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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!



    in any number of words

    On one thing all present agreed. Hate.

    They were all family there, bred and inbred to exhaustion.

    “My sweet auntie cauntie,” he said, pecking her rosy cheek perfunctorily. “On second thought, forget the second a.”

    “My sweet nephew,” she murmured, rolling her wheelchair to the head of the table, “if your marballs were balls, you’d be the one sitting here.” She raised languorous eyes. “On second thought, forget the second a. And the second l.”

    “Your English still sucks, auntie,” he dared.

    “Better suck for my English than its rhyme for your brains, nephew. If only my sister RIP in peace...” he did not dare correct her “...made you balled instead of bald...”

    She shot the other nephew, the one who insisted on becoming a dancer, waited for his body to be removed and banged the revolver on the table to start the meeting. She refused to waste money on a gavel.

    On one thing all remaining agreed. Greed.


    in 100 words

    On something all present agreed. Hate.

    Family, bred and inbred to exhaustion.

    “Sweet auntie cauntie,” he said. “Hey, forget the second a.”

    “Sweet nephew, if your marballs were balls, you’d be seating here,” she murmured from the table head. “Hey, forget the second a. And the second l.”

    “Your English still sucks.”

    “Better suck for my English than its rhyme for your brains. If only my RIP sister made you balled instead of bald...”

    She shot the nephew who insisted on studying dance, waited for his body to be removed and started the meeting.

    On something all remaining agreed. Greed.



    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 at 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 at 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 of 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 at 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 would 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 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 at the stake.
    A few hundred years ago you would have been burned at the stake.
    A few hundred years ago we would have been burned at 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? Robin Williams?
    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, Piaf, van Gogh, Anne Frank... she shrinked slightly...
    Jesus... another perceptible shrink... Coluche, Lorca, Natalie Wood?
    Rabin, lady Di, Steve Irwin, Janice Joplin, Jayne Mansfield, Brandon & Bruce 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.


    PERSONAL NOTE – A numbing number of those who died either at the peak of their careers or simply too young were singers: John Lennon, Amy Winehouse, Whitney Houston, Buddy Holly, Bobby Darin, Mario Lanza, Ritchie Valens, Jim Morrison, Enrico Caruso, Ofra Haza, Ricky Nelson, Vladimir Vysotsky, Kurt Cobain, Bon Scott, Claude François, Mike Brant, Michael Jackson, Jacques Brel, Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Croce, Joseph Schmidt, Dalida, Maria Tănase... and so many others. RIP


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.)



    What kind of a poem name is this – Countdown?

    And what kind of poetry is this?

    I hate it,
    it is not even poetry

    there is no love, no passion, no struggle in it,
    just a wait
    a long, undefined wait,
    wait for what, huh?

    I took a decision that I will certainly not carry through
    to write a poem each day
    from now until I will stop writing for obvious reasons.
    Kind of an up countdown
    and on that last day I will (more probably I will not) know
    how many days I had left over from the decision moment until then.
    Not that it matters to anything or anybody,
    just my exercise (one of several) in futility.

    This is the first of such,
    I wonder if there will be a second, lol, there surely will but not necessarily tomorrow.

    And I will spend my time left, thus counting upwards to no definite goal,
    worrying not about myself but about those poor relatives I leave behind
    and the terrible mess that awaits them for weeks and months, even years
    sorting out the leftovers
    and the administration
    and the decisions related to many of those leftovers.

    My collections, as meaningless to them as they were meaningful to me.
    LPs, 45s, CDs, DVDs,
    sci-fi books, crime books, Romanian books and mementoes,

    The leftovers of my mother’s life
    the leftovers of my father’s life
    their letters and writing and few material leftover possessions,
    the notes of excellence they received at work
    the trinkets I kept
    their marriage picture.
    Who will take care of their graves and tombstones?

    The leftovers of my life, in addition to my collections, too many to enumerate
    and including such irrelevant items so dear to my heart items
    like my tools
    my diplomas and certificates and letters of excellence and thankyou notes
    photo albums and photos on the walls
    hi fi system
    the books I wrote in computerized and physical and beauty form
    my personal site my “professional” site
    my pets graves and tombstones
    my computers.

    Then the poor inheritors will have to deal with death forms
    and inheritance forms
    and inheritance taxes
    and cemetery arrangements
    and banks stuff
    and house with garden stuff
    and things they have no idea about stuff which I took in stride and they may collapse under.

    Horrible poem, isn’t it?
    Depressing, isn’t it?
    I decided to call it poem, whatever it is, maybe more of a dirge?

    I hope to get back to “normal” poetry
    I will most certainly not keep counting down
    but, from time to time, I may sin this way again.

    Love, passion, struggle, Didi
    here I come!
    And please, forgive this above sinful meaninglessness
    so meaningful for a few meaningless moments...



    Everything is momentary lately

    even momentous delights like eating pastry together, half I half you
    like walking barefooted on the beach, side by side
    like listening to Italian music, one earplug my ear one earplug your ear

    like sharing the last chunk of a chocolate tablet

    like drinking soda from the same glass

    like watching a dog movie and laughing and crying together

    like you snoring at night

    like I stealing more than half of the blanket

    like we
    undressing each other
    teasing each other
    slapping naked belly to naked belly
    until all devils move to heaven and all angels to hell

    like the last tomorrow is tomorrow
    like tomorrow is today
    like there is no tomorrow... is there?

    Everything is momentous lately
    even the tiniest momentary delights
    like the fleeting touch of your elbow against mine
    when I forget that life is about death
    and love is about separation
    and all that matter is the knowledge
    of you.


Around Adam and Eve

    intended Adam and Eve to sin

    contrary to whatever some wizened, old scholar may have thought
    and still thinks
    He would not have provided them with the tools to perform the sin
    be these apple, or snake, or flesh

    and if these wouldn’t have sufficed
    He would have added whatever props he deemed necessary
    to get them there.

    did not throw Adam and Eve out of Eden,

    He gently ushered them out
    to work the earth
    and bear the children
    and enjoy the bliss and pain of a life

    that otherwise would have been as uneventful and as boring
    as that of a wingless fly
    watching and waiting for dandelion to turn from flower to fluff
    after day
    after day
    from day eight to day countless.

    let Adam and Eve take over from day eight on

    knowing they would make a gigantic mess out of their inheritance

    yet knowing that otherwise
    who would have invented music
    and poetry
    and tell tales of wonder and of God?

    and anyway
    He could still wipe the slate clean anytime He may choose to
    and start anew.

    is still debating with Himself,
    what is a billion years more or less
    for God?



    is an acquired taste
    once you get it
    or rather once it gets you
    it never lets go.

    You wake automatically
    you walk automatically
    you sit down automatically picking up whatever media happens to be available
    and your hand starts chaining letters into words into phrases
    until at a certain moment
    you wake up in stupor
    looking down at the text that just happens to lie down there
    while the text looks up at you
    in pride
    and spits into your eye its beauty
    like a wet dream.






    RIP RIP.

    (Rationality Instinct Passion...
    Rest In Peace and/or Rot In Purgatory and/or
    Raving Insane Poet and/or Rubbish Impulsive Poetry and/or...)

    And in the vacuum so created automatism
    creeps in.

    ABC DEF.

    (Automatism Boredom Coldness...
    Damn-you Eeck-you Fuck-you and/or Debilitating Emasculating Frustrating and/or
    Drives Everyone Fatuous and/or Don’t Ever Fornicate and/or...)

    There is a war still raging between all parties of the various coalitions
    but I know damn well who will win in the end.

    I will just not be around to mourn.
    Better this way.


Old Goat

    No one will do it with you
    because you’re an old goat.

    Sure, inside you’re a young buck
    or at least a young goat
    and you can run up three flights of stairs without spitting out your lungs
    and you even remember all the names of a week’s days - there are seven, no?
    and a year’s months - there are twelve, no?
    but no one will do it with you
    because you’re an old goat
    and they step around you like you’re made of glass
    and refrain from breathing next to you lest you blow away and disintegrate.

    You’re not even given the chance to die in a fight for the herd’s supremacy
    like an old lion would do
    or an old horse
    or an old rooster, drake, crow, sparrow...
    or even an old goat
    because you’re human and a human must die the most undignified of deaths
    with tubes down his throat
    and wires stuck to his scalp
    and bathing in his own stinking refuse... yeah, long live old goats.

    Sure, you’d do it with her and make her proud
    and make you proud
    and make humanity proud
    but she would not do it with you,
    old goat.
    Because you’re an old goat
    and an old goat is there to be pitied
    and despised
    and kicked aside once the moment comes and he keels over
    and new goats are so much more fashionable.
    Sure, they’re there for the short run
    but they’re eye candy and you are merely heart candy.
    At most pocket candy but then, hey, you buy it
    and buying it is not what you want it.
    You want to live it.
    And who wants to live it with an old goat?

    Damn, where is the butcher when you need one?


A Busy Day

    I stand up.
    Sit down.
    Stand up.
    Sit down.
    Stand up (again, I know).
    Sit down (again, I know).

    Several more of it and I feel like one of those expensive abstract cubist painters
    and if I could also make the same kind of money they do
    and I but an abstract cubist poemter
    I wouldn’t mind telling further of my busy day.

    I stand up.
    Sit down.
    Turn left. Turn switch ON. Turn switch OFF.
    Stand up
    Turn right.
    Sit down.
    Drink a glass of water.
    Not for me.
    Not for me.
    Phone. Not for me again. Part of my day’s abstract cubism. I wish it was for me.

    Drink another glass of water.
    Watch out of the window.
    Watch again out of the window.
    Go out to see how I look like when I watch out of the window
    but of course I cannot since I am out. Go in again. Watch out of the window.
    Stand up.
    Sit down.
    Stand up.
    Don’t sit down to break the pattern and make it more exciting
    I get tired
    I sit down
    glad it was more exciting.

    I reach a crucial point
    have to take a decision
    I take a decision.
    I repeat some of the above.
    I change the order for some of the above.
    I skip some of the above.
    The day ends
    such a busy day.

    I wonder how many more are left for me to live through.
    If two
    then it is one too many.


Which I know it is not.

    I keep saying it
    threatening it
    promising it
    repeating it
    and other verbs that could go with “it”
    all of them directed to myself and to my alter-self as well:

    I should stop writing.

    My inspiration sources kind of dried
    my muses kind of dried
    my drive kind of dried and died

    and I should stop before I make a mockery of myself
    (preliminary signs there already)
    and start writing about weather and/or politics and/or ecology and/or finance
    and other and/or’s which are as suitable for my mind-set
    as ballet shoes on a footballer’s foot. Less so.

    And trust me – I keep trying.

    And then come those moments of loneliness mid of the night
    and I feel my ass descend from the bed
    and my feet slide into slippers
    and my bones start an automatic shuffle upon the tiles
    guided by the grove set into them by so many other similar shuffles
    until I find myself next to a desk
    with a laptop on it
    and a pencil on it
    and a lamp on it
    and an unfinished sandwich on it

    and the fingers start dancing.
    Damn fingers.
    And such shit as you read now pours out
    and I am ashamed but I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste the effort
    so it adds to the other failed attempts at my old passionate self

    and I promise myself that this is the last.
    Which I know it is not.
    Damn, will I ever learn?


And I but a fly.

    And I but a fly.

    And your eyelid a Venus flytrap
    and I damn well know that once I touch your eye with mine
    once I touch any patch of skin, yours, with skin, mine
    the trap will snap shut
    my body will convolute into a scroll covered with symbols of unfamiliar trills
    and I will deliquesce into that delicate artistry
    which is your body.

    With you waiting
    for the music.

    And the music will come.

    Oh, the beauty of the ineffable agony
    of being that fly.



    Now, that you’ve seen my jacket
    wait till I show you my plaid, she said.

    It sounded half way between promise and promise
    thus I said “Quiet, my heart, quiet...”
    (to my heart of course
    which kept fluttering and somersaulting and flipping like the best of rap dancers...
    and I sat down to a nerve-racking wait.

    Open your eyes, she said
    and my eyes refused to open (afraid?)
    until I forced them with matchsticks I readied in anticipation
    and masking tape
    and a variety of painful hooks...
    and there she was.
    Or rather wasn’t.

    All I saw was a sea of squares, some big some bigger some biggest
    in such variety of colors that would put a prism to shame and a rainbow to tears –
    reds and greens and blues and yellows and pinks
    and in-between and between the in-betweens and between the between in-betweens
    and all of it undulating like the smoothest and yet the wildest of seas
    and you nowhere to be seen and yet... oh my goodness...
    the undulations peaking over there
    like the most perfect of breasts ending in the most perfect of nipples
    then sinking over there and peaking over yonder
    like the most magnificent of thighs and the most magnificent of valleys adjoining them
    then sinking over yonder and peaking over further
    like the curvature of spine and of spine’s continuation
    and of continuation’s hesitation between perfect moonscape and perfect valleyscape
    then sinking again
    then peaking again
    then for a split second the plaid slips and I’m blinded by the naked creature underneath
    before the plaid climbs again over Elysian curvatures
    and one long arm and one long finger crawl out and majestuously beckon...
    Coming?... the magic is tenfold here underneath...
    and I hook my finger to that finger
    and follow its returning crawl shedding my clothing my skin my life behind...

    Now that you’ve seen my plaid,
    show me yours,
    she says.
    “I’m still weaving it,” I lie,
    not willing to lose even the blink of an eye of such delightful eternity.



    Marvelously marvelous in its ephemeral existence
    a snowflake.

    Marvelously marvelous in its ephemeral existence
    a spark.

    Marvelously marvelous in its ephemeral existence
    a swan song.

    Marvelously marvelous. Ephemeral. In its inexistence.
    Our love story.


Sack twenty-two

    I hope and pray it is clear to those unfortunate souls reading this book
    and this includes my progeny to its kinds and generations
    that this is a book about death and dying,
    waiting for my friend Didi to come for that single business visit
    that will follow the multiple pleasure visits that would precede it.
    I am sure it is clear to you, Didi, isn’t it?
    Hey, Didi, tell me,
    I always intended to ask but for whatever reason it kept evading my mind –
    are you a Miss or are you a Missis?

