowls
    and yelps

    our bodies play a remarkable frottola of as many couplets as deemed necessary
    in a combination still undecided if homophonic or polyphonic
    yet with the intensity of purpose
    not dissimilar of that of a crocodile
    hanging on to its prey.

    The symphony over,
    minds try to detach themselves gently from that layer of sticky goo grown between us
    unprepared for bodies to react so violently
    rebelliously digging deeper teeth into lips
    and fingernails into spines
    and convulsing muscles in the hollows of broken ribs, some.

    Grghrrrggrgg?... you mumble a question

    Rgghhhrghrg!... I mumble an answer

    and we retrieve a smidgen of sanity before losing it all again
    thrashing our way amongst a braggadocio of ravenous sonatas
    and reprobate madrigals
    and simple, crude, primal, beautiful animal howls.


Did we do it?

    Didi, would you like to make love to me?

    She blushed,
    she could not and yet I swear to God she blushed,
    her zygomatics turning a roseate hue
    fading upwards into the sphenoids and downwards onto the maxillae
    as if an artist’s aquarelle brush had dipped its full into the liquid color
    and then with a swift motion sprayed its contents on both sides of her skull...
    God, she was beautiful...
    God, you are beautiful!

    The hue got even deeper, spread slightly more outwards
    from the perfect central convexity and into surrounding bone tissue...
    Hey, Didi, don’t you go human on me.

    She did something she never did before –
    she culled a few wild flowers with her scythe and offered them to me.

    You know, in my entire life span, and I don’t remember it ever starting
    and I sure do not foresee it ever ending,
    no one ever said such a nice thing to me.
    I wish I could cry.

    She made place on the boulder she was squatting on
    and I sat next to her.
    She didn’t smell nicely
    she didn’t smell at all
    there was no smell or aroma or pheromone emanating from her
    so what the hell drove me to say it and, worse,
    mean it?
    Because I meant it, by God
    (sorry God for calling your name in vain so many times)
    I meant it.

    And you mean it, on top of it.

    Maybe I was driven by age?
    Maybe I was driven by rage
    by poetry by pity by curiosity... what does it matter? I said it. I meant it.

    I guess you would have preferred me a bit more, ahm, fleshed out, no?
    I could, you know,
    and no one else knows and I never used it before for a romantic encounter
    and I might even be tempted to try it, once, just this once...
    hey, do you have an ideal flesh in mind?

    Of course she would use ‘flesh’ and not body or person or human,
    thankfully she did not use ‘meat’.

    It was my turn to blush.
    Yes, I do, and by now I know you read minds, so...

    She was there, before me,
    the ideal
    most perfect
    most enchanting female creature I had ever seen
    and with a ferocity driven entirely by knowledge of the brevity of the moment
    I assailed her.
    I did not make love to her, we made love to us.

    Yes, we did it.

    I sat on the boulder again, panting, disheveled.
    She sat next to me, Didi anew, not panting – she couldn’t
    not disheveled – she couldn’t.

    No one will ever believe me, you know?
    No one will, I know,
    so feel free to tell it any which way.
    It will make people joke, laugh, sneer.

    And you Didi, will you also joke, laugh, sneer?

    She looked at me lengthily.
    I will delight in the memory.
    She stood up to go.
    This does not change anything between us, you know,
    when the time comes the time comes.

    I know, thank you Didi.

    She did not thank me back
    but I knew,
    there in that hollow space in her thoracic cavity that usually stores a heart
    Didi was thanking me.
    With her entire missing heart.



    I keep asking myself (unoriginally)
    when will suckers end?...

    all those answering the glitzy, enticing, moon-promising ads
    promoting writing contests
    and poetry contests
    and flash story contests
    to calf-eyed contestants believing in quality and honesty and fair chance
    unaware the game is sold up-front to a pre-selected minority
    with themselves (the suckers) feeding the deceit’s insatiable appetite.

    I answer myself (unoriginally)
    suckers never end, they only change.

    And I smile at my own inanity
    as I enter another contest.




    I am a strange person. Or rather have a strange hobby and this makes me a strange person: I collect and own a collection of... maxillae, yes, maxillae and teeth pertaining to these maxillae, more than a hundred of them, all different, all of one or another ferocious animal, all perfectly preserved.

    How did I come to own them is the strangest story you have ever heard, and I will tell you further on. For now suffice to say that I created a relevant museum exposing these maxillae to the public, and being supported both by a flood of curious tourists and by the near-by university it nicely covers my financial needs - not too much and neither too little, just right.

    What animals, you ask? Well, let me start with the most impressive of all: a T-Rex exhibit. There are some additional pre-historic exhibits like a smilodon or saber-toothed tiger, a thylacoleo or marsupial lion, a livyathan killer whale, an entelodon killer pig, an allosaurus, a predator x, a quetzalcoatlus... you get the idea. Of course, modern times supplied their own horrors like various crocodiles, a lion, a hyena, a hammerhead shark, payara, black piranha... shall I go on? It is like an inoffensive horrors show, but parents have to sign a responsibility waiver for the museum if they bring in children. Schools as well.

    The exhibits are all hung on transparent plastic walls and photos taking is allowed thus joyful teenagers can compose their own nightmarish images: faces showing behind gaping jaws, head stuck between gaping jaws... kids love it.

    The other supporting pillar to my story is my girlfriend, Myra (coming from Myriam) who insists on calling me Jojo (coming from Joseph) and who ran away from her Jewish orthodox family in order to embrace ‘universal freedom’ as she calls it. Her father disowned her, but she still maintains a secret link to her mother, thankfully so since she is the source of all those alien Jewish delicacies she keeps feeding me with. When she visits me, that is. She refuses adamantly to live with me in sin, even if she doesn’t mind sinning occasionally. Being of uncertain Armenian origins, her love making is certainly of Elysian origins. “I can prove it to you,” she said, and seeing lechery mounting indecently into my eyes she hastened to add... “my origins, I mean.”

    Myra works for Definitely Not Alien, better known as DNA Inc., a small private company who are being subcontracted various... DNA matters of course; they are so good that they are being assigned high profile jobs by governments, academia and also individuals who can afford it. Myra has a small lab at home, providing relevant though slower services also for individuals who cannot afford it. On the Armenian subject she decided however to use HQ resources (didn’t ask permission) and two days later she presented me with the results. Well, supported by a lot of wishful thinking it proved her origins point. And why did I care at all? I didn’t and don’t but for the sake of the Elysian aspects I embraced the results wholeheartedly. And I did collect my prize, hallelujah!

    “Your turn now,” she said.

    “My turn?”

    “Yes, now you will stop pretending that you just find these maxillae at your doorstep every full moon’s next morning and tell me the truth, and then we are even.”

    And this was exactly the thing I couldn’t do since this was exactly what happened, and actually goes on happening. The doorstep being a figure of speech since they popped in various places around my house, but this was the truth and I never cared about any other truth or about finding the source to my luck. I was happy with my unknown benefactors, their reasons I couldn’t care less for and the resulting unilateral financial benefits were the only factor I cared about.

    I was with Myra.... how long now?... two years and three months, my ‘bones’ collection dragged back ten years now, I actually never thought any differently about it.

    Myra made a face when I made a face. Then she slapped me hard and it hurt, then she kissed me hard and it hurt even more (she bit me as well) and then took a pair of plyers and – by God, she tore a rear tooth from my T-Rex exhibit and with an unoriginal “I’ll be back,” left the museum. I was too dumbfounded to either protest or ask for an explanation and assuming unoriginally again ‘it is a woman thing’ I let it pass. She’ll probably run a small research on it, return it to me apologizing profusely, and after we’ll both glue it back in place with fast glue she’ll be bound to give me one of those Elysian demonstrations she was so good at.

    6a.m. following morning the door bell sounded like third world war had just started. I opened the door, Myra stormed in and slapped me even harder this time, screamed a single “Liar!” my way and sat down on the sofa. She was definitely upset and I was definitely dazed. What was going on here?

    I took my time peeing, showering, brushing my teeth, dressing and preparing coffee for both of us, then sat down opposite her and kept staring at her. Her eyes were flooded with liquid rage and hurt, some of it dripping into her coffee.

    “Myra, girl mine, what’s the matter?”