    She disassembled her scythe’s chine and started sharpening it with a grinding stone.
    I found the sound smooth and soothing, even reassuring.
    And you tell me, friend, what makes you think I am not entitled to a Mister appellation?
    Is it my lack of hair, ha,
    or my lack of tits, ha-ha,
    or in some way the way my pelvis is arranged, ha-ha-ha?
    Or, since you know the time will come when we’ll have our single and unique one night stand,
    you prefer to think of me in feminine terms, since you happen to be heterosexual?

    No, not really any of these.
    It is just that if you were a man I would have fought you,
    and I have no intention to put up a fight. I prefer to let myself be done by you.
    The way Samson was done by Delilah
    and Sisera by Yael
    and Adam by Eve.
    And David by Bathsheba, which is why he was only punished rather than smitten.

    She spit on the chine and kept grinding absent (ha-ha) mindedly.
    I would feel obliged if you’ll think of me more as a Whore.
    Hey, I like the rhyming sound of it... more of a Whore.

    I didn’t expect a meaningful answer and I got what I expected,
    after all I knew her to be something undefinable altogether
    and the fact that she materialized in front of me in her habitual skeletal form
    was just a concession she did to me.
    And to any other human being that she allowed to see her.
    Didi, do you allow other humans to see you the way I do?
    Depends, she didn’t answer.
    And dogs see you as a skeletal dog
    and chickens as a skeletal chicken...
    say, what does an invertebrate, for example an octopus, see you as?

    She smiled, I guess,
    seeing her lower maxilla move the way a smile would have moved it.
    And what does a flower see me as?
    I’d like to think it sees me as a flower.

    I think of you as a flower.

    I did not think anything could ever have perturbed Didi and yet...
    her grinding stalled for a moment long enough for me to discern the hesitation.
    Hey Didi (I thought), is some of you human after all?
    Her rhythmic movements resumed and she directed her empty orbs to look at me.
    My friend, are you trying to buy yourself some kind of concession?
    Because, as much as I like you,
    she stood up and re-placed the chine on the snath,
    there is no chance of it happening.

    Puff, she was gone.
    No, I answered to no one in particular,
    at this stage in my life I would really think of you as a flower, once you come for business.
    I stood up myself
    and went on gathering the wet, rotten, fallen leaves.
    Sack twenty-two, I counted, raking on mindlessly.



    The footballer is hanging his shoes.
    The matador is hanging his cape.
    The boxer is hanging his gloves.
    What shall I be hanging – my keyboard? my pen? my self... or rather myself?

    They are going to be another kind of famous – trainers,
    or TV presenters or actors or singers or... the hell and ha-ha, writers.
    All I will ever be is another corpse...
    sorry and apologies corpses if this sounds demeaning to you, it is not,
    just factual.

    I believe the only thing to do is not do,
    I mean any kind of hanging.
    This way I will be at least different and, to be honest, skip the humiliating interval
    between hanging moment and corpse moment.
    Well, for one microsecond I will still have to live through it
    but then, thankfully, it will be gone.
    I mean
    I will be gone.
    RIP never sounded more peaceful, amen and hallelujah.


A dummy’s ‘How To’ guide for the dummiest of other dummies

    Chapter One (there may be more following): How To change a light bulb

    CLAIMER/DISCLAIMER: This guide applies to any person irrelevant of gender, sexual orientation, race, religion, nationality, eating habits and political affiliations. It may not apply to persons of reduced physical mobility, relevant guides are in preparation.

    WARNING! Electricity is a killer, don’t let it get you. Turn off all fuses and switches in the fuse-box, inclusive the main one and if possible also the street main switch and (if you have access to it) the neighborhood main switch. Don’t forget to prepare letters of apology to all your neighbors and, just in case, prepare a will too and inform your lawyer that you are going to replace a light bulb; ask the lawyer to call you back at a pre-fixed hour to ensure you are OK and take appropriate action if not. Gravity is a killer too, and if you need to use a ladder make sure all the rungs are in place and not wobbly, and have someone (preferably someone who loves you) hold the ladder in place. Same if you intend (not recommended) to climb on a table or on a chair to perform the deed. Since you cannot work in the dark, use a flashlight (if available, make sure the battery is new) or candles (remember, fire is a killer too).

    CAUTION! Act preventively and have an ambulance re-animation unit on stand-by or preferably next to your place, a fire engine the same, if you are going to use candles, and inform the local police of your planned activity so that they can, eventually, free the road for the ambulance.

    ATTENTION! Check that your house insurance is paid and valid. Wear rubber gloves, rubber shoes and rubber clothes as well as protective goggles (not the welding kind, you see nothing through them). A helmet is mandatory and place thick mattresses all around the ladder/table/chair you may be using.

    1. The light bulb referred to in this guide is a glass “blob” ending in a metallic kind of contraption which has groves on it, by means of which the bulb is screwed. Please do not misinterpret the word “screw” in its rude aspect (i.e. fuck) or its medical aspect (i.e. coitus) or its factual aspect (i.e. copulate) or its romantic aspect (i.e. make love), but rather in its mechanical aspect (i.e. rotate). This will prevent unnecessary legal complications.
    2. There are other kinds of bulbs which this guide does not refer to: elongated ones also known as neon, two-horned ones also known as insert, another kind of two-horned ones also known as insert-and-rotate, and probably other. For these I am preparing a separate How To guide, as simple as this one.
    3. Make sure the replacement bulb you purchase is exactly the same as the one you want to replace. Preferably take several pictures of it and show these to the bulbs seller or ask the bulbs seller to visit your house and advise you correctly. This will prevent heart-breaking and pocket-heavy returns and fights and lawsuits.

    After finishing with the simple preparations outlined above, proceed as following:
    1. Unscrew the defective light bulb by turning it CCW, meaning Counter ClockWise. If your house is fully digital and you do not have a mechanical clock to inform you which is the CCW direction, there are several supporting actions possible: a) loan a watch/clock from a neighbor; b) open a water tap (this is also a CCW direction, but you may have sliding rather than rotating taps); c) find it on the internet; d) watch which direction the water is rotating once it exits your sink, but ascertain with your local authorities if it rotates CCW or CW (which stands for ClockWise); e) go outside, face south and see which direction the sun is moving east to west – this is a CW rotation and the opposite is CCW.
    2. Keep unscrewing until the bulb lands freely in your hand. Make sure not to drop it since you’ll have one hell of a time sweeping all the leftovers and you may cut yourself in the process. In case it happens make sure you have sufficient alcohol, bandages and plasters at hand, and check your tetanus vaccination status before proceeding with the clean-up. After the bulb is in your hand, keep it in a safe place until you deposit it in your local ecological deposit box for bulbs.
    3. Unwrap carefully the replacement bulb and hold it in you right hand if you’re right handed, or left hand if you’re left handed. IMPORTANT NOTE: CCW and CW directions are the same for right-handed and left-handed persons.
    4. Point the part with the groves towards the socket part of the lamp. The groves are not parallel but rather in spiral form thus they form a screw (see higher up comments about “screw”). Fit it gently into the socket and start rotating CW and make sure it “ascends” into the socket; keep rotating until you feel a slight resistance and STOP immediately or you will shatter the bulb. Remove your holding hand slowly, ascertaining the bulb does not fall off.
    5. Descend carefully from the ladder/tabletop/chair until you are standing solidly on the floor. Now you can remove all protective clothing, goggles, mattresses and helmet.
    6. Turn back on all the fuses and safety switches that you turned off during work. Turn on the light switch itself, keeping a safe distance. If during the following five minutes there are no sparks/fire/explosion then... CONGRATULATIONS! you succeeded and you can include it in your CV; and later on in life tell your grandchildren about your achievement.
    7. Last but not least – release the ambulance, the fire department and the police department from their watch duties and send a thank-you note to all the people whom you deprived of electricity during your work. Dispose of the defective bulb in an appropriate collection center.

    WRAP-UP: Please send me your comments to this appropriately concise guide of How To. Needless to say this is copyrighted and you are not to copy/change/distribute this procedure in any way. Donations are thankfully accepted, and these will be used for additional useful How To’s for other dummies such as us.

    Thank you and please vote for me!


ad hoc

    hi there girl of talents many
    and of beauties scores if any

    from your thighs to toe-land rimples
    from your hips to cheek-land dimples
    not forgetting all the glory
    of your mid-land territory,

    hi there girl of mouth-line sunny
    dripping words the taste of honey

    with a thought direct or blurry
    smiles irate benign or furry
    sharp retorts my mind invading
    tooth and tongue my body raiding,

    hi there girl of one and only
    green of eye the taste of lonely

    I delight in such odd rhyming
    with its lame and raw mistiming
    knowing that my end of never
    in your green is wedged forever.


a short lived propitious moment

    and contrary to persisting and insisting logic, reason, judgment and knowledge...

    we will meet again one morning trekking serpentines of never
    as we chase the larks enchanting summer evenings through forever,
    foaming rivers will devour pain from flesh and heart from sorrows
    and we’ll cross delightful valleys counting daybreaks of tomorrows,

    and contrary to inevitable and irrefutable evidence, proof, fact and affirmation...

    we will share again each sunrise the ambrosia of cherries
    our blood turning to ichor at the fleeting touch of fairies,
    winds will sweep us into freedom carving prosody and lyrics
    upon whispers long forgotten birthing sweetest panegyrics,

    and then I wake up to persisting insisting inevitable irrefutable
    logic, reason, judgment, knowledge, evidence, proof, fact, affirmation.


The soft sounds of love.

    The soft sound of snoring.

    The soft sound of scratching.

    The soft sound of splashing.

    The soft sound of sighing.

    The soft sound of smiling.

    The soft sound of scribbling.

    The soft sound of savoring.

    The soft sound of silence.

    The soft sounds of love.
    The soft sounds of life.


Sleepless... helpless maybe?...

    sleepless one

    Yoyo, you awake? she says.

    She, is my wife. Yoyo, is I. When I do not answer her voice raises a few parts of a decibel. Yoyo, you awake? I still don’t answer because of the simple reason that I still don’t hear. Her voice gets a few entire decibels stronger. Yoyo, you awake?

    Finally it penetrates. It has no choice and I have no choice.

    Ho... hrr... hii... whas?... I mumble.

    Oh, you ARE awake! Yeah, sure, she should patent and sell that voice to wake up the dead, and I’d finally be able to purchase that dream Lamborghini.


    sleepless two

    Yoyo, you asleep? she says.

    She, you know. Yoyo, you know. When I do not answer her voice raises a few parts of a decibel. Yoyo, you asleep? I still don’t answer because of the simple reason that I still don’t hear. Her voice gets a few entire decibels stronger. Yoyo, you asleep?

    Finally it penetrates. It has no choice and I have no choice.

    Ho... hrr... hii... whas?... I mumble.

    Oh, you are NOT asleep! Yeah, sure, she should patent and sell that voice to a heavy metal rock band, and we’d be by now into our second yacht.


    sleepless three

    Yoyo?... she says.

    She, you know. Yoyo, you know. When I do not answer her voice raises a few parts of a decibel. Yoyo... I still don’t answer because of the simple reason that I still don’t hear. Her voice gets a few entire decibels stronger. Yoyo!!!

    Finally it penetrates. It has no choice and I have no choice.

    Ho... hrr... hii... Didi?... I mumble from my slumber.

    Didi? Who the hell is Didi? Oh, if she knew, if she would only know, someone would use a scythe to either re-circumcise me or cut me one head shorter or both.



    lingo one

    Do you know what glans means? she asked.

    Sure, I answered haughtily, furtive regard.

    No, that’s glance, she retorted. I mean glans, and she did her best intonation possible. Of course, I being a non-native English speaker her effort missed all the inexistent targets in my brain.

    The thing with the secretions?

    No, this is glands.

    Shine? I tried.

    This is glantz, in German... hey, I didn’t know you knew German... GLANS! she repeated slowly and loudly, and seeing my confusion she proceeded to a practical explanation, or better said... exposition?

    I cannot say I did not enjoy the session.


    lingo two

    Your English sucks, she said.

    Meaning? I said, my feathers ruffled.

    Look, you think ‘abutt’ and ‘format’ rhyme. They don’t.

    She was right that acoustically I did not distinguish the difference, but intellectually I knew it.

    Anything else?

    That and butt. Mattress and buttress. Flatter and butter.

    Somehow I got the impression she was too insisting on the ‘butt’ combination. After several additional examples including but not limited to butterfly, rebuttal, buttercup and similar, I decided to check the fact... she did not mind, she even encouraged me.

    Your English is great, she admitted later on, rebuttoning some unbuttoned parts.


    lingo three

    I felt like Eliza Doolittle, she deforming my mouth this way and that until she was reasonably satisfied with the emanating sounds.

    Now ohh, now ooh, now ooo... for an entire afternoon. I got husky, hungry, horny, more or less in this order. And all those round vowels and their suggestive shaping of mouths... and lips... and tongues... I shivered like waking up from a dream.

    You shiver like waking up from a dream, she said.

    I shiver like waking up from a dream.

    Care to share? she said.

    I shared. She shared. We shared. Ohh, ooh, ooo we shared...


The no sounds of nothing.

    The no sound of back ache present.

    The no sound of inspiration gone.

    The no sound of phone rings absent.

    The no sound of medication absorbing.

    The no sound of tomorrows doubtful.

    The no sound of eyes dispirited.

    The no sound of hope shredded.

    The no sound of silence invading.

    The no sounds of nothing.
    The no sounds of death.


Old age is the age of ugly

    The ‘beautiful’ coined by the ignorant, miraculous few
    who never lost their mind, their independence, their freedom,

    their dignity.

    Old age is the age of prey.

    Prey to chemistry and its peddlers
    to pharmacology’s false yet rich gods
    to family too interested or too disinterested
    to thick catalogues of scientific Latin nomenclature
    to indecency penetrating under a mask of benevolence.

    Old age is the age of hope lost
    and hurt found
    and a condescension calling itself beauteous names
    such as limited when crippled is what it means
    and golden when ashen is what it means
    and helpful when patronizing is what it means.

    When you learn the meaning of impatience
    of regret
    of envy
    of a discomfort imposed upon you by your own body.
    All under the accompaniment of long nights of sleeplessness
    long days of sleeplessness
    long weeks and months and years of sleeplessness.