    She shoved my way a small plastic box with the extracted tooth and a thick sheaf of paper prints which told me absolutely nothing. I stared at them then stared back at her, my bovine expression softening her face.

    “This tooth is supposed to be more than sixty million years old. I do not know if it is even ten years old, my instruments cannot measure its age but it is definitely young. Jojo, if you lie to me now I am out of your life forever. Do you use a 3D printer to create your exhibits?”

    I stood up, then sat down again, then stood up again choking on words that refused to combine to sentences that made any sense, then sat finally down gulping the rest of the coffee in one go. It seared my throat. I surely did not possess any 3D printer but maybe my so called benefactor?... no, it did not make any sense, there was no reason for a farce to be perpetrated for such a long period, to what end? Why? How? The accuracy, the feel of real bone... sure, until now I never had any of the exhibits analyzed, my museum was just that – a show and impress and measure museum, and a have fun too.

    I stood up again and kneeled in front of Myra, taking her hands in mine.

    “Myra, I swear to you that what you know is what I know and there’s nothing more to it. Listen, take some more samples, analyze them, do whatever with them and let’s talk again afterwards, OK?”

    I think she believed me. She got up, took out the small plyers from her pocket and a few plastic boxes and made a random collection from around the exhibits. Then she kissed me perfunctorily on the cheek and left. Three days later she returned, her face chalk white, and without entering my place just commanded... “Jojo, spit on my hand!” which I did and she carefully wiped it with a clean hanky and left with no further word. It did not take more than one day this time.

    She entered my place, carefully deposited all samples she took on a table then asked me to sit across from her. She was more frightening in her composed state than in her angry one.

    “Jojo, are you an alien?”

    I fainted. For the first time in my life I fainted.


    I woke up with a large band-aid across my nose and with a worried looking Myra watching over the band-aid. I guess watching over me as well..

    OK, I was adopted, that I knew, and like any other adopted child I hoped to have fallen to Earth from Krypton and be some kind of superman. Several schoolyard brawls and bleeding noses later I knew I was none such. I was and grew up to be just the ordinary kid I feared growing up into, and fantasy was relegated to Fantasialand while I learned the hard way how to care for myself after my parents passed away. Thus I wasn’t prepared for the bombshell Myra dropped on me.

    “Jojo, I investigated all the samples I took from here and they are definitely of organic source. However the T-Rex DNA is nothing like a T-Rex DNA and the hyena DNA is nothing like a hyena DNA and so the rest of them. Worse still, they are all... “ she looked up at me imploringly... “they are all the same DNA. And when I say the same I mean exactly the same. Even more so than twin brothers, a kind of weird impossible six-helix DNA that I don’t find its similar construct anywhere in our data base.” She kept fixating me and took a deep breath. “And there are more bad news,” she finally continued, handing me a photocopy of the previous DNA symbolic presentation. “This is not a photocopy of the previous sheets, Jojo, this is your DNA and it is exactly the same as your T-Rex’s DNA. Jojo, what goes on here?”

    “You mean I do am Superman?” I tried to joke but it came out hollow.

    “I mean either my instruments are completely fucked up or someone is playing a horribly bad joke on me or...” she took hold of my hand and it started hurting “...or you do are of alien origin. And your weird exhibits turn it all into a gigantic cosmic joke. How are you linked to them at all? And I am about to become hysterical.”

    She took a few deep breaths and I did the same. I couldn’t care less for the scientific data she threw at me, I felt human, behaved human, what the hell? I was human.

    “Myra... maybe, maybe I somehow developed along another evolutionary path, and there are more like me in the world and...” I tried some logic, well, I was certainly wasting my breath as she pointed to my exhibits room turning any pseudo-scientific explanation I had in mind to moot.

    “Jojo, you are a different and until now undefined kind of creature, sorry for using the word, and this still does not explain all these maxillae on the walls. I’d have preferred that they carried a Made in China sticker,” and we both exploded in a hysterical laughter that ended with her sitting on my lap and crushing my neck and I hugging her and crushing her ribs. “Shall I involve professor Moriarty?” she whispered.

    Professor Moriarty – yes, this was his registered name – was considered the absolute authority at Definitely Not Alien in all that had to do with dating and DNA identification, a middle aged gentleman of British origin, doubtful morality and an almost Nobel prize winner. He was as intelligent as snide and I hated him from moment one when we were presented by Myra, as he seemed to hug her in a more than friendly way. But he was rumored to be able to identify similar DNA just by looking at the samples, certainly an exaggeration, and his scientific credentials and achievements were extraordinary. As, by the way, was his salary at DNA Inc.

    “No way!” and I pulled my hand from inside her shirt, there were better suitable times for finding Elysium and I wasn’t going to abuse Myra’s momentary fragility. I pushed her softly on the sofa next to me and returned the eyeglasses to her nose pedestal...quite Jewish this one, I smirked to myself.

    “What in hell did you find to smirk about?” she queried.

    “I love you,” I let the bomb explode in her ears and explode it did, alongside with our clothes and the rest of our bodies.

    She did not cover herself and I sat there, leaning on the bedhead in mute admiration, still panting and smiling stupidly.

    “You are more beautiful than Liz Taylor when she was beautiful,” and she understood perfectly what I was saying. “In five days it is full moon, let’s do it.”

    She bolted to an upright position, pulled the bed sheet to her chin and opened eyes the size of almost saucers.

    “You mean...”

    Yes, I meant it. There was one single absolute no-no in our relationship, and this was trying in whichever way to find my mysterious benefactor who granted me the objects of my collection the day after a full moon, in irregular fashion but always the day after. The house was built next to a small thicket I inherited as well, all surrounded by a low wall much older than even my parents would have been if alive, all of it quite secluded from my neighbors and from the world. The museum was a new, modern construction that I was still paying the mortgage on, and at night I let my three Dobermans roam the entire enclosure scaring off any eventual human or animal intruder. Yeah, as big and as frightening as cuddly my doggies, but no one knew about it except for Myra.

    “And the dogs?”

    “Locked away in the museum, as I always do on these days. And I will turn on the surveillance cameras and we will both watch to see what happens. Which I never intended to do until the day I die, I did not want to know. My private Santa and I did not, still do not want to see him sliding down the chimney. But now that you bend my hand and it is about to break...”

    The just finished sexual experience left behind a kind of stubborn hollow in my mood that I did not want to let spill over to her. But she sensed it, oh Myra my wonderful woman, and pulled my head between her breasts. I felt like a child, I felt protected, I felt like crying and, damn it, I started crying.

    “You don’t have to do it love, you don’t have to do it. Let’s forget it.” She started humming a nondescript song rocking her upper body forward and backward, forward and backward, forward...


    Nothing happened the first full moon. We finished the whole bowl of popcorn I prepared and Myra fell asleep cuddled against me. Soon after I fell asleep as well. The dogs were quiet. Following day we played the video recordings, there was nothing there to be seen and I found no ‘gift’ on the grounds as much as I searched.

    Nothing happened the second full moon either. I knew from the past that the ‘gifts’ cycle was irregular, so I waited for the next full moon cycle. This time I let the dogs out and sat on the sofa, half an eye watching a stupid movie and the other half watching the cameras monitor. Myra huddled against me as usual and the dogs outside yapping from time to time as they were chasing an imaginary or real squirrel.

    I stood up gently... “I’m going to help the dogs chase that squirrel,” I smiled and pulled a blanket over Myra’s feet. “Back in a jiffy.”

    I went out and the dogs greeted me enthusiastically then started chasing each other. Damn wait. I looked up at the moon.


    I opened my eyes. I didn’t remember falling asleep but it felt like waking up from a dreamless sleep. I was naked, on the floor, covered with a blanket and Myra was seated at the other end of the room with the three dogs at her feet. It was their first time inside and I was afraid they will start peeing everywhere. I had absolutely no recollection of whatever happened.

    “Why did you bring the dogs in, are you afraid of something?”

    “I have no idea, should I be afraid of something?” She caressed the three heads all of which were pushing for attention in her lap and all four kept looking at me, barely blinking. “What do you remember of last night, Jojo?” Her voice was steady so either nothing special happened or she was beyond caring what happened.

    I sat up on my behind, leaned against the sofa and returned her stare. My mind was a complete blank, starting...

    “I went out to the dogs and then I must have fallen asleep or something. Why, did something happen?” Suddenly I was interested and crawled up on the sofa, dragging the blanket with me. I was far from prude around Myra but this situation was kind of unusual. She didn’t answer, just pointed to the lamp-table next to the sofa. I followed her finger and gasped. Upon it lay a beautiful, shining, clean, white pair of maxillae and at my first superficial regard it looked like belonging to some kind of grazing animal. “Goat?” I asked and she pulled up her shoulders. “A ferocious goat?” Then she shuddered and repeated her question.

    “What do you remember of last night, Jojo?” and seeing my mystified expression she got up, sat next to me without flinching in the least and pushed the play button on the video recorder. The TV came to life, and I guess she chose the camera providing the best view.

    There I was, opening the door to go outside, there were the dogs running all around me, there I was raising my head to look upwards... “Huh?” luckily she had presence of mind to slap me on the back, otherwise I would have probably choked to death then and there. “Huh?”

    I saw a frozen Jojo, a whitish substance starting to emanate from the exposed body parts while the clothes seemed to melt into it until the image was like that of a body entirely covered by foam and then deformations started setting in in random fashion but clearly towards some definite final form until a few minutes later Jojo turned into a... “A goat?” I blurted, the horror in my eyes absolute. “What is that word we were toying with?... transmogrified into a goat?”

    “And probably on previous occasions into a T-Rex, a lion, a piranha...” she whispered, looking on, fascinated.

    “And the leftover maxillae?...” I whispered back, knowing at any moment the wake-up clock will start rattling and I will wake up in a pool of cold sweat. It didn’t rattle but the cold sweat was there.

    “Watch on.”

    I watched on. The dogs seemed completely unconcerned with the transformation, as far as they were concerned their ‘papa’ had probably put on a different set of clothing and as long as they could sense it was the same ‘papa’ the transformation did not bother them. The goat, or shall I say I?... took a few hesitating steps, froze into immobility again and while the dogs took turns jumping over it the whitish foam appeared again, deformations started showing up again and finally the foam accumulated next to a new Jojo, I mean the same Jojo, the same I, lying naked on the ground with a goat maxillae starting to surge out from the foam leftovers. Until the image showed a disheveled Myra running outside out and dragging my inert body inside, dogs following, and finally Myra picking up the goat maxillae and entering the house.

    I was shivering, Myra was long past the shivering stage.

    “How long did it all last?” I asked. Had to ask twice before she understood what my chattering maxillae... ha, maxillae... were asking.

    “About two hours, probably less.”

    I got dressed. The dogs were out, and we sat in the kitchen chewing pizza leftovers, watching each other and warily watching the new maxillae.

    “What now?” I asked.

    “There is absolutely no scientific way to explain what just happened. You are some quirk natural evolutionary phenomenon much beyond any other incredible wonder of evolution, say like an octopus would be considered, or a chameleon, or a spider... sorry, I talk nonsense because I cannot talk sense. I honestly think you are alien, Jojo...”

    “I would have preferred something like Superman,” I croaked.

    “...and even Moriarty would not have any explanation or even half an explanation for this and would give half of his life to be able to study you. And various government departments would give billions to own you and study you. And I do not care. And I will continue to love you...”

    “You love me?”

    “...even more now that I have to protect you and this will stay our secret until we die. That is... I have no idea if death is something applicable to you. Hey, we could always adopt.”

    She landed her bomb with the naturality of a butterfly settling down on a flower. She clearly said adopt, not adapt. My heart was swelling.

    “Myra, say, are you not afraid that one night I may go, ahm, werewolf on you?”

    “Werewolves are legends, love. We talk here reality.”

    She moved in with me, agreeing to live in sin until we legalized the entire sinning aspect. And I agreed to a Jewish wedding ceremony (anyway I was as religious as the next lamppost) mainly because of the food... I may not have been human by human standards but I had a human appetite by same standards. And still have.


    Somewhere along the way we adopted two kids, a boy and a girl. We took in a dog from a shelter. A cat without one ear as well. Life is great. Now, if somewhere in the world there is someone like me, please... don’t let me know. I couldn’t care less.

    Oh, my collection keeps growing, last addition being a unicorn; just goes to prove to anyone interested that some legends are based on hard facts.


Human Spark

    I keep writing about innocence
    and virginity
    and guilelessness

    not sure why
    not sure any will exist

    not sure any existed

    So why do I keep writing about innocence
    and virginity
    and guilelessness?

    Maybe because I want to believe in it.
    Maybe because I believe in it.

    Once I will know the answer I will let everyone know.

    For now I keep writing about innocence
    and virginity
    and guilelessness

    whenever I feel lost
    whenever I feel too old
    whenever I feel I still own that

    and it consumes me.


The Last?

    Is this the last?

    I will know if it isn’t
    I will not know if it is
    or rather I will know for a very short while
    before I will stop knowing.

    I will not ask the same question every time
    though it should be asked every time from now on

    but cacophony is not my style
    unless intentional,
    artistic kind of.
    Not nagging kind of.

    If it is the last
    it is not the best,
    far from it.
    How do I judge the best?
    No idea either, I guess it is subjective as far as I am concerned
    and I think objective is inexistent as far as others are concerned

    the future may prove me wrong,
    I doubt it.

    Yet I am still at it, at writing,
    probably the desire to not die fully has caught up with me as well
    as it did with others. Some luckier than me.
    Not necessarily more talented than me, most,
    more talented than me, some.

    Is this the last?

    You will certainly know, with the next one.
    I will maybe know, with the next one.


Snippets, two

    My poetry is great,
    I read it, I know.

    Pity no one will ever read it
    except for me,
    pity no one will ever understand it
    except for me,

    even the except for me exception about to stop being exception
    and becoming non-issue
    when me gets out of the equation.


    Not everyone who writes rhyme is a poet
    not everyone who writes no-rhyme is a poet
    not every poet writes rhyme
    not every poet writes no-rhyme
    every poet writes...

    I believe there is a mathematical expression of sorts
    that merges all above into one single formula
    but it eludes me right now.


    I practically suckled rhyme
    my entire begin of life.

    Not sucked at,
    suckled in.

    My mother was singing love songs I loved listening to
    and rather than following the words, which I did not always understand,
    I followed the end of line sounds, which tuned so harmoniously nice.

    My early school teachers brought in poems
    that we had to read
    declaim... oh, declaim, I was so bad at it
    but so enchanted by listening to those who were so good at it.

    My early books were rhyming
    if for babies if for adults
    and I found myself often imitating, celebrating, innovating.


    I guess I became good at math
    because I loved the various rhyming cadences.

    Maybe it was the other way around.

    Strange that I did not follow my passion into music
    but rather into words.

    Random choices of life.


    Is a crime
    If you don’t let it chime

    Is a bliss
    If you share heart and kiss

    If I may...
    Is God’s way.



    I don’t want to seduce you.

    I want to make you wish to be seduced.

    I want to raise your heart beat to unmeasurable count
    and your blood pressure to before bursting
    and the ache at the crossroads of everything female
    to unbearable

    the perfume bringing tears in the eyes of dogs three miles around
    and pre-pubescent voice-change screeches to males
    ten miles around.

    And once you’re there
    to realize that seduction is the only way out of the predicament
    and ask for it. Not beg, ask.

    As then I will tie your mind to the essence of flowers
    and the colors of sunset
    and snow will turn lake up to the mountains surrounding you
    and your pleasure will near that of a Samson
    knowing Delilah is cutting his hair and allowing it.
    And more.

    should be consensual.
    Anything less
    and it is rape.



    Your tattoos
    your nose ring
    your red hair
    your Goth shoes
    your age.

    My nothing of the above
    my age.

    If regards would have had hands they would have been pointing fingers at us
    with disdain
    with rage
    with envy
    and if mouths they would have uttered whore
    dirty old man
    sugar daddy

    none would have thought

    And if we would have had shared in dirty mind colony style
    we would have said fuck you though it would be a disgusting experience

    but we simply kept flaunting intimate regards
    and intimate kisses
    and intimate touches

    with fuck you tough it would be a disgusting experience left implied.

    A few hundred years ago you would have been burned on the stake.
    A few hundred years ago you would have been burned on the stake.
    A few hundred years ago we would have been burned on the stake, side by side,
    and we left the world lifting twin middle fingers
    before invading Eden.