    There is no second youth, only a thankfully ending nightmare.
    There is no worriless serenity, only a thankfully ending void.
    There is no enriching bucket list, only an ever growing and thankfully ending aches list.

    The age of loss.
    The age of expecting nothing.
    The age of crossing names until someone else crosses yours.

    You still have time to learn a lesson or two, though.

    You learn that the leftover days are full of forms to be filled and submitted and re-submitted
    of conditions to be met or persuaded to allow you to fit in or forced to allow you to fit in
    of positive or negative or partial answers to be awaited for undefined periods of time
    with every person or organization involved hoping you drop dead before they have to answer
    of bridges too long to cross
    and mountains too high to climb
    and seas too wide to swim
    and while you look everybody straight into their eyes
    everybody looks you straight into your pocket
    with insurance companies suddenly discovering clauses
    and rental companies suddenly implementing clauses
    and burial companies suddenly loving you with clauses to follow later.

    And you learn that life
    is a Joke
    invented by the powers to be, whoever or whatever they are.

    And that death
    is a Blessing
    invented by the same jocund perpetrators.

    And that old age
    is an honorary member of that exclusive club including only exclusive definitions
    of Hell.


killing me

    Growls the raging beast in heat
    Sizzling loud like broiling meat
    The lunatic you awake
    Killing reason in its wake
    killing me.

    Did the bed shatter my spine
    Twisting it like curling vine
    When a vicious broken spring
    Lashed an uppercutting zing
    killing me?

    Did the five-tailed fingers’ whip
    Cut my skin one nail-thick deep
    And a red saw-toothed mouth
    Brother to the cottonmouth
    killing me?

    Or perhaps your crushing thigh
    With its anger run awry
    Broke my two-oh-seventh bone
    While refusing to atone
    killing me.

    Little matters of the kill
    Kill me any way you will
    Long as you perform the deed
    And you steal my craving seed
    killing me.


Not so subtle re-redefinitions

    Old age is not a phase in one’s life,
    old age is the last phase in one’s life.

    Old age is not the anteroom of hell,
    old age is hell.

    Old age does not end in Hades
    or in Elysium
    or in Eden, Jannah, Paradise, Purgatory, Gehennah, Jahannam, Sukhavati and so on
    to each faith and belief its own after-life destination,
    old age ends in nowhere.

    People don’t stand up in the bus out of respect for old age,
    they stand up out of pity.

    There are no sport competitions for old people, these are not interesting enough,
    there are no beauty pageants for old people, these are not interesting enough,
    there are no dancing contests for old people, these are not interesting enough,
    not sponsored enough, not selling enough, not watched enough.
    There are bingo contests for old people, yes, there are. One room. Fifty people. Ha.

    Old age is not wisdom,
    old age is incoherence
    trudging through an ABC with all letters represented by this or other affliction
    such as for a we have Alzheimer and arthritis and aneurysms and other afflictions
    and for b we have boils and other blights
    and for c cirrhosis and other calamities
    and for d dementia and other diabolisms
    and if we skip to h we’ll find hair-in-the-ears and hair-in-the-nose horrors
    and for i impotence and incontinence and other indecencies
    and jumping over to p there is Parkinson and prostate and other pestilences
    and for t tumors and other terrors
    and for w warts and for y yucks and even for z we find zzz’s and other zanies

    and if you insist I’ll cover the rest of the alphabet,
    I just think this is boring and disgusting enough as is.

    So you think I exaggerate, huh?
    Fine, wait until you get there where I am watching this spectacle first row
    and you’ll suddenly find yourself wishing that that damn spermatozoid
    did not meet that damn ovum
    on that damn fff (fucking fateful fatal) day.



    And now that we know we’ll never meet
    ever or again
    let’s make love

    ever made love with the one in your thoughts hosting you in his thoughts
    same time
    same moment in time
    same unending moment in time?

    Give me your body
    the way I give you my body
    and I’ll take your body
    the way you take my body
    and while we take and give and give and take
    like watching reflections in a non-inverting mirror

    undo to me what I undo to you
    while I undo to you what you undo to me
    after doing
    left stays left and right stays right and over and under turns to roving all over

    and at that gorgeous moment when we do not know anymore
    for a few uncountable seconds
    who does and who undoes what to whom
    and gorgeous turns, for the same uncountable seconds, to ravenous
    let’s stop making love and make... memories.
    Memories of infinity, they exist,
    memories of infinity ending, it does end,
    memories of wishes not coming true, oh, the beauty of memories of wishes not coming true.

    I will part your legs the way Moses parted the sea
    and I will drown into you the way Pharaoh and his armies drowned into the sea
    and I will cross back into the desert of life the way the tribes of Israel crossed beyond the sea.

    And we but two humans
    outside history and outside bible and outside reality
    pulling steel gates east and west and north and south
    and skies above
    and Earth beneath
    and we but two humans alone on a deserted planet starting a new world

    and your beauty immense
    and our hunger immense

    we hit and hit and hit the steel until it bends into shapelessness
    and the steel hits and hits and hits our flesh until it is but the crave of bloody pulp

    until you find your way beyond me
    and I find my way through you
    and the uncountable few seconds following
    become the infinity to be remembered.

    We unleash
    we unclash
    we never unclasp minds or hands or breath. Or breathlessness.

    We return
    to the never meet never make love ever or again
    and the beauty of memories of wishes never coming true closes in around us
    like the crushing womb
    of a sea.



    Lately I hate my poetry.

    Once so light
    filled with flowers and butterflies and love
    and women

    and orgies too,
    good natured orgies
    no one forced to participate
    everyone willing to participate.

    Beautiful poetry.

    Lately someone strange saddled both me and my words
    and drives them every which dark way and expression and meaning
    sticky gluey clingy

    I need a good exorcist to unstick unglue uncling
    even if in the process it rips pieces of my flesh,
    I need to find my way back to flowers and butterflies and love and women and orgies.

    And unfortunately I know that all I have to do is look in the mirror
    and then I’ll find him.

    But where the hell is the mirror?



    The social worker.
    Blah blah blah blah blah dollar...

    The services bureaucrat.
    Bwhat bwhy bwho bwhen bnonono dollar...

    The specialiseddevices supplier.
    Bdollar bdollar bdollar bdollar DOLLAR...

    The healthorotherinsurance broker.
    But but but but but the buts getting deeper and deeper into tiny fonts dollar...

    The doctor.
    Bloxia blixia blexia dollar...

    The politician.
    Hlab hlab hlab hlab dollar...

    The taxman.
    Bwoof bwoof bwoof bwoof dollar...

    The mortician.
    Bleautiful bleautiful bleautiful. bleautiful dollar...

    The lawyer.
    Blaaaaahhhhahaha ballllaaahhaahhllhhhahaha aaablaahhlbhhaahhhaaahahaha dollar...

    The priestimamrabbi.
    Balloons balloons balloons dollar...

    The donations collector.
    Blequest blequest blequest blequest dollar...

    The youngie.
    Bullshit. Dollar.

    The oldie.
    Bloody bloodsuckers! Damn you and your dollar!



    When my mother died I learned a lesson
    mothers don’t live forever.

    When my father died I learned a lesson
    fathers don’t live forever.

    When my friend died I learned a lesson
    friends don’t live forever.

    When my pet died I learned a lesson
    pets don’t live forever.

    Painful lessons.

    Soon my children, grandchildren will learn a lesson.

    Life is not a blessing bestowed upon the clay
    life is a curse.
    The blessing does not exist.


Time Machine

    I will not remember tomorrow
    until the day after tomorrow.

    I will not remember the day after tomorrow
    until the day after the day after tomorrow

    I will not remember the day after the day after tomorrow
    until the day after that and so on not ad infinitum.
    One day there will be no tomorrow to it
    and I will not remember it. Or any day before. And certainly no day after.

    Time machine.
    Time machine with a built-in delay, strange time machine, horrible time machine.

    I will not remember making love to you
    until the day after making love to you.
    I will remember making love to you every day after
    when it will blossom in my mind like a flower
    then like many flowers
    then flowers interweaving with flowers
    growing and grappling and climbing around me like a gigantic millstone of beauty
    until that tomorrow before no tomorrow.

    You will not remember making love to me
    until the day after making love to me.
    You will not forget making love to me
    until the day after the day you remembered making love to me
    when it will dim and diminish into several atoms fed by a few alien brain circuits
    until your tomorrows are all gone too
    when even these atoms will drop into naught. Like it never happened.

    And then
    later on
    many tomorrows on
    we will only be remembered as part of the mass grave of all those whose tomorrows ended
    losing all individuality
    all specificity
    all memory that love ever happened to us, two, once individuals.


    I wonder
    if time would run in reverse direction would we not remember yesterday,
    would water run back into the faucet and hair sink back into the scalp and love be unmade?
    Probably true,
    water would run back into the faucet, hair sink back into the scalp, Earth rotate east to west
    but... not love,
    love would not be unmade, don’t think so, don’t think so.


Relativity things

    Once I had a mother.
    Once I had a father.
    Once I had a friend.
    Once I had a dog, many dogs.
    Once I thought I was in love, was in love, probably still in love.

    Once my wife was nagging, I wish she was still nagging.

    Once I thought the theory of relativity relates only to time,
    now I know it relates to love, hope, friendship, promises, plans, contracts
    health and health administrants and health acolytes
    talent and success
    lack of talent and success

    Once I had life,
    theory of relativity applying.

    Once the once will end,
    an absolute.


A special kind of Christmas

    Did you recognize me?

    Of course I recognized her
    even with all the layers of Christmas camouflage enwrapping her –
    red hat, white beard, gigantic eyeglasses, red trousers, black boots...
    the perfect Santa Claus
    or Kris Kringle or Sinterklaas or Moş Crăciun or Père Noël
    or whatever language and/or country you chose it was the same presentation.

    This is yet another occasion for me to mingle with you mortals without being recognized,
    and she ho-ho-ho’ed when a three years old kissed her beard and whispered in her ear.
    Oh, the latest Xbox?... and she reached inside her ample red tunic
    and, by Jove, she pulled out a brand new Xbox package
    and handed it over to the squealing little human
    while the mother of said little human staggered away struck by more than lightning.

    Didi, what are you doing?

    She picked up a little girl and started bouncing her on the combination patella-femur
    the hidden boniness visible only to the initiated, i.e. me, alone.
    The little one didn’t seem to mind.
    I bring a bit of joy to their little and short lives and to my big and interminable one, she boomed back
    as another creature rushed away with a Barbie then a giant Lego then a mini bike...

    And if someone will ask for a Ferrari?
    Do you really think I will fail them?

    No, I didn’t think and I didn’t know if to howl with laughter or with apprehension.
    Didi, you know than in a few tens of years you will take away everything from them, right?

    I know, so why not contribute a bit to their... she hesitated... life?
    My friend, sometimes you are surprisingly kind of... human, you know.
    My friend, sometimes you are unsurprisingly kind of... insulting, you know.

    And, by Jove, I knew what she meant.

    Sorry, Didi, I will leave you to your pleasures.
    It wasn’t long before she pulled that Ferrari from inside her red tunic.


Of time

    removed some of the oil from your joints.

    blunted some of the sharpness in your tooth
    and the luminosity in your eye
    and the springiness in your pace
    maliciously compensating with snow to your hair
    and thickness to your middle
    and question marks to your mind.

    But time
    the brainless idiot
    could not quell, much as it tried,
    that bubbling fire ravaging your heart
    ravaging my memory
    ravaging that layer of skin prey to your caressing, oh caressing, oh caressing fingertips.

    Time, fortunately,
    can do nothing against tears
    rave as much as it may.


Inching through the night

    Another night.
    One more adding to the many passed
    one less subtracting from the few left.

    I lift a lazy eyelid
    then let it fall heavily back in place.
    4:11 am... which one was it?... third, fourth waking?
    Each of the previous mid of some strange, alien dream –
    one I invented something which seemed important
    one I was at war somewhere, I guess with the good guys though not so sure...
    this time I woke up mid of a naked woman,
    I mean mid of a dream including a naked woman, damn, why did I wake up
    it looked so promising
    she caressing me the way a woman can
    the way a woman in love can
    the way a woman can IF she loves

    this being the one IF missing from Rudyard Kipling’s immortal poem
    which I remember loaded with all those high-class IFs except for this one.

    I turn my neck to look at the clock again
    SHIT! I shout in my mind all capitals as my atlas rubs against my axis
    and with all cartilage long gone from between them
    the pain is not dissimilar to the one a hanged someone feels

    only this one lasts much longer and I remain frozen, waiting for the screaming pain to subsist.
    It subsists slowly
    and, carefully now, I look at the clock. 4: 23 am.

    I guess I have to go for a pee. I don’t really but if I don’t I won’t fall asleep,
    psychology and things.
    I slide off the bed to the left, locate one slipper and give up on the other
    and I limp to the bathroom guided by the various leds decorating any modern home
    – reds and blues and blinking,
    I bang my forehead once, my shoulder twice, my big toe... hell, tomorrow probably X-Ray...
    I make it there finally in one hurting piece
    then back to bed. The second slipper greets me. Yeah, fuck you slipper, too late.

    I sit down carefully,
    this time the misunderstanding is between my lowest lumbar and my sacrum
    and I scream again same all capitals in my mind, partly in my mouth
    as I slowly get up again.
    Maybe I should better stand. Or sit in an armchair. Or jump under a train.
    I dump the train option since you cannot trust their punctuality
    and go for the armchair.
    Close to heavenly
    if it was not for the fact that I cannot fall asleep at ninety degrees to horizontal.
    And my feet start getting cold.
    And I start hearing noises, mostly in my imagination.
    And I start pulling up memories from when I was ten and a full half
    then thirteen then twenty one then back to sixteen and four days
    then a fast forward leap to fifty plus a number
    with one or other kind of female entity invoked at each sequence...
    Maybe I should try writing something?
    The train option nudges itself slightly upwards as well, inconvenience aside.

    OK, writing wins, temporarily.
    With my second slipper now firmly glued to my foot I start hitting the keys.
    I need better lighting
    better inspiration
    better talent
    but the present will have to do for now, until re-incarnation or similar.
    Half an hour later and I am still mostly deleting,
    maybe I should try the bed again? Before sanity deletes me?

    My spine crawls slowly to an upwards position
    terrors of atlas and axis and lumbar and sacrum coronating its recent memories,
    I made it... yippee!... and with ballerina grace my torso pivots right,
    followed by my hips
    and all of us together tiptoe gingerly and fluidly
    towards the welcome of a depressed mattress
    a tussled comforter
    and a clock that made the better part of another turn.

    Sit down... all is well until now.
    Lie down... all is well until now.
    Pull the comforter... all is well until now.
    Rotate on the side... OUCH! again capitals
    but with firm determination I finish the graceless move and start counting goats.
    Original me.

    One more toss. One more turn. One complex toss’n’turn combination...
    a few more of these and Morpheus finally steals my goats
    and pitifully lowers the hammer.

    is another night.


Mirror mirror on the wall

    gone’s my spring
    my summer
    now my winter’s heady hand
    sprinkles snow upon my land.

    Lover lover clear of eye
    soft of skin and rich of sigh
    fill my skin with bleeding cuts
    seed your sweat inside my ruts
    worry not of cracks and creaks
    and a rib
    that loudly squeaks.

    Muse my muse of voice abstruse
    you confuse and you abuse
    mostly bruise sometimes amuse
    muse my muse I thee accuse
    with the threshing under flail
    with the howling inside wail
    with my passion
    and lust
    with my ashen

    Mother father I do grow
    tired by my life’s crude show
    yet until my end I’ll be
    thankful for your gift to me.

    Friend oh friend and foe oh foe
    white of dove or black of crow
    I accept
    my fading mind
    I reject
    my fate assigned
    I will growl
    till my last breath
    on the prowl
    for life through death.

    Mirror mirror on my tomb
    on your face supines my plume
    in your halls
    I will ablate
    my last scrawls
    then... abdicate.



    I just found out
    that my deftness for writing has dwindled to the neighborhood of zero.
    By reading my recent writes, that’s how.

    So my following writes are based on obstinatism rather than on professionalism.
    I don’t think it will be worse than is, can’t be, just different.

    I should give serious thought to altogether stop writing
    lest I lose even the little following I (may) have,
    problem is – what about those moments of impulsivism?
    How do I quell these?
    Maybe sell my laptop? Buy back my soul from the devil?
    Play bingo, take up kung-fu, grow silk worms?

    Or maybe just read again poems such as this
    and once I finish throwing up I will know the reason.
    And accept.
    And remember it.



    When you get there tell her I’m not far behind, I said.
    I will, growled my belly (it couldn’t grin so it growled),
    just don’t be too late or we start dinner without you.
    Promise, I answered, meaning it.

    Say, how much do you weigh? she asked.
    I or we? I queried back, pointing surreptitiously to my belly
    and mouthing inaudibly ‘I don’t want to hurt its feelings’.
    All of you, she answered.
    I answered and had the impression she was impressed
    because her mouth made a kind of O as she sucked in half of the O(xygen) in the room
    the other half being not O(xygen) at all
    but a mixture of D(andruff) and E(go) and P(arfum),
    this last one being a one, single, very long molecule she invented
    that was filling up the entire rest of the room’s volume.
    So we started choking, all of us (except for her, temporarily)
    until I showed immense presence of spirit and ran towards the window,
    my belly getting there ahead of me and smashing the pane... the bastard,
    trying to get all attention anew.
    I should have sucked it in, somehow, if possible.

    You are a hero, she claimed, following whatever everybody else clamored
    even if she wasn’t aware of the problem (remember all that O she sucked in?),

    come sit next to me, and she patted the place where a special round indentation in the table
    allowed for bellies such as mine. So she was prepared, yeah!
    You know, she whispered in my ear so my belly won’t hear,
    if you walk backwards you will always be the first to get anywhere, the belly second.
    And she chuckled, shoving a fat elbow in my side thus sealing our conspiratorial deal.

    What’s all this whispering about? asked my belly, suspicious all of a sudden.
    Nothing, we were talking about culinary issues, I answered
    You’re lying, it rumbled back frighteningly, do you want a belly ache?
    Great, not only it is big but it has also big ears and... a brain?
    There are no brain cells and/or neurons and/or synapses and/or etc. in the belly,
    at least not to my knowledge,
    belly is composed of meters of entrails, billions of bacteria
    and lots and lots and lots of fat, no?
    No, it replied (so it was also reading thoughts),
    the lots and lots and lots of fat are yours, not mine
    (and it turned up its nose and its back to me, figuratively speaking).
    Great, a belly with personality.
    And intelligence, it added

    Something wrong with the food? she asked, your belly is rumbling quite loudly.
    I had a sudden urge to share with her my belly family issues
    but I was afraid she would decline my offer for marriage.
    She might have believed me, she might have gotten me certified.
    So instead I asked her hand in marriage and she squealed with happiness
    rising a liter size glass to shout her happiness to all present
    (mainly previous husbands, previous kids, present dogs.)

    My belly was delighted.
    Finally I’ll have another belly to talk to, it squealed as well, but only I heard.
    Her belly does not talk, you idiot, it is just... big, I retorted.
    Wanna bet? it laughed heartily and the entire table shook in sympathy.
    I am not gonna bet, bet your ass (mine as it happens) you impertinent organ.

    That night our bellies finally met, mine and hers.
    We had a problem having other parts of our bodies meet too
    kept at a distance as they were by the large amount of muscle (ha) between us
    but with shared efforts and ingenuity, including a few advices from my belly,
    we finally managed to have those parts that really mattered meet each other.
    Oh, I love it, she murmured caressing my belly
    (took her probably a full minutes of up the slope and then down the slope
    on the other side, the side that counted
    and I could feel my belly swell with pride...
    any more swelling and you’ll explode, I thought, knowing it listened).
    Oh, I love you too, I murmured back hoping she got the hint (she didn’t).

    Nobody knew she was pregnant until the day of the delivery,
    and no one was happier than my belly at the event.
    Finally, something to jump up and down me, it screamed its delight.
    Someone, not something, I corrected it
    and it kicked me in the belly... hell, it really hurt.

    (NOTE: To all those clamoring for a Chapter 2 – none is coming)



    I waste all those long hours looking for the best possible word to fill the sentence,
    looking for the best break of paragraph

    only for the result of this gigantic effort
    to end forgotten somewhere under a title
    upon a page
    inside a book catching dust and dead flies upon a shelf, somewhere. If at all.

    So why do it?
    Because I am nuts? Probably.
    Because I will otherwise explode? Probably.
    Because I think I am good? Most probably.
    Because I am I? Certainly.

    Sure, I know my shit from shine
    my rubbish from ruby
    my gibberish from genius

    I know I will go on even if I know I shouldn’t.

    Gravitational pull, you know,
    the stone falls
    until it shatters.
    Like the famous adage: so far so good...


ad hoc, two

    Send one leg a-eastward, send one leg a-west
    I will grant no quarter as I raid your nest
    Sending hordes of pilgrims down your calling shore
    As you lie there screaming... more and more and more,

    Insincerely begging no forgiveness due
    I’ll assail your senses growling I love you
    Until smiting glory does encase us both
    In the fragrant wonder of momentous sloth.

    Strand one leg around me, strand the other not
    I will writhe beneath you like your lover ought
    Grappling clumps of bristles off your heaving chest
    With a mouth espousing scurrilous protest,

    Hungrily inhaling percolating brine
    Dripping from your ledges deep into my shrine
    While a scorching bellow turns our flesh to dust
    And my thighs emblazon drops of liquid rust.


    The anger is gone now. The hunger is gone.
    Your pity swathes gently my muscle and bone
    I start counting stars when... at nine oh three three
    Of sudden a something crawls up from my knee,

    Your hand?... maybe fingers?... malevolent toes
    With smilodon sabers of edges erose?...
    You climb and you cling and you clutch and you claw
    My brain starts to blister, my bones start to thaw.

    Your words turn to fatally gibbering dregs
    I seed my unrest round your quavering legs
    You arch as my fingers define your demise
    I cut all your will then your reason abscise,

    I ride you, you ride me, we ride us to hell
    My nowhere bound beau with your nowhere bound belle
    There’s nothing behind us and nothing ahead
    Yet all of hell’s blazes upon that shared bed.


    Flowers storm into the meadow wearing wigs of butterflies
    Hordes of rainbows chase each other tying knots across the skies
    Thousand horses flood the river kicking water way down south
    And a creature red of nipple feeds me cherries with her mouth.

    Wake up, lover, says my lover, did that nightmare call again
    Telling wonders, telling legends, that unreachable grand reign?

    Yes, it called, but this a time now lilts my heart with joy supreme
    Same the flowers, horses, rainbows, yet... there’s you inside my dream.

    That’s not you... are you with fever? That’s too sweet to even puke.
    Yes, this I, we each own glories: you the gorgeous, I the... kook.



    I thought this might be more poetic than ‘bye’
    seen that all my greetings until then were of the type hi... hi... hi... and so on,
    not hye... hye... hye... and so on. Here is where I should have added a smiley of course.

    My choice arsenal was quite large with similitudes, type
    au revoir, auf widersehen, arrivederci, la revedere...
    all of which I spoke more fluently or less fluently
    but all of these seemed to include the inevitable sense of ‘see you again’
    which was not the idea, intent, expectation.
    Adios was more like the idea, intent, expectation
    but it had too final a sound.
    So I went poetic. Even if final. Bi. But not too final. Bi.

    Bi without the end of love
    bi without the end of longing
    bi without the end of desire
    bi with the begin of solitude and hidden despair, bi.

    It was the title to a letter of no content,
    so easy to write a letter of no content
    when all you have to do is look down at the immense blankness waiting to be filled
    not to be filled
    and after lots of hours sent to its destination. Not filled.
    Just carrying a title that says... should say everything.
    Did it say everything? Did I say everything?

    Sure, I said everything previous to this one but it never hit the target,
    does this one hit the target as poetically as intended?
    Probably not. Certainly not.
    If a million words did not then a no word will not, either.
    But I had to say it.
    To close a chapter.
    To close a chapter as absolute in its expression as it was in its inefficiency.
    As full with your beauty as it was in its total absence.

    Bi. Strange word. Strange way to say... bi.



    fan, one

    “I have a very exclusive fans club,” I said, bitterly. “It excludes everyone.”

    We were walking on a dark alley, her high heels tick-tocking softly. She grabbed my arm tighter.

    “You’re right and you’re wrong,” she said. “It excludes everyone else. It includes me.”

    It was like a sun spot suddenly exploding, enveloping me, consuming me. She was so damn right...

    That night we did not make love. We created love.

    I found her reading one of my poetry books.

    “Just wanted to make sure it’s not the sex. Rest assured, it is not.”

    It got me, oh, so exhilarated...


    fan, two

    “You really like my poetry?” I asked, not willing to hear the truth unless if it was the truth I was willing to hear.

    “No.” I knew I shouldn’t have asked so I was welcome to it. “Not like, love, adore, etc. Forget it!” How the hell could I forget it?

    She took my palm and placed it on her breast.

    “I breathe it.”

    For the first time in my life I fainted. When I recovered I simply started typing like crazy. Had to keep her breathing.

    “You’re a sweet idiot, you know?”

    I didn’t know about sweet... hey... “Hey!...”


    fan, three

    “I wrote to everyone I know. Then to some I don’t know. No one wants to join your fans club.”

    “You mean my fan club. You.” I didn’t want to sound bitter, I didn’t sound bitter.

    “You sound bitter,” she said.

    She really tried, and she failed. Of course she failed, because no one was willing to make the first step. Reading.

    “Talent on its own is insufficient,” she concluded. “You need also luck. Or money. Or fame. Or relations. Or...”

    By the time she finished the list I was dead. Maybe death was in the list? I’ll never know.


Age things

    is exponentially linked to age.

    Therefore I wish never to reach the un/dis/in-venerable age of one hundred
    or any other age that has to do with decreased libido
    and/or mobility
    and/or cognition.

    But, lover, you are already ninety nine.
    So your libido and mobility and cognition are still kind of okay.
    So, see, it’s the ‘kind of’ that grants my wish its immense desirability.
    So you want to leave me horny and dissatisfied and craving?
    So, what’s the difference from now, lover?

    This conversation did not take place, yet.
    I hope, see above, it never takes place.


    Before I chose my field of study
    I was almost constantly hhh... i.e. high and happy and horny.

    Then I decided to go for brain medicine. What a momentous mistake!

    It translated high and happy and horny into some mumbo-jumbo nerdo lingo type
    ventral striatum and nucleus accumbens and olfactory tubercle
    and afferent and efferent and dopaminergic and other particeps criminis
    killing the entire poetry of highness and happiness and horniness
    as it broke it down to its atomic components...
    Did you ever enjoy a melody note by note by note?
    Feels like nails driven one by one straight into your skull.

    I’ve since never been high or happy or horny again.
    Could senility be my saving grace?


    The Q&A session unfolds as follows:

    Why are you so obsessed with age?
    I am not obsessed with it, it’s age that creeps up on me, not the other way around.

    What about horniness, are you obsessed with it or not?
    I wish it was horniness that creeps up on me, not the other way around.

    What about old age serenity?
    You mean senility, I guess. Don’t find any other serenity component.

    Do you wish to live forever?
    Sure. Aged twenty five. Healthy like a stainless steel nail. My woman aged twenty five.

    Do you think your poetry sucks?
    My poetry is great. The readers suck. Oops... there are no readers to suck.

    And this, is this poetry?
    On its own – no. With its hundreds brothers and sisters – oh, yes!


My favorite pastime

    I almost forgot to water the plants,
    who will water the plants when I’m gone?

    I didn’t forget to visit
    talk to my favorite tombstones,
    who will pay them eternal courtesy unmitigated devotion once I’m gone?

    I flipped an Elvis LP
    listened to a Modugno CD
    watched a Disney Pluto VHS turned DVD
    read an Asimov
    rearranged my photo albums
    paid water electricity garbage income taxes car insurance health insurance bills,
    who will etcetera etcetera?

    Thought about the one I loved
    will love eternally for a few days more,
    maybe someone else also thinks about the one I loved
    will love eternally for a few days more?
    The ones I love.
    Will love.