    Let’s fuck, I said
    momentarily taken with the four worded legacy of the earlier encounter.
    Let’s make love, you said
    pulling me back to the four worded legacy of the never yielding tenderness.

    The outline of your tattoos burned itself into my skin
    its distortions following the distortions of skin
    as it enveloped

    Whose whose?
    Ours ours.

    I pulled your clothes back on.
    Does it hurt? you asked before pulling my clothes back on
    and following the slightly smoldering contours of the burned outline.
    Only where you cannot see, I answered
    and you placed your ear against my chest.
    I see, you said, and you meant I hear.
    I mean I see, you said.

    We walked for a long time
    through cafés and dancing clubs and stadiums
    your head never leaving my shoulder
    my hand never leaving your waist
    until no one gave a damn anymore except for us
    when mouths took over from head on shoulder and hand on waist
    never parting
    until parted.

    Love? I asked
    love? you echoed.
    Love! I said
    love! you echoed.

    It still echoes
    banging the insides of my skull
    like a sledgehammer.



    Who are you writing to?
    I? Jealous?
    She laughed so hard it was clear she was jealous.

    To hide her embarrassment she pulled out a smart phone and started punching keys.
    Who are you writing to?
    Curious. Wouldn’t imagine you carrying a modern tool...
    who would you have in your friends list?
    You have no friends, Didi.

    She continued punching the keys obstinately probably just to spite me.
    I was willing to bet the battery was empty.
    Say, speaking about modern age,
    I don’t know how old your scythe’s snath is
    but did you ever think about getting it redesigned,
    throwing in some colors, some nice carvings?
    Today it could easily be done with a 3D printer.
    Good idea, lover... I cringed, as usual when she was calling me that...
    but the chine is top class Japanese steel, I prefer to never change this part.
    Did it ever break?

    I never thought she could feel anger, yet, lo and behold,
    I heard her teeth suddenly crunch top maxillae against bottom maxillae
    and she stood swiftly up
    ready to strike
    and I saw my end looming already
    but... as swiftly she sat down and pointed her index towards my chest,
    penetrating through the shirt until I felt it pricking my skin.
    You, lover, should be more careful around me
    even if I love you to death...

    and her laughter boomed wall to wall. This one was genuine.

    Do you promise to tell nobody?
    Well, at least you are honest.
    Remember the ‘Lay not thine hand upon the lad neither do thou any thing unto him’
    or as originally said ‘Al tishlach iadcha el hanaar veal taas lo meuma’?

    I remembered only too well the myriad explanations said story... story?... gave birth to.
    On that occasion the Big One forgot to partake with me his planning
    and my scythe was already descending alongside Abraham’s knife.
    The Big One had no time for an oops and saw no choice but break my chine.

    She was silent for a moment, absent mindedly chewing on a corner of the smart phone.
    The pieces are now in a museum that no one will ever visit alongside the apple leftovers,
    pieces of the table of the covenant, a nail from the ark, a nail from the cross, a lump of hair...

    She looked at me with empty eyes, well, her eyes were always empty.
    It never happened again, we are fully in sync now.
    Not always agreeing but never disagreeing.

    She dropped the phone to the ground and crushed it under her calcaneus.
    Sorry, lover, sometimes I behave in the most childish of ways.
    You keep writing to whomever you feel like.
    I will keep cutting whomever I feel like.

    She turned to go, then rotated her skull my way on last time, for now at least.
    There is no big plan, forget it.
    There are small plans.
    The rest falls under coincidence. Randomness. Statistics.
    Which is another way of saying
    ‘human math is not strong enough to phrase the underlying formulae for events’.
    It never will be.
    Yet formulae they are.

    And she was gone, leaving behind the shards of a... hey, no free publicity, mind you?


Sorry, two

    You killed them too early, you know, they still had work to do.
    Sometimes you show an overzealous approach to your job.
    I know.

    I was surprised at the lack of rebuke from her,
    it wasn’t quite her style.

    I didn’t kill them, they died. You know this is always a committee decision.
    Committee? You mean like in an enterprise,
    or like in communist times?
    More or less, and I am not the chief of staff
    I am rather close to the lowest rung, the executioner.

    She clearly chose not to use hangman.
    Of course not, and if I did it would have been hangwoman, mind you.
    Oops, I forgot she read minds if she chose to, and in this case she chose...
    hey, I thought, Didi getting politically correct vibes...
    Don’t push it too hard, human.
    It didn’t sound like a threat. It was a threat, she did not use her habitual ‘lover’.

    Yet you are part of the decision making, aren’t you?
    And you’ll never know what my vote was, aren’t you?
    My goodness, Didi on the defensive... and I erased the thought hastily,
    before she could pick it up
    I picked it up. Yet correct, right?
    She was right, I’ll never know.
    But then it’s only me that you perceive so you sketch me looking this horrible
    while in reality I am what in other terms, unknown to you, is called gorgeous.

    I did not laugh.
    For a short moment, there, I even pitied her.

    Elvis? I asked, of course starting with Elvis and expecting neither answer nor comment,
    Jimmy Dean?
    Giordano Bruno? Carlos Marin?
    Marilyn, Eminescu, the Kennedy’s, Luther King, Yesenin, Mozart, Gershwin, Keats?

    I made a short break, waiting for some kind of interjection... nothing.

    Pushkin, Porumbescu, Amelia, Anne Frank... I had the impression she shrinked slightly...
    Jesus... another perceptible shrink...
    van Gogh, Rabin, lady Di, Steve Irwin, Janice Joplin, Jayne Mansfield, Brandon Lee,
    Hannibal, Sadat, Steve McQueen, Sappho, Oscar Wilde, Ayrton Senna, Judy Garland...

    I went rumbling on through names I knew, names I did not know,
    generalizations, friends, family and she just sat there
    not moving, not breathing, like a real skeleton, listening?
    Yes, listening.
    I stopped.
    I ran out of tears, of breath, of willingness to go on.
    And then there are those I killed, or died too late, right?
    I did not answer right but she knew I was thinking right
    and I hated the idea to start quoting these names.

    Lover... so we were again on lover terms... you are so right you have no idea.
    And you are so wrong you have no idea.
    And sometimes I too have no idea how right and how wrong.

    She stood up to go.

    Death... sorry?
    But she wasn’t there anymore to hear or read my stunned reaction,
    most of it pure silence.


Take me to your leader – macabre variations

    Take me to your leader, said the missionary.

    Just a few more minutes, I just added the garlic.


    Take me to your leader, said the visitor to the Amazon.

    Sure, she said.

    She took some of him Monday, some Tuesday, some Wednesday...


    We took them to our leader.

    They ate him and continued to another beleaguered galaxy.

    Thank goodness, now free elections and certainly a serious leader... they all saw what happens when one’s not.


    Take me to your leader, said the first.
    Take me to your leader, said the second.
    Take me to your leader, said the third.

    We understood with time that it was part of a complex cosmic politeness protocol. By the time the last one finished expressing itself (sex was undefined) and retreated to their button size cosmic capsule, seven hundred years had passed and about five thousand leaders, numerous wars and several world-wide cataclysms. They emerged again.

    Take me to your leader, said the first.


    They were receiving there, on Alpha Centauri, only Russian TV, so they understood that the entire world speaks Russian and dresses those Russian festive clothes they saw.

    Thus when the 17 hominid Alpha explorers landed on Earth one quantum leap later, they decided to go there where they watched rockets launch to space so often that it could be nothing but Earth’s center of life – Cape Canaveral, wearing Russian military clothes and enthusiastically asking in Russian to be taken to the leader.

    Security forces understood this was a Russian commando incursion and shot all 17 of them dead.

    NASA, too embarrassed to admit the fuck-up once the DNA results came in, hid the event, cremated the bodies and had a remote detonatable device embedded in the heads of all who knew, as threat against “spilling the beans”. Alpha Centaurians found the activating code.


    Their language was a series of clicks and clinks.

    They landed in a zoo where they were certain to find the representative species of the planet and clicked and clinked to a camel to take them to the leader. The camel grunted and kept ruminating. Clearly the wrong choice. The tiny aliens moved on to a monkey who lost interest after picking one alien’s hair and finding no lice. Disappointed they tried clicking and clinking to a parrot, no sign of intelligence there.