    Gave in to my favorite pastime
    reading myself
    reading myself some more
    then after reading myself even more than some more
    gave in to my other favorite pastime
    plagiarizing myself in this here poem
    so much like another poem, poems
    I’ve written already
    in themselves so much like other poems I’ve written before them
    that I’m sick, and probably also tired as often said
    of quoting myself so often times without paying legal due referring notice
    or copyright moneys,
    who will give in to my favorite pastime
    after I pass
    my time?


The last poem I’ll ever write

    will most probably not be this one.

    Will almost certainly not be included in any book I would have had published already
    and will be lost in the entrails of my hard disk
    or some paper of fortune
    that would have held both my attention and my inspiration the moment before.

    Its content unknown at this time
    known only to me at that time
    known to no one ever after said time as it rolls in no dust
    in no memory.

    The last poem I will ever write will not be dissected by academics
    revered by masses
    quoted by lovers or dolts or policemen

    but it will certainly talk about love in lust and lust in love
    and love generally.
    And lust generally.
    A loss to humankind. Or no loss, depends.
    Also depends if I ever write it... hey, is there here some kind of oxymoron,
    or paradox?
    Or idiocy?

    The last poem that I will write
    will most certainly be the last poem that I will write.
    I will, also most certainly, not worry about it. Afterwards.


I should stop writing poems middle of the night

    I should stop waking up
    and writing poems middle of the night
    because once I start
    idea chases idea
    and bla chases bla
    and I find myself losing chunks of beauty sleep
    and dreams I’ll not remember
    and the bliss of those moments lacking indescribable, excruciating back pain.

    I should stop waking up middle of the night
    and thinking about you thoughts triggering afore mentioned ideas and blas.
    Massive ideas.
    Massive blas.
    That I lack the patience to lay down on paper middle of the night
    and I hate myself mornings for having forgotten what they were.
    Remembering they were.
    And the continuation, as I pick up the thread following sunrise
    is NOTHING like it was supposed to be while thinking them. And forgetting them.

    I should stop waking up. Full stop.
    But while I still do
    I will roll your body in the smoldering hay stacks of my mind
    and roil your blood until it starts boiling away through your pores
    and after parting the sides of your shirt
    and the lips off your teeth
    and the thighs away from your wonders
    I will revel in an Eden re-discovered re-invested re-conquered
    with the passion of an Adam just past his first bite off the apple... until next, until next.
    And while you ride me into lust’s sunset
    I will promise myself to wake up to you again
    and again
    and again, you, my poem re-written.



    I pulled up from your body’s leftovers
    and watched for long moments,
    half disinterested,
    the melodrama playing underneath me
    between the tiny flames invading the bedding around you
    and the puddle of sweat descending from you that sent them first into hissing steam
    then into wet death.

    “There are no more secrets between us,” I succeeded to croak
    dropping on my side upon the charred cemetery.

    “Are you sure?” you retorted
    rearranging the leftovers into a semblance of human woman,
    oh, a magnificent human woman.
    Was there mockery in your voice?

    I let the preceding events run like a movie before my eyes –
    my roaming and roving up your crests and down you troughs
    and upon those endless plains of plain and bare skin...
    couldn’t find any fault with my affirmation.
    I looked at you
    with a regard placing somewhere between Boeotian and Philistine
    and you interpreted it correctly – I was lost for a moment.

    “There may not be any more secrets between you and I
    but there are still secrets between I and you,”
    you kind of sibilated the still secrets
    and since I didn’t hear you very well I neared my ear to your lips.
    Monumental mistake, thundered my brain sibilating the s in mistake as well.

    Your teeth clung to my ear lobe
    and I had either to fall underneath you or lose said ear
    (with resulting aesthetical horror)
    so I chose to fall underneath you.
    “I still have to uncover the secrets of the you in the us,” you sibilated the us
    and started working on the subject immediately.

    After a certain time all tension in my body disappeared, well, almost all,
    and as you went on uncovering the secrets of the I in us
    I started feeling those tiny bedding flames erupting anew
    and no amount of sweat could put them down.

    “Oh, God,” I sibilated, forgetting for the need of an s in the equation.


Death Died

    Death died
    when Earth fell into the sun.
    So did God, whatever his appellation in whatever region, religion, epoch.
    After all
    deities feed on worshipers
    and once worshipers end
    deities end as well,
    no more worshipers to worship.

    Of course,
    you may say that the moment described preceded by much the moment described [sic],
    by many millions of years
    when a fatter brighter hotter sun will roast Earth to an incandescent pebble
    and Death will die. Alongside with the leftovers of once humanity and shared God.
    But I preferred to describe it as I did
    assigning definite timing to it
    for poetical reasons.
    Sounds better to provide a clear moment rather than a fuzzy moment, right?

    Of course,
    you may say that by then humanity transferred most of itself to Alpha Centauri,
    or Tau Ceti or Nu Lupi or Alpha Mensae
    carrying its deities along and planting new seeds around these or other stars
    and keeping its deities alive as well.
    You may say but I know it will not happen
    our society and technology and limits being what they are
    and anyway humans will revert to animals much before they give it a chance to happen,
    happens already, the animals thing.
    And anyway – Alpha Centauri and Tau Ceti and Nu Lupi and Alpha Mensae
    will themselves swallow their planets one day, maybe will by then.

    Of course,
    you may say that Death and God will always live through the ETs we did not yet discover
    we may yet discover
    I know we will not discover.
    Because there are no ETs to discover,
    no intelligencelings to replace earthlings
    they being part of the human fable the way mythological creatures are
    and Earth being that one-and-no-other statistical wonder creation event
    a spark of life followed by extinction of life
    and once gone the universe will revert to what it really is –
    a mix of physical and chemical reactions
    doing nothing else than physically and chemically existing for no other reason
    than they exist.
    And in the absence of the human carrier
    cessation of Death and cessation of God.

    Of course,
    you may say who the hell are you
    and how do you write in the future of after
    when such future is as bleak human-eventless event you ascribe to it
    and what the hell is the reason to write it
    when there is no one to read it after the ascribed time,
    be it Death or be it God and certainly not human?
    And I will answer I am one poor deluded human prophet
    loving his fellow man and his fellow Death and his fellow God,
    and certainly his fellow woman,
    with a clear vision to a few billion years from now
    but with no idea of what the next hour or the next tax letter will bring,
    this kind of prophet.

    Of course.
    (some of) you may say let’s Molotov his place
    let’s Kalashnikov his hide
    let’s Stalin his existence
    for such written and expressed heresy of thought regarding Death and regarding God.
    To which I will answer that it is irrelevant
    as soon enough I will meet with the proven existence of Death
    and soon enough I will know of the unproven existence of God
    thus I will be a few steps ahead of (some of) you.
    As for my above mentioned prophesies... I couldn’t care less
    as long as there is love in my chest
    and lust for love in the rest of me
    and words in whatever is left beyond said lust for love.




    under my exploring hand softer than softest
    tenderer than tenderest
    warmer than warmest... hot

    under my exploiting hand defeateder than defeatedest
    conquereder than conqueredest
    enslaveder than enslavedest... bewitched

    under my excavating hand breathlesser than breathlessest
    savager than savagest
    womaner than womanest... feral.

    Your poetry consumes
    your English sucks.

    My English is perfect.
    It is those academics at the academy who remained far behind
    my needs.


The After

    Your smooth
    taut roundness crawling and spooning into my accommodating receptivity
    until having exiled every molecule of air from intervening space
    you sighed
    pistons finally halting the relentless drive
    with a world taking temporary leave from rotation,

    clothes long gone
    shame long gone
    impatience long gone, dead,
    turned into fireflies slowly undulating in the steam of evaporating eye humidity.

    My intrepid
    a clam jealously guarding the red pearl of your nipple inside its smoldering shell
    the incandescence looking for a way out
    and finding none
    sending exploratory ships through the maze of my veins
    looking for that hammer
    that finally calmed down to a beat every odd minute
    and no beat every even one,

    your hair crowning my head
    your earrings dangling from my ears
    music banging its way across the species gap from your skull straight into mine.

    My ravenous mouth
    taste buds soaked to refuse with drops of your earlier proffered
    sending tiny electric shocks directly into your spine
    via tines of canines deeply implanted way beyond skin way beyond flesh
    straight into your Atlas vertebrae,

    dragonflies middle of the night?
    swallowtails middle of the night?
    bumblebees middle of the night?

    Do you always dream of ‘the after’
    this way?
    you typed.

    Dream? I asked,
    my mouth releasing its grip
    my palm releasing its grip
    your spooned roundness starting to gyrate
    without yielding to air molecules struggling to re-invade the inexistent gap in between
    and as I anew proceeded to the act of harvesting those inebriating drops of femininity
    you anew proffered
    the unrecognizable lump of flesh once defined as two bodies
    with entrails evolving into a small sun
    and outer skin budding with every flower ever conceived by an over enthusiastic nature
    and clouds of dragonflies and swallowtails and bumblebees invading the pulsating plains
    locked us
    somewhere there, inside,
    our existence fusing into a tiny constellation of novae...

    we didn’t find the north, we didn’t look for it,
    we didn’t find words, they were already there,
    we didn’t embrace, constellations don’t embrace after they disintegrate.


    I had a strange dream last night, you wrote
    and I smiled smugly to myself, knowing better.



    It is such a relief to know we will not meet

    to know we will never meet and I will not live to see the disappointment in your eye
    to feel the disappointment in your body
    to know the disappointment in your mind as your nipple refuses to wake up
    to my desperate call.

    And for the many years I still have left in me – at least one, maybe two
    I will keep on being your Tarzan to my Jane
    your Lancelot to my Guinevere
    your Romeo to my Juliet

    with you reveling in Jane to my Tarzan
    Guinevere to my Lancelot
    Juliet to my Romeo

    A relief, oh, such a deadly relief.



    You sit in front of the dry, empty canvas,

    for how long you sit in front of the dry, empty canvas
    the tip of a brush carrying its first dip into the oil of color
    lying still between hugging fingers
    as paint drips slowly drop after drop upon the carpet underneath your chair
    until the accumulated mound gives in to the laws of physics
    and starts spreading almost symmetrically around the dripping point

    my carpet, is it a new carpet? you maybe think, maybe not

    watching and not registering unfolding reality
    your eye looking inward at images of shared toothbrushes
    and shared spoons
    and shared darkness underneath another canvas of crumpled white linen
    where intimacy shares
    and reigns,

    my carpet, maybe I should use it as canvas? you maybe suggest, maybe not

    dropping a slipper
    and letting the big toe smear the soft oiliness in several directions
    and watching in fascination at the rise of empires
    and the blossoming of freesias
    and the crawling of newborns
    coming to confused life inside the chaotically spreading image,

    my carpet, maybe I should sell it as my masterpiece? you maybe dream, maybe not

    and with the million moneys I will buy me a new carpet
    a few pairs of shoes, maybe a flowery dress
    that I will wear when he’ll visit me again
    to share my toothbrush
    to share my spoon
    to share the shared darkness under the canvas of crumpled white linen
    where shared intimacy



    ...and burns the inner eye
    your tears invade the sigh
    the darkness to beget
    your suns begin to set...

    ...and as the hammers thrum
    your anvil starts to crumb
    a music rips your ear
    from harps possessed by fear...

    ...and with besotted words
    your blood’s demented herds
    essay to stem the gale
    but died your nightingale...

    ...and fingers turn to claws
    your singsongs turn to caws
    pastels of aquarelle
    succumb to viscid gel...

    ...and bitter is the smile
    you’ve run the final mile
    your cranes absconding south
    with you embraced by drought...




    “I wish to ask your daughter’s hand in marriage, sir.”

    “I see, and your profession, young man?...”

    “Animals tamer and trainer, sir.”

    “I see... dogs, horses, lions...”

    “No sir, frogs! Train them to tumble while leaping.” His eyes popped. “Also lice, to roll and play dead,” I continued proudly, “I concentrate on animals involved in the ten plagues of Egypt.”

    His eyes tried in vain to pop further.

    “Aha, and next will be locusts, I guess.”

    I was full of admiration for his knowledge.

    “Yes, and then flies.”

    He refused to bless our union. Some people are so damn strange.



    I was busy solving the newspaper crossword.

    “Micro kangaroo in four letters.”

    “Flea,” she called from across the room. Aha!

    “German toilet.”

    She, from across the room: “00.” Yeah, it fitted, hmm!

    “Clean the street singsong, three words.”

    “Scoop the poop.”

    I raised my head, suddenly suspicious.

    “Hey, how do you know?...”

    “Here, I have the solution,” she laughed, “next week’s newspaper.”

    Gulp!... if she had access to the future then... she... I started running, then running further, then... hey, wait a moment, then she had access also to this week’s lottery results...

    I started running, then running back, then...



    “Do you think Chuck Berry had two of the dingalings?” she asked.

    I choked/coughed/spurted... the works.

    “Why?” I managed.

    “Our neighbor has one.”

    I choked/coughed/spurted... the works.

    “How do you know?” I growled.

    “I peeked through the window.”

    I choked/coughed/spurted... the works.

    “Do you think another dynasty?” she continued, to my complete befuddlement. “There’s a note next to it, ming dynasty, million dollars. A dingaling dynasty should be worth more, no?” she concluded triumphantly.

    I un-choked/coughed/spurted... the works. Then I sat her on my knees and gave her a practical demonstration in dingalings, Chuck Berry oriented.

    She choked/coughed/spurted... the works.


THE question

    Didi, I have a question for you, I said
    and she materialized the way she always did,
    not that she always did but the way she always did when she did.
    Her bones immaculately white
    her cloak immaculately clean
    her chine immaculately gleaming.
    I waited for the transitional haze to fade and then continued:
    Shall I stop writing?

    She just stood there, not moving.

    Hold it a moment, she said
    unexpectedly pushing the scythe my way,
    I was so surprised I almost dropped it.
    It looked like a normal farmer’s tool -
    wooden snath, steel chine, a toe that drew blood when I barely touched it.
    I suckled on my index and accepted her admonishing.
    Told you already, this is NOT the way I look,
    this is the way you imagine me therefore I materialize this way,
    you could never see nor imagine the way I look.
    And since you imagined the toe sharper than needle sharp...

    Then she advanced towards the book laden shelf.
    Which one is it, this one?

    Of course she knew already it was ‘this one’, my last book,
    and she picked it up with deft phalanges
    and started doing various strange things to it.

    She dropped it several times from several heights
    once even climbing on the table,
    she tossed it around
    weighed it on my digital scale
    tried to tear it in length then in width
    leafed through it slowly (...counting the pages...)
    then fast (...reading... you read as fast as Superman... faster!...)
    and then even stranger things
    like putting a string through it and doing David and Goliath
    then tearing a few pages... (hey!... they’ll grow back...) and crumpling them
    smelling them
    burning them in various ways and blowing the ashes various directions...
    Didi, excuse me but you behave stranger than any previous time.
    You want an answer, don’t you?
    That you will ignore, won’t you?
    Yes what?
    Yes, you should stop writing.

    We sat on the sofa,
    the scythe safely back in her possession
    and she politely refused any offer of coffee, cocoa, soda or alcohol
    (...it will pour all over your carpet, ha-ha-ha...).
    Then she started talking, gesticulating a bit
    while making sure that at no time the scythe had a chance of touching me.

    You should stop writing, period.
    Ahm... OK?!...

    Primo (...aha, boasting her Italian...) - it is too heavy.
    At this number of pages and at this thickness a number of unpleasant events could occur
    some of which may lead to citations in court or to criminal investigations.

    My face was for sure a mask of bovine numbness.
    It may fall on a toe and crack it
    it may fall on a toddler’s head and cause a concussion
    it may rip the handle of a bag
    following which it will fall into the sewer
    following which the sewage system will block for days
    it may break the shelf on which it is placed cracking the eventual Ming vase underneath it...

    she went on like that for hours calculating damages, lawyers, sequels, probabilities.

    Segundo (...great, I started getting bored with her primo) - paper is too stiff for alternate uses.
    Above mentioned bovine expression plagiarized itself on my countenance.
    You must think ‘ecological’.
    A book with so many pages must find a secondary use in case no one buys it
    it is being offered as cheap present (...ahm ahm...)
    and inventive minds find inventive uses for it (...ahm ahm ahm...)
    including (and not excluding other great ideas) origami, toilet paper, fish wrapping, fire kindling,
    projectile usage, table leg propping, depth measure... some of which, to an extent, it may be suited for.

    But not reading, you mean.
    Coming to it, my friend.

    Terzo (...will there be a quarto?...) - it starts getting boring.
    OK, this was right under the belt, as one says, unexpected yet... what did I expect?
    I asked for it, didn’t I? Maybe it was what, actually, I did expect kind of?
    Care to elaborate on this material observation, my immaterial friend?
    Try as I may have had, I still couldn’t eliminate certain stress tinge from my voice.
    Of course. Let me put it this way.
    How many times can you laugh at the same gag performed by the same comedian in the same movie?
    How many times can you get a... ahm... lift from the same porn movie?
    How many times will you cry at the same unhappy ending of a love affair?
    Even here, in this poem, you borrow material from previous poems...
    at which stage you think it gets to be boring? Certainly at a certain stage.
    Then you should stop.
    I think you reached that certain stage. I think you should stop.

    She finished her small oratorio, took a sip of water and it did not drop on the carpet.
    You sneaky...
    She smiled. Cheekless, lipless, she just sat there smiling at me.
    You sneaky...

    And the worst of all was that she was probably right,
    with the ‘primo’ and ‘segundo’ providing comical relief on the way to the terrible ‘terzo’.
    There was no need for a ‘quarto’, it was all said
    and I had to accept it since... I was thinking the same.
    Hell, I hope she did not just copy my thoughts.
    No, lover, I did not, I am also your friend, remember?
    Yeah, and a mind reader at that.

    She hazed away and I was left with the decision,
    such an easy decision once you have it splashed all over your face.
    Of course, accepting the decision was another matter altogether,
    it is easy to wish to stop an addiction
    but... can you?


baby, baby

    baby, baby
    feed my maybe,

    I sang you songs
    of kings and kongs
    of loves and lust
    besieged by dust
    of razor mesh
    encasing flesh
    while hips at war
    and carnal roar
    the spirits send
    to rainbow’s end,

    lover, lover
    rend my cover,

    I strung your curls
    with gleaming pearls
    and while your fist
    enslaved my east
    we shared a lung
    of bellows young
    we sowed an ode
    on heaven’s road
    then stole a bell
    from blazing hell,

    woman, woman
    be my numen,

    I washed your mind
    with craves refined
    your want of skin
    to mine akin
    and when the flood
    of mud and blood
    escaped my doors
    invading yours
    we raved and blamed
    all gods unnamed.



    I swept away one foot thick layer of mental dust
    from the one foot thick mental album of photos of you,
    naked you...
    mental naked...
    if you insist...
    and opened the first page.

    How did I not disintegrate into chops of bleeding flesh
    when large gashes started slicing me to a parody of my previous self
    the images popping out of the page and whirling like as many rotary saw blades
    and entering the flesh, exiting the flesh...
    Horrible images, you know? Maybe because it was all... mental?
    If you insist...

    I opened another page, randomly, somewhere in the middle.

    Here, you offered me a view,
    here, you offered me another view of the previous view
    and here a multiplicity of views and angles and close-ups of same and other views
    troubling my mind
    troubling my body
    driving me close to the edge of...
    mentally driving you to the edge of...
    mental insanity.
    If you insist.

    You ARE a bit, ahm, mental, you know?
    you said, rearranging your body so that eventual views took some materialization.
    I know.
    Open another page.
    Which one?
    I don’t know, it is your album.
    It is your photos.
    OK, if you insist... what about this one?

    First you saddled me,
    then you un-saddled and re-saddled me,
    then we took turns at who and how and which distorted way we do the saddling
    at no moment uttering a word except for the occasional happiness grunt
    with my mental camera clicking lavishly at the images offered
    the mental album fattening in thickness to too foot thick
    three foot thick
    before it got four foot thick...
    careful, your neck may snap, maybe we move to other interesting exercises, you hummed
    and I “if you insist”ing accordingly
    allowing everything composing us turn to blur
    with the only sharp image penetrating my senses being that of us
    finally settling into the magic
    of momentary

    There is nothing mental to it, your chunk of marble whispered
    and my chunk of marble agreed
    as the entire lump slowly sank into rutilant shapelessness.


One Poem Line

    Someday I’ll write one poem line
    That will be coined as me and mine
    And it will crown my inborn style
    With flames atop its peristyle
              and sparks in its design,

    The perfect mix of verb and noun
    Volcanic ash and tiger frown
    Of lust and love and lark and lace
    Betrayal, glory, crave, disgrace,
              a clown wearing a crown,

    To scribe upon my marble stone
    Not tenor, neither baritone,
    So clear of chord, so right of pitch,
              my writing to enthrone.

    One day when boars will dig my bones
    And strew among fragmented stones
    Some tramp may find the words inlay
    Engraved upon my vertebrae
              and cry, hearing the tones.



    The carriage stopped before my gate
    I did not know it got so late,
    The curtains drawn, the door ajar,
    The slightly pungent whiff of tar,
              the horses black, I counted eight.

    The coacher leaned against the fence
    Pretending mock indifference
    I heard a mute harmonica
    Discerning do, re mi, then la,
              I kept my cool, took no offence

    Remembering that say of old
    You take with you no gems, no gold
    My battered suitcase stays behind
    Good bye my love, my mornings kind,
              my many stories left untold.

    I said – alright, no gold but look
    Maybe a picture, pen or book?
    I realized I was a pest
    As silence answered my request
              and I got cornered by the rook.

    The steady beat of shoeless hoofs
    The dying sight of slanted roofs
    I fell to depths of peaceful thoughts
    As I perceived the pans and pots
              the nearing sound of snapping woofs.

    The welcome tongues of searing hell
    Embrace me with a chiming knell
    I feel and fear of none and naught
    My last coherent blessing thought
              to those I loved... farewell.


baby, baby, jealous maybe?

    baby, baby, close your legs
    don’t ride life’s pretentious pegs
    they will tear your thighs asunder
    promise you the rave of thunder
    steal your wonder
    leave you under

    lover, lover, wear your mail
    let them bark to no avail
    sending ripple after ripple
    forging passage to your nipple
    rile and cripple
    turn your tipple

    woman, woman, sweetest wife
    flowers strewn and cherries rife
    roam the crows to pick your peaches
    land inside your kindly beaches
    then sail sodden
    quit you shodden



    I didn’t wake up three times this night
    with words ramming their way into consciousness
    and with an undeniable urge to zombie-walk in the darkness
    looking for a pen that writes and a scrap of paper that is unused
    to jot them down,

    for the morning.

    Rather... dammit! Did I dry out already or am about to?


Brusselianas Brussileiras

    This is Manneken Pis, I pointed out unnecessarily
    and she looked slightly embarrassed yet quite interested
    mainly (I think) at the habits dressing him for the occasion, an Elvis costume.
    So this small thing is the big attraction? She meant the statue, of course.

    And this is Jeanneke Pis, I pointed out still unnecessarily
    and she looked quite embarrassed, if to judge by the blush evolving on her cheeks
    and the uplifting corners of that work of art called her mouth.
    I see you locals are quite emancipated, and I abstained from corrections.

    And this is Zinneke Pis, I pointed out
    and she started jumping up and down enthusiastically (she, my lady, Zinneke is a he)
    tail and ears and muzzle and all (she is human, I swear, if to judge by the frontal bounce)
    I love this city, she bursted ecstatically before selfieing herself with the dog, not with me.

    Anything else you have to offer? she asked, hooking her arm into mine
    and letting me feel for a tiny eternity the beat of her heart. Via her sweater. Via her breast.
    I could offer you my body, I could have answered,
    which I didn’t knowing better than.

    Maybe something to... chew?

    I could have interpreted to chew quite liberally, I preferred to interpret it quite classically.
    So she wolfed down the best waffle at the best waffles joint... mmm...
    and the best peche melba at the best peche melba joint... mmm...
    and the best spaghetti at the best spaghetti joint... mmm...
    and the best fries at the best fries joint... with mayonnaise?... with mayonnaise!... mmm...
    and the best etc. at the best etc. joint... mmm...
    and when I say best, trust me, I mean BEST!!!

    And now, guess what?... and I guessed what
    and we started praline-shop hoping CW and CCW and WEW (whatever else wise)
    in no particular order among Godiva and Leonidas and Cornet and Neuhaus and Wittamer
    and tens of others of course (this is Belgium after all).
    And now, guess what?... and I guessed what
    and we started beer-tavern hoping EWW (every which wise)
    gulping in no particular order Duvel and Stella and Grimbergen and Chimay and Westmalle
    and hundreds of others of course (this is Belgium after all).
    Now take me to see the man with the apple on his face.
    Sorry, privately owned.
    Now take me to the youngster with the strange haircut.
    I can take you to the museum of his designer.
    Now take me to the guy who invented that blow instrument.
    I can take you to the maison dedicated to him..

    And we kept hopping from specific interest to specific interest
    until her head fell on my shoulder. Asleep.

    [wiseguy reader: and all these touring & eating & drinking & hopping in one day? ha-ha-ha!
    genius writer: go read a telephone book, more like your style of drama. ha-ha-ha!]

    So I started driving around, aimlessly, easier said than done.
    Did I say she was asleep?
    How far until the hotel?
    About five hundred meters.
    Why does it take five hours?
    I stopped. Another hole. Another road construction site. Another unclear drive-around.
    I stopped. Another hole. Another road construction site. Another unclear drive-around.
    I stopped. Another hole. Another road construction site. Another unclear drive-around.
    Aha, I see, she said after the forty-fifth such.
    Yes, an unmentioned tourist attraction and Guinness record.
    The highest number of road holes per capita.
    Want to see another unmentioned attraction?
    I did not wait for an answer, what’s another five hours detour through the center.
    Crossroad number one... four, one each corner.
    Crossroad number two... four, one each corner.
    Crossroad number three... four, one each corner.
    Crossroad number four... four, one each corner and one mid of the crossroad.
    I see, also a Guinness record, highest rate of beggars per capita?
    I needed no words, she had sufficient eyes and sufficient attacks on her window.
    In more way than one.
    Any other depressing sights?
    Yes, the hotel. We just got here.
    Yes. You just got here.
    I see. She was intelligent, I knew. The wonder of pronouns, I see. It was up to her.

    She opened the car door her side.
    She closed the car door her side.
    She moved around and opened the car door my side.
    She took my hand.
    What Guinness now? I asked.
    The greatest number of minutes between associated birth moments?
    The smallest number of minutes between room door closing and heart attack?
    The longest stretch in minutes from start to non-consummation of passion?
    We can do nothing about the first, it was up to our progenitors.
    We can do nothing about the second, pure conjecture at the moment.
    We can do a lot about the third one, keep it away from Guinness for example.

    We did a lot about the third one, kept it away from Guinness.

    I had to pay a lot to the hotel once they discovered the beddings shredded to dust
    and the flooded bathroom
    and the panoply of mattress molten fragments stuck to the ceiling
    and the reason for their guests having to rush out due to the fire alarm going berserk.
    I took a mortgage on the house.
    I sold my stamps collection.
    I stopped eating fries.
    And it was worth every single cent of it all.

    Now I have so much material for another book of poetry
    that I will surely not live long enough to put it to paper.
    But who wants to live after the last item on the bucket list is clicked off?

    My love, I am healing fine.
    Sorry about your stamps collection.
    Strike that – not sorry about anything.
    Glad we failed that second Guinness test. The third too.
    PS. When do we fail again?


Some kind of

    It was this time of the year, again.

    I sneezed eighteen consecutive times.
    Then a short break with nine following
    and I was just starting to settle down
    when a final salvo of three explosions shook the neighborhood.

    Spring was here. Again.