    They decided to go for one more try before leaving the planet and went to encounter an alligator. They didn’t have the time to click and clink.


    Take me to your leader, said Troglodyte to Lice.

    I can do better than that, said Lice, I’ll bring the leader to you.

    He did, with the rest of the tribe. And they lived unhappily (Troglodyte) ever after.


    The Arcturian quantum-leaped into the heart of the sun. He didn’t have time to say ‘take me to your leader’. I wonder if he said ‘oops’.


    Are all your leaders like this? asked the he-alien leafing through Playboy.

    Are all your leaders like this? asked the she-alien leafing through Playgirl.

    The materialized in my office and I was still in shock. They were in shock too.

    Don’t bother taking us to your leaders, they said in unison, they’re so ugly we could puke... and they embraced joining their twenty-three tentacles (each) and their five ears (each) and their eleven around the head eyes-on-stalks (each) and de-materialized. Probably to materialize on a planet with nicer leaders. Or to report back home.

    At least now I have proof aliens exist.

    Shit!... they took all security cameras with them. Also the magazines. Sneaky bastards.


    So you finally decided to meet the Terran leader, she screeched, here I am.

    Shit, I sang, which was reported to be the most frequent greeting on Terra.

    She covered her ears contorting her face in pain, as did the four husbands accompanying her. Maybe I sang too loud?

    By The Power... she was as ugly as our scouts reported and the anatomical magazine advertised the species to be and I hardly refrained from puking... the useless twin swells on her chest (maybe extra brains and this is why they were more intelligent than their male counterparts?), the wires attached to her scalp (telepathic communication antennas?), two frontal eyes only (how did they procreate?)... no wonder they hid their bodies under long chains of organic polymers, even they themselves thought they were revoltingly ugly. Compared to our infinitely adorable forms with our twenty-three tentacles and our five ears and our eleven eyes...

    I smiled at the thought, my canines shooting forward, my growl deep and erotic...

    The ice was broken, they really appreciated my smile and the four husbands took out small pipes and showered me with tiny tasty energy pellets... oh, the warm welcome of an advanced civilization... I decided to return in kind and enveloped them all with my medium level flame as set for such festive occasions... by The Power, where did they retreat to savor my present?

    I called after them using all the greetings used on Terra in descending importance order – Shit! Fuck! Asshole! – nothing seemed to bring them back.

    I need further guidance back home, I thought, collected the piles of ashes that they left behind (presents?) for our scientists to analyze and rematerialized in my office.

    Strange civilization this one, definitely ugly and definitely strange.


My right to rhyme

    I exercise
    my right to rhyme
    debating crude
    against sublime
    and when bizarre saddles the wake of reason parting from my mind
    I chime.

    Within the gloom
    of life’s thick jowl
    I chase a rhyme
    inside the scowl
    and while beyond the reach of man I crawl around its trace to find
    I growl.

    The past decays
    where eagles soar
    the mighty sweet
    turns mighty bore
    I listen to dogmatic jibes that poison hearts of rhymes maligned
    I roar.

    The death of rhyme
    and of suave
    the schools of thought
    that thought enslave
    dumb minds accepting mental knives castrating eyesight dumbly blind
    I rave.

    The music dressing
    rhyming tone
    within the words
    on paper sown
    there is alas a holy grail promoting visions undefined
    I moan.

    I’ll tell you this
    those lines on string
    that rivaled with
    my long gone spring
    rhyming with loves that broke my heart forever with my breath entwined
    I sing.


JLL died today

    JLL died today.
    Tomorrow it will be JLL died yesterday
    but today it is JLL died today.
    The last of the giants.

    Maybe I should have said the last of my giants
    since to each their own list
    but I believe it is more correct to say
    the last of the giants.
    Following such illustrious others as EP,
    and KD,
    and GK, LAH, FAG, CC, BK, HL, NW, JG,
    also GP, AQ, BW, JC, F, B, AE, TC, BL, ET
    and the list goes on but it is boring
    seen it is only a list of initials
    most of which I will not remember in a few days what they stood for
    yet all
    and all that I do not include here but belong to the list
    were giants.
    Not my giants, just giants.

    a gianthood of the kind that becomes more and more of an extinct species
    in a world where tools of mass production allow any half-wit become a full-wit
    provided they get the right application/marketing/exposure
    gianthood does not have to be earned anymore
    but manufactured... Made in... Made in... Made in...
    hey, I’m a giant too world new world.

    I guess I could extend a bit the acceptance criteria tolerances
    and my list could get longer
    but this is not the crux of the story.
    The crux of the story is JLL died today
    and I am thankful for him living before he died
    same as the others
    and blessing me and the rest of this world with the immense happiness
    they bestowed upon us as tears, as laughter, as sound, as talent, as beauty.

    RIP JLL,
    RIP EP and KD and GC and all the rest of the giants.
    You were special to the world.
    You were special to me.
    Thank you.



    Old aged people don’t die of old age
    Old aged people die of accumulated age.

    Old aged people could have lived forever unless dead by a violent act
    or by a virulent act.
    But the world threw too much hurt their way
    and the more years they added the more the hurt accumulated –
    deaths, worries, insults, disappointments, sorrows, betrayals...
    until the accumulated weight of it all turned too much for the human body

    and they crashed under it.
    Not of old age.
    Of accumulated age.


Unholy Ruminations

    I visited with a hospital. At a certain time of the visit infamous odors started sipping from under doors and infesting the hospital’s infamous corridors – it was the odors’ time of the day.

    And a thought struck me: God could have gotten the children of Israel much faster out of Egypt, saving everyone involved much wait and pain. After a first barrage of, say, two plagues just to soften Pharaoh’s attitude a bit, he could have showered the Egyptians with laxatives.

    I believe by the end of the day Pharaoh would have begged the Israelites to get out his kingdom.

    And as an additional benefit, every Passover since, when we read the Haggadah, we could have singsonged through the (now) three plagues in shorter time and gotten to the main meal faster.


    I do not think that either Adam or Eve have undergone any manufacturing upgrades or revisions when they were kicked out of Eden. The only upgrade documented in the Bible is the one applied to the snake.

    Thus, it stands to reason that both ancestors were furnished from the beginning with the necessary equipment to sin and procreate. Was it a safety feature of some kind or a design feature to be activated at a later stage? I wonder what my rabbinical co-religionists would say about it. Of course, activating it allowed for the introduction of death into our lives alongside the introduction of pleasure.

    Related to the matter – same applies to the rest of life created in the beginning, which triggers another question: why was everybody kicked out of Eden and not just the original so called sinners?

    And are the angels sexless, as Archie Bunker claims?


    TV creators have probably access to audio Ouija boards and got some good inkling to what native Romans (and various savages) were saying. I guess Romans (and various savages) were saying it in Latin (and various savagish) but with a good Google translation to serve them, the various screenplay writers made it sound extremely natural, relevant and educative, even when played in English.

    Thus we know that ‘fuck’ and its derivatives (fuck off, fuck fuck fuck, what the fuck?... etc.) topped the classical Roman (and various savagical) expressions. Followed closely by ‘shit’ and its derivatives (I don’t give a shit, shit head, holy shit!... etc.). Next in line is the unmissable ‘ass’ (asshole, get your head out of your ass, dumbass, etc.). And there are others.

    Emmy nominations to follow, I guess. And be won, I guess.


    Something horrible seems to happen to me. The fire... is gone.

    I hope it is only temporary, though the temporary is, temporarily at least, a long one. I don’t remember myself ever being for so long devoid of words of lust. Devoid of words of erotica, of enticement, of temptation, of skin crawling with the tiny devils of debauch and arousal. Dragons, suns, womanly perfumes!

    Look what I write about, my goodness – laxatives, Didi, Romans, Archie Bunker... hell, soon I will start writing political essays.

    I don’t think it is an age thing, I think it is a mood thing though a mood thing could be an age thing, I know the relevant anatomy. But it is not. It is a... don’t laugh, please, I am pretty certain it is a... muse thing.

    I need a muse. Where are you muse?... my kingdom for a muse!... muse!... muse!...

    [I hear a knock on the door. A moose ruminates there gently: you called, master? Damn my Romanian accent!]


    If there is a God, and I don’t contest it, mind you, he must have a great sense of humor. Candid Camera sense of humor, mind you.

    Just look at me, mind you.


I found something wonderful about poetry, en passant

    It does not have to make sense. Even en passant.

    It does not have to answer any dictates of logic
    the more cacophonic and convolutedly knotted
    the more the success
    especially if you are already seated on a throne someone, en passant,
    placed underneath you
    or wrongly.

    It does not have to link to reality
    one can always blame or bless the muse
    or a muse if you don’t have one in particular
    and if someone tries to penetrate the layer of veracity underneath
    you can always laugh it away
    and mention Picasso en passant.
    And if there is no underlying reality to it
    one can always act mysteriously
    and let the paparazzi dig for the inexistent bone
    creating fame and fortune for the one en passant.

    Paparazzi in the wide term of the word
    and this includes friends
    serious editors of famous publications
    lecherous editors of differently famous publications
    pre-selectors to contests
    after-selectors to contests
    presidents of parliaments
    and the rest of the paparazzi widely-branched nation.
    Also, en passant, other poets
    who will draw encouragement from your fierce bravado
    and widely acclaimed nonsense.

    There are some real nuggets there, by the way,
    but one has to be statistically lucky to be dug out of the slush by the right kind of backhoe,
    the insistent, passionate kind.
    Do I consider myself a nugget?
    I guess I do but I seem to be a minority of opinion,
    a minority of one and I need a minority of two at least
    the second being the above mentioned kind of backhoe happening upon my hideout.
    En passant, of course.


Trying to get it back

    Take a knife

    any knife,
    scalpel, cleaver, saw
    and cut an entry to my vein

    and while it gapes open and fights for life spouting red liquid upon your hands
    stick a funnel end into it
    and start pouring your fire into my blood system
    if magma
    if molten glass
    if breath

    until I scream enough!
    which you disregard
    until I scream now!
    which you obey

    pinching closed my vein
    and despoiling us both of the fibers of artificial shame
    before enclasping my shamelessness inside yours
    and extorting every drop of fire you earlier on
    poured in.

    And then, I hope,
    I will finally be able to seat my bare ass upon your bare lap
    and recount once again
    of the wonders of shared inordinate lechery
    and the wonders of shared mysteries during and after.

    I don’t even mind if you don’t clean the cut
    with a swab soaked in alcohol,
    the char left by your soothing tongue
    will do.



    Don’t wash yourself

    Let the chemical reaction between those basic body elements
    that never made it to Mendeleev’s periodic table
    turn to the stinking mud that welds flesh
    and curls
    and teeth sunk into lips

    and blow to smithereens any regularity
    that otherwise might exist.

    Saddle me
    the way of a beam
    of a fallen ox
    of a frothing sweating cursing lunatic horse

    and bring out the worst in me
    with the best in you

    before challenging me into reprisals
    worthy of no poem.

    Drag me into the open from underneath the haystack
    flat teeth mistakenly trying to munch parts of me
    long tongues mistakenly trying to grab parts of you
    crows trying to prick our eyes
    vultures trying to grab our ears

    and only dogs laughing their heads off
    as we hop all the way to the barn
    welded as we are
    where we unweld then weld again
    stinking again and again like the most glorious of mountain mornings.

    Wash yourself

    In the water I will later drink
    I will later wash myself in
    I will later fill up bottles with for posterity consumption, exterior and interior
    I will later freeze to cool my alcohol with
    and my lust with.

    Tell me why you put a match to the barn
    with me still inside it
    then licked clean my superficial wounds
    turning them into life threatening wounds
    when flaking skin started desquamating
    with flies and bees and gnats invading
    and your healthy skin slapping against mine
    crushing whichever invader
    was not you.

    Cork with me
    whichever lacuna your body may possess
    and care not for my threats
    and dirty enunciations various of my organs may utter
    and traces of blood undefined mine or yours
    that may invade the shared litter
    in an effort to inebriate those of our leftovers left with this world
    and to expiate us of our innocence.


Spoiler: the crudest poem I’ve ever written. Don’t read if under 74 of age!!!

    I’m the best erotica writer that ever was.
    I’m the best erotica writer that is and ever will be. Will is. Will was.
    as arrogant as the only broom handle on a planet full of sex-starved wives
    whose husbands have all been transmogrified into the inflatable dolls
    they always dreamed of. With no redemption ever.

    Yes, I am.

    And yet, there is this dick, he or she or it or mixed
    who gave this prize for this erotica contest
    to another dick he or she or it or mixed
    who could put to sleep a nun indulgently reading this there drivel they wrote
    the way of a prayer,
    not even once counting her beads.

    And yet, there is this gash, he or she or it or mixed
    who gave this prize for this erotica contest
    to another gash he or she or it or mixed
    who could put to sleep a classroom of toddlers reading this there drivel they wrote
    the way of a nursery rhyme,
    even if not rhyming.

    And yet, there is this undefined or pandefined or pomodefined, he or she or it or mixed
    who gave this prize for this erotica contest
    to another undefined or pandefined or pomodefined he or she or it or mixed
    who could put to sleep a an entire unit of horny satyrs reading this there drivel they wrote
    the way back from a porn movie,
    even the politically incorrect among them.

    So, did I lose my trust in contests?
    Will I still participate in contests?
    Will I change the what why whom way I write?
    Absolutely not!

    And not again a crude poem, so NOT my style!


Sunflower, two

    “Mommy,” said the little sunflower.
    “Yes,” you answered, not wondering at all that you understood sunflowerish.
    “I don’t want to die too,” said the little sunflower
    watching her bigger sisters’ stems all hunched and twisted and withered.
    “I will nurse you,” you said.

    Winter was knocking at the door,
    you did not open it.

    You took the little sunflower in
    held it against your chest
    pouring into it love
    and warmth
    and singing it to sleep.

    If it lived, it was because of you.
    If it died, it was not because of you.

    Morning found you both sleeping on the rug, next to the fire,
    winter having sneaked in through the gap under the door
    and hesitating with its fist held high
    and all these white flakes waiting there to pour down yet not pouring down.

    “Maybe I will give them one more morning to share,” thought winter
    and retreated outside
    opening its fist over shrubs
    mountain peaks.

    “You are so beautiful,” you smiled down at the little sunflower.
    “You are so beautiful,” the little sunflower smiled back at you.

    Winter returned.


Wash, two

    Wash your clothes off your body,

    don’t just take them off
    wash them off
    so that there is no pressure trace leftover
    no single textile cell leftover
    no shadow leftover

    be naked as the day of creation and unchallenged innocence

    Strike a posture
    any posture but preferably one that is a challenge to my innocence
    incinerating whatever is left of it, not much probably,
    and leaving me as sullied as the mind of that snake only a God could create in Eden
    that only the immaculately virginal mind of that Eve could hear, same Eden.

    Hang down from the candelabra you may have or have not nailed to the ceiling
    share its magnificence
    partake in it
    as you fling out arms and legs
    as your breasts flutter this way or that
    as your tongue shoots out letting incantations float down to the floor
    and your body’s various hidden nooks and corners open and close
    writing unwritten invitations to whomever happens to understand the language...

    Slide down along the wall, you choose east or west or in between
    your nails digging handholds on the invisible asperities a plasterer once left behind
    let your back flatten itself to the surface
    then your front
    then your soles
    then the stretched palms of your hands
    and no one would ever wonder how such a miraculous ungravitational feat is possible
    when your stretching nipple ends end your stretching breast ends
    and your stretching breast ends end your stretching rib ends
    and your stretching rib ends end your stretching lung ends
    and my end ends a suspense as long and as demolishing as those hints you send toward...

    Wallow on the floor
    on the carpet
    between the chair legs and the table legs and the bed legs
    and curve your body forwards and backwards and sidewards
    and I hang back mesmerized by the magnificence of all those shapely clumps of flesh
    promising me worlds inside worlds
    and bodies inside bodies
    with you wrapping yourself inside the carpet and tying red ribbons all around
    and then unwrapping yourself at my feet and tying me with same red ribbons all around
    until I cannot breathe anymore
    and you start asking questions
    are you asking...

    Back to reality
    to naked you.
    To breathless and red-wrapped I and I ask permission and I am given permission.

    Hey there, world,
    who does not believe in legends and myths and sorcery?
    I, since, do.