    Why did the forces to be make me their chosen herald, I wouldn’t know
    however, permeated by sudden, super-human zeal
    I rushed to inform the radio stations and the TV stations
    and the national newspapers and magazines and yellow rags
    (international postage was prohibitive, I relied on rumor to do the job),
    within hours
    shelves of antihistamine pills and antihistamine sprays and antihistamine drops
    got mugged into dusty emptiness
    followed by shelves of paper hankies and paper towels and toilet paper
    then filters to their kinds
    then steam baths to their kinds
    later followed by ever longer queues assailing the doors of prophets and medics,
    some visited priests too and a minority called their lawyers to review their wills.
    Rumor did the job to perfection
    boosted by social networks and influencers and bloggers and seatofthepantsanalysts
    and aarghsayers and oyveysayers and conspiracysayers and doomsayers and xsayers
    and similar etherealities
    and yet no one, but really no one went the basic polite way
    of thanking the one who started it all,
    Well, by now I was already immune to such thanklessness.

    Oh, spring, I hate you, I was about to shout
    before a whiff of lily of the valley touched my nostrils
    and oh, spring, I love you, I shouted before melting into a puddle of agonizing happiness.

    Surrounded by my personal mountains of various histaminic produce
    and paper produce
    and homeopathic produce
    and filters, steam baths, lawyers, etc
    I went to my desk
    and let the variety of uncontrollable convulsions dragging my hand hither and thither
    scribble this here nonsense on paper.
    Some kind of allergy too.


To be the one

    To be the one your flailing hand slaps middle of the night
    as you turn to face my way with closed eyes
    and whiffs of stale food emanate from your clamped mouth.

    To be the one your knee kicks into his side
    as you war away the demons you’ll forget with morning
    and strange gurgling noises raise a din that would keep even friends away.

    To be the one who listens to every animalic vowel penetrating surrounding darkness
    hoping to mix it with corresponding consonants of his own
    and co-create the worst of art in a most wondrous act of existence.

    To be the one whose shame is suddenly groped by your unshame
    in an act you’ll vehemently deny once your eyelids rise
    alongside with morning’s pitiless sun and its horrible noisy birds.

    To not be the one who slides slowly from under covers
    uncovering you for one final admiring regard upon the wonder of creation
    before hearing the clicking sound of a door closing behind his departing paces.



    I remember us,
    much younger

    when under that green gazebo
    I was contorting every which way trying to wrench access into your underwear
    and you were contorting every which way trying to ensure success of same
    and when we finally succeeded, both of us,
    we did not heed attention to any eventual passers-by
    be they of ornithological nature
    or of canine nature
    or of human nature,

    their problem, not ours.
    Even mosquitoes were forgotten for a moment.

    I remember us,
    between the much younger and the not so younger anymore

    when seated side by side on that rumbling bus
    I was investigating every possibility to eliminate those layers of textile separating us
    and you were investigating every possibility to hide my enterprise from other passengers
    and when we finally succeeded, both of us,
    the end of the journey arrived too fast
    for us to enjoy final resolution
    and revolution
    and retribution,

    looming death waiting mercifully at the nearing horizon.
    For all of us, mosquitoes included.

    I remember us,
    much after younger

    when various doors of various establishments kept closing behind us
    and I kept hitting my knees, my ankles, my shins against a variety of furniture fixtures
    and you kept peeling you and peeling me and peeling us from the unnecessary whatevers
    and when we finally succeeded, both of us,
    a variety of transformations descended upon us
    with words turning animalic grunts
    and smells turning perfumes
    and steel failing to compete with the tension of muscles,

    I never could remember the aftermath.
    Proof, I gave up even chasing mosquitoes.

    I miss the moments.
    I miss you.
    I miss the mosquitoes.



    We met
    at the internationally defined border of our bodies
    with me making a slight incursion into your territory.

    Okay, more than slightly
    for which you more than amply compensated by a deep incursion into mine
    led by ten sharp fingernails
    and separately supported by an undefined number of teeth assailing my lower lip
    (I will not be able to pout for a couple weeks now).

    At least I did not draw blood, just moans.
    You, on the other hand, drew both moans and blood
    and if it wasn’t for the impenetrable fortress of my ribcage
    your two nipples would have cut straight into my lungs, liver, heart.

    Said international instances
    were probably aware of the uprising I was doing my best to support, vehemently so,
    and of the dissident forces I was bribing into joining my movement, vehemently so,
    and which you were doing your best to quash as vehemently if not more
    yet no one interfered as long as no official complaint was introduced.
    Strange word, introduced.
    And which conflict you won, you always won
    forcing me into retreat (again) as crestfallen as originally glorious, damn.

    Damn and hallelujah
    and, for once, they go so damn well together...


Again... damn!

    04:56 AM And then it happened.

    My nose attacked with a ferocity I couldn’t imagine it capable of...
    boom!... bang!... atchoo!... (choose your own onomatopoeia or insert a new one here)
    and the violence of it took me back hundreds of years,

    I had to stop it before it was too late for me
    for humanity

    kill it in the womb as is said
    kill it before it grows as is said
    kill it before it grows on you as is said
    kill it etc as is said
    (various sensitivities use various metaphors for kill
    like do for, nip in the bud, draw and quarter, put to the sword, jugulate... and similar)

    so I stumbled out of bed and assailed it, immediately after the first shot,
    with all weapons known to man
    including yet not exclusively pinching my nose bone
    pulling water up my nostrils
    spraying anti histamines into and around
    blowing into mint-scented hankies
    swallowing a variety of pills of a variety of colors and promises
    inhaling steam from a cup of instant tea...
    boom!... bang!... atchoo!... a second violent attack... and then... silence,
    oh, blessed silence.
    I waited some more, silence still.

    I slid thankfully back under covers
    promising myself to donate my nose to research after I lose my use of it
    be it to anatomical or veterinarian or botanical or perfumery sciences
    in the hope that some big brain will finally uncover the secret of that sensitivity
    to one in a trillion trillions fresh particles of pollen.
    And when that big brain gets his/hers/its Nobel or Pulitzer or Razzie award
    I will be remembered, memory of me vindicated after long years of waiting
    and fame rolling at my feet
    if not for poetry than at least for nosetry.
    Post mortem, of course.

    (supposed to be read as onomatopoeia for a long Amen, not for a long Hymen, people).


    09:18 AM
    boom!... bang!... atchoo!... damn!!!


Mosquitoes, two

    Didi, are there mosquitoes... there?
    There, meaning... here? Whatever there-here may mean?

    It was a stupid question, probably the stupidest anyone ever asked her,
    but seen my past relationship with the pests it was also a, ahm, natural one?
    She scratched her skull under the hood
    the rasping sound sending shivers through my, well, skull.
    Then she started a series of record setting stone skipping throws,
    easily a hundred skips or more
    leaving me both jaw hanging and baffled.

    Any other sport you excel in? I asked.
    You name it, I excel in it, she grated, i.e. her laughing style.
    Even swimming?
    Even diving, though I do have a slight problem getting back to the surface...
    and we both rolled with laughter.
    I don’t know, she finally stated, I’ve never been there, if a there exists at all.

    My jaw went even lower than on the previous occurrence of same.

    You must be joking, I said.
    One of us is. And why do you want to know at all?

    This was a question I was afraid she would ask and I knew she would ask.
    I wasn’t so sure I was ready to answer it,
    I answered it anyway.

    You see, I am a bit mixed up with some messages, a bit worried as well,
    I’m trying to prepare myself for whichever eventuality.
    Messages like what?
    Messages like Ezekiel left behind about the dry bones resurrection, for example.
    Will mosquitoes resurrect as well?
    Mosquitoes are, ahm, insects, you know. No bones, skeleton, etc.
    They are not included in the prophesy.

    Yes, I know this, but are you sure? I guess I am looking for reassurances on the subject.
    On the subject of mosquitoes? Not on the subject of hell, damnation, punishment...
    It is somehow related.
    Is it possible that one of the punishment forms in hell is mosquitoes?

    If she was not Didi, I think she would have gotten a coronary.

    Say, lover, (at least we were still on lover terms), any more so called related questions?
    Actually, yes.
    Why weren’t mosquitoes one of the ten plagues?
    Were mosquitoes created alongside dogs and cows and others?
    Did Noah take a mosquitoes couple in the ark?...

    I went on rumbling like this for hours, disregarding the fact that she started yawning
    then hopping on one leg
    then sharpening her scythe’s chine
    then pushed her middle finger’s distal phalange into the right external acoustic meatus
    until it popped out of the left side where it wobbled up and down.

    Lover, shut up!

    It was so softly said, so powerfully commanded that I froze middle of my sentence.
    I even forgot what that sentence was.

    Let’s agree on something, lover.
    Next time you call me the subject will be anything but mosquitoes, okay?
    Your fixation with the damn creatures is immature, boring, pathetic and non-poetic

    (this last comment, though rhyming, hurt for real).
    Feel free to dump it on your readers.
    For me, do keep the romance, erotica, and similar existentialist matters, okay?
    This is why we are lovers, okay?

    And with the third okay she vanished.
    I was left crestfallen.
    And yet... she was right.
    There was so much beauty I could have discussed with her and I chose mosquitoes?
    Idiot! Nincompoop!

    I picked a stone and tried a skipping throw... three times. You useless human!

    I didn’t promise myself to drop the subject of mosquitoes altogether.
    But I did promise myself never to pick it up with Didi again.
    And I never broke a promise to anyone
    but... does myself count into the anyone definition?
    Here, a nice subject for me and Didi.




    You are a poet simulation, you know? she said.
    Or is it a simulacrum?
    An embodiment, an avatar, a manifestation...
    and a poor one at that.

    She took a deep breath.
    You are not a poet.

    I let her talk, didn’t object
    mainly because I agreed, to a point.
    She closed the book she chose at random
    put it on the table
    picked he bag
    stood up ready to go. Leave.
    You can have my body, if you wish, but not my soul.
    Wait! I begged.

    I went to the shelf and picked another book.
    Your body is useless to me without its soul,
    it is magic with one.
    Try this one!

    She hesitated, her fingers fiddling with the strap of her bag
    her eyes strangely luciferous.
    All these thousands of miles for nothing? they seemed to ask.
    She sat down
    accepted the book proffered and opened it at page seventy eight.
    Could have been any other page, could have been a death sentence, could have been...
    she started reading.
    She looked up at me a few moments later
    turned to page one hundred twelve and continued reading.
    Then she dropped the book on the table, went to the shelf and pulled three more books.
    Letting random guide her hand, my destiny, our tomorrow...

    It was late in the night when she gave up.
    Gave up what? I asked myself further, finding faults finding sense finding pretense?
    Yeah, nice time to think poetically, I lashed at myself as she stood up again
    and her eyes seemed to add strange questions to permeating brightness...
    she did not pick up her bag, maybe a good sign?
    She approached me, I could smell the aura emanating from her.

    Are you in the market for a soul? she asked, letting one shoulder strap fall.
    Only if it comes without a body, I answered, pulling the strap back to her shoulder.

    We did not make love that night.
    We roamed the streets
    the lighted ones
    the dark ones
    the ones with moons reflecting from puddles and the ones with moons split among branches
    the ones with benches that accepted our tired bodies for a few moments of head on shoulder
    shared breath
    shared thigh length
    the ones that seemed to not exist.

    Did we make love at all?
    I have no idea.
    I pass my time lately turning pages in those books she leafed through
    and stopping momentarily there where she touched the paper
    leaving unexplainable inerasable traces of fingerprints,
    golden fingerprints,
    some golden... dust I presume?



    I keep asking
    Are you still of this world?
    and they keep not answering
    and I keep asking... maybe?

    great poets,
    well – some not so great yet some the greatest.

    Are you still of this world, friend? poet?

    I start feeling like Tutankhamun in his tomb
    surrounded by his clay cats and clay pots and clay figurines...
    at least he was dead at the time.
    Don’t envy me, Tutsie, being buried alive is a completely different matter.
    And no clay cats and pots and figurines either, my side of the darkness.

    Are you still of this world? I try again,
    just for the sake of futility.



    Another one gone today – Harry. Belafonte.
    Gone to his Island In The Sun, taking with him his Island In The Sun.
    Forever. His eternal Island In The Sun.
    RIP Harry.

    Now let’s see, who is left of mygenerationists? Not many.
    I start having a problem remembering them
    and not because of any memory problems
    but rather because there are so few left that I have to search assiduously
    through various corners of my brain and of the internet to find the few
    that are still there.


    Not really exactly my age but almost really exactly my age,
    a bit more, a bit less, around,
    those who forced me to sin into temporary idolatry and forget my first commandment
    while listening awe stricken on the radio, or on a rotating LP,
    or watching awe stricken the silver screen, or a stage,
    or some other awe stricken related events.
    And the less of them there are
    the more place is generated for me to join them.
    First a trickle, now hordes leaving.

    Let’s see, who of them is still around?
    OK, ahm, let’s start... there is still Mick, eternal (till when?) Mick,
    there are still Cliff and Dustin and Barbra,
    there is still Jane... no, not the Tarzan one but the Fonda one,
    then Elliott, Al, Robert – both De Niro and Redford,
    then – had to check, sorry – Paul Anka, Brenda Lee, Eric Burdon of The Animals...
    hey, I see I am not that lonesome
    though much more lonesome than a few years back
    and much more lonesome now that Harry has gone to join the “others”
    taking with him his Island In The Sun, his eternal Island In The Sun.
    Adamo. Dick Van Dyke. Raquel Welch... oops, just died. Paul McCartney. Bob Dylan.
    Mygenerationists. Those before iPhone and iPad. Still around.

    Hey, I think I stop checking, safer this way, haha.
    Feels less lonely this way, haha.
    Feels less sad this way, blahh, no haha.

    Back to bed and bedbugs now
    at least they won’t leave me
    or it’s rather safe to say that I will leave them before they leave me.
    And still they will follow me.
    No haha here either.
    Neither hallelujah.
    Just fact.

    See you later (maybe, hopefully) alligator.


Natural Selection

    We were selected by nature
    to die.

    Some call it birth,
    what a horrendous oxymoron
    and dubious honor.
    Horror, rather.

    After a statistical impossibility
    make place for the statistical certainty,
    probably the only statistical certainty in existence.

    It would have been so much better to have skipped the first,
    the only way to skip the second.

    We would not have known about statistics and pains and things.
    Oh, the pleasures of ignorance, of inexistence.