    Now you!
    Now I?

    You look my way and anything unnatural clinging to my skin whoosh! evaporates,
    but I mean evaporates
    like the proverbial snowflake at ground zero of an atomic explosion.
    Speaking of legends and myths and sorcery... and women too, probably.

    We grab we grapple we gyrate
    two skin bags filled to refuse with quantifiable liquids and bones and tissues
    and unquantifiable lust

    and life, oh, so much life in those skin bags...
    what was the moment that our organic curls turned steel velcro?

    Suddenly you loom above me dripping fire from your nose
    While my harras reaches haven through the petals of your rose
    Where they roam the fertile pastures trotting hyacinths to death
    Till that shameless abdication when I neigh my final breath.

    Morning glory asks permission to deny my eyes the feast
    As they swathe your sleeping whiteness with the colors rising east
    Tendrils curl around the nipples, tender petals follow suit
    Leaving me bereft of perfumes... dissolute and destitute.



    Your eyes
    launched a thousand ships
    most of them mine,

    never knew until now that I could compete with the Onassis dynasty
    and win

    neither did you
    that you could compete with Helen’s legacy
    and win.

    (Myths, do they always have to involve Greeks?)

    The dream over.
    I pulled back all my ships
    unfolded them
    dried the paper
    ironed it
    and bound the pages with silk thread into a notebook,
    still damp.

    Maybe it will stay damp
    if I keep staring down at it,
    damn eyes.

    I will keep writing though
    even if some of the ink washed away
    even if some of the ink will wash away.
    It’s only ink.
    It’s only words.
    It’s only love.


Hot Chocolate

    Your nose inside the hot chocolate cup
    the tip of it almost touching the scalding surface
    only almost,

    steam arising and invading your olfactory senses
    your eyes

    is it sweat or drops of cocoa scented milk
    hanging from your eyelashes?

    You sneak a peek to the window
    snow builds up on bare branches
    and here and there lands a finch, or a sparrow, or a crow, or a magpie
    only to take off immediately towards an unknown destination
    leaving behind a short and soft shower of white pellets.
    How would it feel to wash in that shower? you wonder, and take a first sip.

    It sears your palate, slightly,
    it flows down your throat, smoothly,
    it lands inside you starting to spread a divine warmth
    like a wave of opening dahlias
    like a wave of singsonging nightingales
    like a wave of falling stars.

    Another sip,
    another wave,
    another sip.

    You watch disappointed the dirty bottom of the cup rising at eye level
    taking it as a personal insult
    and promising it to wash it,
    oh, such terrible revenge.

    Tomorrow, tomorrow I will forget my anger
    and pour you fill with hot chocolate again, you soften up
    and hang it lovingly on its preferred hook.

    The day starts.


Halloween, kind of

    Hey, poet!
    Thank you.
    Thank me? For what?
    For calling me poet.
    Aha, I see.
    Listen, this is not my reason for calling upon you.

    I can imagine. Still, I thank you.

    It was one of the very rare occasions when she could meet me publicly
    the time being Halloween.
    No one paid much attention to her
    except for a few who stopped to admire her ‘outfit’
    and take a picture with her,
    I believe she even enjoyed the attention.
    ‘Say, how did you fake the transparent stuff?’ asked a more entrepreneuring character
    pushing a finger in between her ribs.
    Patent pending professional secret, she smiled liplessly back
    and the guy almost jumped in front of an oncoming car.
    Nothing happened to him, it wasn’t his time yet.

    How many autographs have you signed today? I asked.
    One hundred fifteen.
    Using what name?
    Didi, of course, and she winked the habitual way
    covering one orbit with her carpals.
    I hope you are not going to hurt those poor souls
    who innocently gazed upon you today.
    Of course not, what do you think I am, a soul-less Medusa?
    I didn’t answer the rhetorical question
    too afraid to state the obvious
    and we walked on –
    she signing autographs and I volunteering my back to be used as support.
    ‘But death hasn't got anything on,’ a little child said
    and visions of HC Andersen came to mind
    horrified that Didi may react completely different than that idiotic king in the story.
    Didi didn’t mind at all, on the contrary.
    Nice kid, he’ll get extra brownies,
    not specifying what those brownies might entail.
    Shall we maybe do a bit of trick-or-treating as well?
    and without waiting for an answer knocked on a first door.
    ‘Aren’t you a bit old for this stuff?’ asked the lemon faced matron of the place
    nevertheless placing a huge lollypop in Didi’s hand before slamming the door shut.
    I like her, said Didi
    hooking elbows with me and doing her best to lick the lollypop,
    no easy feat with no tongue to help.
    Here, you lick it!
    Speaking of an offer one cannot refuse...

    By the end of a few hours she started showing serious signs of boredom.
    This is all too repetitive.
    And I believe that two hundred sixty-one autographs is a record of some kind.

    Yeah, tell it to a rock singer, I muttered.
    You said something, lover?

    She stopped, unhooked elbows
    and increased the inclination of the beret that somehow found its place on her skull.
    I think I’ll be going, see you later this year?
    Later this?...
    Yes, I’ll be back by Christmas.
    I was appalled.
    Didi, you do not...
    No, don’t worry, lover, I do not believe in Santa any more than you do.
    It wasn’t exactly the worry I had in mind.
    But, see, this is another opportunity to mingle unseen, ha ha.
    Do you think kids might recognize me
    if I don a red cap and glue a thick white beard on my face?
    Or will their parents? Ha ha ha.

    And with a loud ho-ho-ho she exited existence.
    I wondered how come there was never a thunderous clap
    once air rushed into the vacuum left in her wake.
    A few accusing faces turned towards me
    clearly wondering if I may have lost my calendar bearings and/or my mind.
    I turned an accusing face my way too,
    wondering as well if I may have lost my mind, mainly my mind.


Death of Innocence

    Innocence knocked on the door. I am looking for a home, said innocence.

    Sorry, innocence, said man. I have no home for innocence, said man.
    Sorry, innocence, said woman. I have no home for innocence, said woman.
    Sorry, innocence, said a variety of people in various positions of splendor
    or dismalness
    or everything in between
    man or woman or similar or dissimilar
    inclusively and not exclusively consisting of presidents, politicians, generals, doctors,
    bankers, industrialists, artists, sales personnel, drug lords, plumbers, beggars, editors,
    technicians, gardeners, kings, queens, dog catchers, prison wardens, traffic cops,
    inventors, investors, bandits, academics, farmers, traders, nurses, social workers, critics,
    religious leaders, teachers, pilots, judges, human resources personnel, lawyers, managers,
    trainers, referees, marketeers, club owners, casino owners, hunters, sports people
    and the many others with one or more doors on which innocence knocked.
    I have no home for innocence, said they.

    I was looking for a home, said innocence. I did not find a home, said innocence.
    I am tired, said innocence. I am hungry, said innocence.
    I wish dogs had doors, said innocence.

    Innocence died.



    I see you
    penetrating between the interstices of darkness

    there where thoughts intervene and break the black uniformity
    allowing blobs of light to roll out
    into life.

    A blob falls down on my keyboard
    eliminating all vowels,

    how can I talk to you without vowels
    I guess I’ll have to rely on my imagination
    and yours.

    Another blob squeezes through
    dragging behind it a strand of hair,

    did it pull it from your scalp
    or eyebrow
    or eyelash
    or somewhere unmentionable
    so I won’t mention?

    A few more blobs,
    a blob mob ha-ha
    try to blow up their chests apelike
    and alter the size of the interstices to molecule size to finger thickness size
    to body size

    and you try to fit in
    failing to do so

    after all these are just thoughts
    and darkness still reigns king and queen and master.

    At least you succeed to return the vowels to my keyboard
    and I rush to send you note
    before consonants pull a fast one and disappear as well.

    Hey, you say.
    Hey, I say.

    And I see you smile
    before blobs turn to naught
    and interstices turn to naught
    and I hurry to scratch an image of it with the blunt end of a pencil
    on a scrap of paper
    that I then carefully fold three times
    and place in my wallet
    to hold against my flesh,
    whatever is left of it.

    The last blob.
    Darkness turns darkness anew
    but the piece of sun you sent my way
    and rolls
    and rolls on my cupped palm
    painting searing traces
    of smoldering beauty,

    like a pearl.


Life, thoughts

    Life, the most horrible way to die.


    Here’s a thought for creationists: if God did not intend Adam and Eve to copulate, why did he create them as man and woman?


    Here’s a thought for evolutionists: in a billion years, give or take a few days, no one will care about me. No one will care about Shakespeare. No one will care about life. Or death. There will be no one to care and no one to care about. Evolution.


    I hope some nation some day sends into space a time capsule. Containing Shakespeare and others of course. Excluding me of course. So that other others one undefined moment in time discover what was once us, earthlings. Not that I believe other others exist. Not that they will ever be able to decipher the beauty there was if they exist. Just evidence there once was beauty. Lost in space and time, both undefined. Lost.


    Life is fact, not miracle. Like lottery numbers after the draw – before, would be a miracle, after, it becomes fact. One does not question fact, it is there to be accepted. The first live molecule on Earth was fact, the rest is extrapolations from this one fact. I see no reason why the same fact would exist elsewhere. Not to be completely negativistic and using the (less than adequate) lottery analogy: the chances would be a trillion to the power of a trillion to the power of a trillion. Good luck, dreamers! You have a mere billion years to dream.


    Luck is an interesting notion that humans defined, adapted, used, abused. There is most certainly a formula linking every single present event, lucky called or unlucky called, to every single preceding event, and I refrain from defining the time unit that defines preceding. Time being a continuous function, we digitize it to suit our own convenience and ignorance. Did it start with the Big Bang? Much before, brothers and sisters, much before.


    I am miserably short of the units called days. Everybody is short of these units and some more so than others. Either in plain numbers or in numbers that would be needed to accomplish more accomplishments if accomplishers they were.


    No one who creates can ever stop creating. This is one of the reasons death was created, to force them to stop before they become boring. But why die before such issue is an issue at all?


    Life, the ultimate punishment God inflicted upon himself.


Moment. Momentary.

    I wish your hand
    on me.

    I wish your hand on me
    upon me
    around me around my intimity
    around my intimities

    inside my intimities.

    I wish your hand.

    I wish your hand squeezing life chunks out of my body
    and while I squirm debilitated inside my delight
    you add fangs to the game
    and muscles to the ascending gore
    about to invade your reclusion
    and vanquish those forgotten swamps
    teeming with snakes and crocodiles and aberrant piranha.

    And our growl is lost.

    Sounds like... shared suicide.
    Sounds like shared resurrection.

    I wish my hand
    on you.

    And you know the rest.

    Tell me, nevertheless.

    I wish my hand rout prohibition out of your mind
    and my hand trounce clothing off your skin
    and my hand obliterate tomorrows away from your cognition
    while you point with your stretched index here! and here! and here!
    betraying years of self-preserving indoctrination
    and abiding by the law of the most ferocious
    and the most predacious
    and the most rapacious
    allowing me to impose upon you my fertility rites here and here and here
    following which you deprive me of all leftovers of respectability here and here and here
    clover sprouting upon bedding stains
    and taciturn spiders spawning webs between big toes and rest of toes.

    We lie.
    Who upon whom?
    Who inside whom?
    Who around whom?
    What piece of flesh belongs to what clump of human?

    I wish
    I was where I do not know the answer.

    I think you miss me.

    I do not answer.


I am allowed my moment of dream, aren’t I?

    You sit at the window.

    Your nose stuck to the pane
    your eyes stuck to the courtyard’s gate
    your ears stuck to the screeching sound of the gate’s hinges
    by the uninterrupted intermediation of billions of molecules of air glass air
    all of them waiting.

    I arrive.
    Your nose pulls away
    your eyes tear away
    your ears are suddenly assailed by the bliss of screeches and screaks and squeals
    as the gate’s hinges start rolling on unoiled entrails
    and you rush out like the unhinged mad woman you momentarily become
    the dogs trailing you
    the cats tripping you
    the crows scattering to the furthest corners of the street
    as you skip and jump the last paces remaining between your hooked fingers and my neck
    between your breasts and my chest
    between your teeth and my lips...

    dust boils and assails and warps around us
    and we roll on the grass gravel ground in a delightful tumble of arms
    and barks
    and tails.

    I think you missed me, I venture.
    Think again, you bite.

    Long after we locked away the dogs and the cats and no crows
    leaving them scratching desperately at a door firmly locked on double turn key

    we unlock the door again
    and they storm upon us caring none of the pungent intimacy still hanging in the air
    and the red traces tattooing our skin
    and the thrashed clothes littering every corner of the room
    to which the dogs give an additional beating before letting the cats snuggle upon them
    with themselves snuggling against our naked bellies
    asking for neither answers nor excuses,
    just warmth.

    Is this heaven? I ask.
    Think again, you bite.
    I think this is you, I venture.
    You bite.

    Three mornings later
    we are still lying down in the same positions as three mornings earlier,
    bones stiff
    muscles stiff
    dogs hungry.

    You are heaven, I venture.
    Finally, you push against my belly among the growls and the snarls and the kicking tails
    and three additional mornings later we assail the kitchen
    in an orgy of mixed human food and cat food and dog food
    and the happiness of untainted Eden.

    Yeah, I am allowed my moment of dream, aren’t I?


Turning Point

    I am about to turn into a memory.

    Better said
    I am about to turn into a memory, maybe.

    Best said
    I am about to turn into no memory, certainly.

    Not that I didn’t try.

    I solicited with the most abject of them, publishers and editors,
    with the grandest of them, publishers and editors,
    with the entire range between abject and grand
    eliciting, at best, a thanks but no thanks reaction
    mass marketed
    mutilating my trust in the honesty of the profession
    and insulting even more than no answer at all.
    I wonder if I made it even to the bottom of the slush pile, certainly not to the top
    or I would have stood a chance...
    you know...
    the cleaning lady stumbles upon the pile
    everything gets mixed on the floor
    the editor absent mindedly picks up one manuscript
    it’s mine
    he absent mindedly (again) reads the first page
    bang!... the rest is history.
    Yeah, Hallmark movies and Cartland novels.

    I do wish I would have turned into a memory
    be it even some kind of a memory.



06:06 AM



    Cannot sleep.

    What happens when I cannot sleep?
    I write.
    What happens when I cannot write?
    I do not write.

    Or rather cough up some barely articulated thoughts
    watching the mechanical clock needles crawl lazily into another angle to each other
    sorting out mentally the clutter on my desk
    filling up virtually that tax form I keep postponing filling up corporeally...
    ha-ha, corporeally, such unsuitable yet great antonym...
    allowing my throat to grumble away some insistent dryness
    cleaning crumbs from the keyboard interstices and filling the screen with meaninglessness
    closing my eyes then opening them hastily when some erotica invades...
    shoo away, erotica, you are unwelcome at... 06:11 AM now.

    And erotica pulls out a foot-long tongue towards me
    and wiggles provocatively away in the general direction of nowhere.

    I decide not to call upon Didi to keep me company,
    not now
    don’t feel like it, she’s nice but limited in her niceness and intellect,
    maybe I’ll feel like it by Christmas
    but right now I’d rather keep my mind on the living aspects of homo sapiens et co.


    Yes, just wasting electronic ink
    electronic time
    electronic electrons, ha-ha,
    too much ha-ha for a meaningless outing into the whiteness of the screen.
    I dim it slightly, now it is into the paleness of the screen, no ha-ha associated.

    I wonder shortly if this is a poem
    or an early warning of senility pending
    or proof that such a thing as automated writing exists.
    I touch slightly on the erotica subject then pull out hastily back, again. Don’t feel like it.
    Doesn’t feel like it.
    Even Didi’s company would feel preferable in comparison
    but I don’t let it intrude.
    I started knowing that this will all result in nonsense
    and I am delighted that for this once I was correct in my postulate
    (wow, what a word at 06:22 AM).

    I think I will try the pillow anew.
    I will try the sheep angle
    and if I fail I may return here and scratch a few more meaningless lines.
    It helps being incoherent at times like this,
    a hammer blow to the head would help as well.
    Bye, for now.

    PS. With this kind of poetry no wonder no serious editor gave me a second chance.
    Problem with above statement being that they never gave me a first chance either.
    (Rant rant rant... STOP IT! says Didi, or I’ll stop it for you. Permanently. Limited intellect, huh? Gulp.)