    Inexistent pleasures, of course,
    some other kind of oxymoron, my twisted brain thinks.



    in the collection strange stories

    She was definitively beggar, definitely female, definitely dirty and definitely ageless, anywhere between child and grandmother. On the off chance that she might have been of divine origin, and God knows I was in need of some divine intervention, I dropped a coin in her empty paper cup and asked.

    What are you?

    She made a circle above her head with a stretched forefinger. It meant she understood however if it would have been around her temple I would have understood as well.

    Hey, what are you? I repeated. She put both stretched index fingers against her forehead, which could have meant anything from devil to goat, and smiled. At least she was not toothless, but I swear I couldn’t discern any sign of teeth either. Maybe she was wearing a boxer’s mouthguard?

    Damn, what are you really? I insisted. She bent arms, bent wrists and flapped open palms in either go away fashion or I fly away fashion, which got me even more intrigued. I made a step backwards, one’s never too cautious, and repeated my question, ready to bolt away.

    She sighed, stood upright, opened a gigantic wing each side of her body and flew away. Taking her paper cup with her. Damn (I repeated myself), so you’re not a she but an it. Hmm, I wonder... The kind Made in China or the one Made in Japan. The Made in Heaven option did not even cross my mind at the time. Only now, while recollecting the event. Damn (in third), speaking of missed opportunities.


Perfumes, various

    Tell me, which smell would you rather live for than die for? she asked.

    Strange way to ask a question, I mused,
    stranger still the question itself
    assuming I resolved the first conundrum layer satisfactorily
    and reached the second layer with some residual sanity.

    One of those cases where live and die do mean the one and same?
    I queried several days later,
    having consulted various encyclopedias and almanacs and religious texts.

    She did not answer so I went on-line
    dark web
    deep web
    and lots of sites ending with the infamous .onion extension
    (on which I gave up after being offered
    a defused atomic bomb ‘we’ll tell you where to buy plutonium’
    a secret entry to Area 51 ‘we’ll disable the alarms for an extra fee’
    a secluded parcel on the moon ‘guaranteed no real-estate taxes’)...

    Say, maybe drop the intellect aspect and concentrate on the heart aspect, she finally suggested
    and I almost got myself a cervical spondylolisthesis (what-a-that?)
    when I hit my forehead with my open palm, a bit too seriously.
    I only bit my tongue and lisped for a couple days.

    What smell do I love above all, was the question
    and understanding the question did not advance me any further with the answer.
    Because from the hundreds of smells out there
    which one do I insult and which one do I compliment?
    And, worse still – what do I answer her?

    Some more days flashed before my eyes
    seeing me move into rigor mortis
    and out of rigor mortis and into livor mortis
    and out of livor mortis and into algor mortis
    and after some additional types of mortis I found myself investigating hyp prefixes
    like hypothermia and hyperthermia and hypocapnia and others
    and when I finished these
    and some other Latin nonsensical stages and non-Latin nonsensical stages
    including Sanskrit
    and Althochdeutsch
    and Gaelic
    and Hebrew
    I just shut myself completely to everything
    sat down on a rocking chair
    and listened to the nightingales in my garden.
    And then I knew it
    suddenly, clearly, unmistakably.

    Love, I said, I reduced the number to three
    and there is no way I could go any lower than this.
    In no particular order of preference these are the smell of freshly fallen rain
    and the smell of freshly blossomed lilac
    and the smell a woman freshly in love.

    I do not know if she liked, or even if she accepted my answer.
    But I do know that once the lilac blossomed
    and the drizzle of a chilly rain mingled with the purple of tiny petals
    she pulled me out in the garden
    cut the seams to my clothing with her nails
    and soaked me to the marrow in the perfume of a woman in love...
    oh, the divinity of that mixture...

    Saturating my senses.
    Ripping my heart.
    Liberating me of life.


Lilac, two

    Divine beauty, lilac,
    like you.

    Divine perfume, lilac,
    like you.

    I sink my face into the blossoming cluster
    looking for the rare three petale’d flowers
    which I pluck
    and throw inside my shirt
    for the luck they bring.

    I sink my face into your windblown hair
    looking for the rare curled ends... wrong patch of hair... you giggle
    which I accept
    and I sink my face into the other patch of hair
    abounding in curls which I pluck... don’t you dare!... you groan
    which I don’t dare
    while the rose of your cheeks turn the flame of a matador’s cape
    and the flesh of my body turns the steel of a matador’s sword
    sinking into the flesh of the bull... horrible analogy... you growl
    which I agree
    letting the softness of blood envelop the steel... I am not virgin... you gasp
    which I know better
    as you let me out of your life and in to your life.

    I lay my head over the mingled blossoms
    and I voice an angry dirgeful prayer for the thousands of bulls
    slaughtered in the name of human vanity and stupidity and arrogance
    and I voice a glorifying thankful hymn for the millions of women
    born in the name of human compassion and dignity and tenderness

    and I hear the thundering hooves of thousands appreciating bulls trotting the clouds
    and I hear the whispering lullaby of one loving woman caressing my forehead.

    And the lilac envelops us.

    You really love your lilac, you say.
    I really love you, I say.


Lilac, three

    We had several cycles of lilac - life - death - lilac- life - death...

    we were now at a lilac portion of the cycle
    seated under a gigantic bush of purple-perfumed magic
    decently distanced
    decently dressed
    decently minded
    and other decently aspects
    so abnormal considering the recent indecently aspects of same.

    A few butterflies, one hanging to your ear,
    a few bees, one crawling on your pinky,
    a few hummingbirds,
    one preparing to feast off the space between your lower lip and upper lip,

    a skunk watching us carefully
    then proudly doing a few bachata moves as it distanced itself from us
    keeping its odorous self to its self...
    lilac holds this kind of hypnotism even for other species, fish excluded.

    The one indecent thing we did do was keeping palms stretched on the bench
    middle finger fingertip touching middle finger fingertip,
    immaculate innocence incarnated.

    You know, I said,
    when I was searching a few cycles ago a three-petale'd flower for luck
    to pluck and throw inside my shirt
    and then started looking for a curled hair-end on your head with same intentions
    and you told me to look elsewhere
    at first I thought you were referring to your... armpit.

    Following moment I knew what a piece of asphalt might feel
    when a pneumatic hammer hits it with full steam impact.

    I think you broke my third rib, I complained,
    steeling myself for an encore.

    There was no encore, at least not pneumatic wise.
    All previously mentioned decently
    converted in an immeasurable instant to indecently,

    again, and luckily for us there was enough lilac dropping on top of us
    to protect us from squinting binoculars
    and prevent an eventual neighborhood vice squad be informed
    of the accumulating illegality of all indecencies following.

    Lilac. Life. Death. Lilac.

    And here we are again. Decent again, you lamented,
    middle finger fingertip touching middle finger fingertip, again.
    Not for long, I assured you, cautious, sadly remembering an endless list of lost bets.

    For once, I won a bet. This bet.
    And God... was it sunset there between sky end and earth end
    or was it the fire we tried to hide there,


Collors Collector

    You started collecting colors.

    The red of a sun
    the black and white of a dog
    the fuzzy grey of a clouded sky
    the shaggy green-red of a rhubarb shoot
    the violet of a lilac flower from one end of the Earth to the other
    and then from the other end of the Earth to this one

    you cut them to thin slices
    braided them together randomly bride-bouquet size
    and then sent me some of them before some others of them
    ending by filling up my entire living room my bedroom even my bathroom

    my heart too, lots of place there but you cut it really close to overpopulating it.


    Don’t be, starting building extensions to everything,
    heart too.

    Still my friend?

    Is Bagheera sill my friend to Mowgli?
    Is Toto still my friend to Dorothy?
    Is Hatter still my friend to Alice?

    You giggle
    and some hitherto unknown colors add themselves to the collection,
    unasked for and uninvited to and beautifully so.
    Then you drop your blouse and skirt and rest of feminine curses
    and while I turn a hitherto unknown version of crimson
    you undo me of same (no blouse, no skirt, but similar)

    still my lover?

    is Romeo still my lover to Juliet?
    is Rhett still my lover to Scarlett?
    is Odysseus still my lover to Penelope?

    and you drag me into a field of blue sunsets
    and into a meadow of red fireflies
    and into forest of green regards

    I hold a basket
    and you fill it up to the rim
    I hold a bottle
    and you drag it through the offer
    I hold a book
    and you place a different hue each page
    one close to the end of the book your lips
    one before the end of the book my lips
    the last our lips

    and now let’s make love

    and now we make love.

    And it is the last o in Nessun Dorma.
    And it is the last brush touch in La Gioconda.
    And it is the last nevermore in The Raven.


    I wake up.
    I was not sleeping, I was thinking, I wake up.
    We make love again
    and after checking all the bouquets you sent me I write you

    where is the bouquet?

    You keep your feminine curses
    and start telling me about the chemistry of red and of green and of blue
    and I couldn’t care less
    thinking of you underneath all of your curses.


Corpses Collector

    My love, my Didi,

    having just finished a poem about Colors,
    I had this sudden inspiration to follow it by one about Corpses,
    and what better inspiration to draw on than yours, my skeletal love.

    I wasn’t sure if it was to be an elegy or an elogy
    and I still am not.
    But what the hell,
    it will be what it will be
    and may your scythe resound with me
    (sounds good, doesn’t it?).

    My Didi, my love,
    I miss you.
    I miss those entertaining moments our encounters abounded with in the past
    I miss the sun reflecting of the blade you pointed away from me
    I miss hearing the wind blowing through your hollow bones
    and composing celestial music as none other
    (thank God... forgive me for bringing Big Brother into the equation?).

    Life on Earth is shit and getting shittier, ha, as if you didn’t know
    this being your bread and butter, right?
    I know you are not to blame for it
    and who are you to complain about bones, haha, thrown your way?
    Soon we are all going to boil to death and/or freeze to death and/or drown to death
    and/or get irradiated to death courtesy of ourselves
    and all those we ourselves chose to guide ourselves
    and there is not much we can do about it except wail (uselessly)
    demonstrate (uselessly)
    run away (uselessly)
    forget (uselessly but thankfully)
    or talk to Big Brother. I prefer talking to you, at least I am certain you exist.

    Strange world, this one.
    1% controls 99% and doesn’t care how, inclusive exterminating half of the 99
    as long as the 1 maintains the control,
    so the half left are the docile sheep awaiting the delayed slaughter
    that the 1 engineered for them.
    And the 1 carefully carved the tools that allow them the feat.
    A world where revolutions are passé and subjugation is fashionably in.
    Strange world, poor world.

    Strange world, this one.
    An idiot builds a following based on other idiots following the original idiot
    and suddenly this defines us
    the way we eat, behave, enjoy, make love, make war.
    All idiots
    and finally it all depends on the originating idiocy
    its marketing power
    and hollow masses attending.
    Strange world, idiotic world.

    Strange world, this one.
    We find refuge in fantasies, stories, fortuitous incidentals
    blown out of proportion by our need for just them to occur
    and pull us up to an imaginary Shangri-La of our own definition,
    movies, music, festivals, dances, sport events, competitions, paintings
    while the world is burning around us
    and yet we cheer and cherish momentary moments of beauty
    only to fall from higher heights
    to our undeniable, private hell.
    Strange world, unreal world.

    Strange world, this one.
    A world of puppeteers and puppeteed
    politiceers and politiceed
    religiouseers and religiouseed
    racketeers and racketeed
    drugeers and drugeed
    bankeers and bankeed
    taxeers and taxeed
    slaughtereers and slaughtereed...
    ...hey, hey, you get boring... yes, she got there by my side
    and she yawned opening a mouth the size of a car door,
    not sure all the teeth there were of human origin,
    anyway, I changed the tune...
    stepping-on and stepped-on
    stealing-from and stolen-from
    shooting-at and shot-at.
    Strange world, binary world.

    We sat, waiting for the sunset
    her head on my shoulder, my hand around her waist,
    her scythe taking a much deserved clean-up and sharpening
    from some unidentified minions shaped like pears (pears?... yes, pears...),
    I have to go.
    I understand. Thanks for listening, my friend.
    And thanks for being my friend, even if I’m not so presentable these days.
    You are never presentable, any days.
    She laughed good humoredly, pinched my cheek, saddled the scythe’s snath, haha,
    and was gone.

    I felt a sudden emptiness settling upon me like a cloak.
    When will I see you again, friend?
    There was no answer
    but the rustle in the trees seemed to whisper soothingly... soon, my friend, soon...



    You can open your eyes.

    I opened my eyes,
    oh, the disappointment...
    The water in the hot-tub high
    the foam higher than instructed under Hays’ definitions of decency
    you... hey, where are you?


    All I could discern above the foam aberration was the tip of one finger
    the tip of one nose, presumedly you had only one,
    the tip of one toe
    and a floating plastic duck.

    Here! I heard again,
    the tip of the nose disappearing as well
    and I almost panicked into jumping in (to save you, no other reason)
    when I heard a don’t!... not yet!... and an eye joined the re-rising nose.
    There was... was there?... a hidden promise in the ‘not yet’ used
    so I refrained from following my ‘save thy human fellow’ instincts
    alongside with the biblical mandate ‘be fruitful and multiply’
    alongside with my keen interest in human anatomy
    alongside with the opportunity to prove Archimedes’ eureka postulate
    and alongside some other undefined and undefinables.

    So I sat on the hot-tub side and started telling you a tale (irrelevant which)
    while at the same time poking my finger in the water,
    ascertaining it was not too cold for human use.
    You liked my tale, if to judge by the silence
    until a I fell asleep, dummy!... shattered my illusion into desperation.
    Why desperation?
    Because I’m cold, I answered, poking my finger again.
    So why don’t you do something about it?
    Do what? and I poked my finger.
    Poke your finger, was the answer
    and I followed advice by action, no quite encountering water.
    Actually quite encountering... don’t!... shut up!... and I shut up
    while something inhuman grabbed my shirt
    following which something inhuman dismembered my shirt
    following which something human inhumanly grabbed... me
    and I discovered everything no one under Hays’ regulation
    will tell you is to be found underneath all that foam.
    Can be found underneath all that foam.
    If you’re lucky – you will find underneath all that foam.

    I guess I was lucky.

    Following which my clothes may have needed some mending,
    my brain too.



    Once, I was one month old too, at least I think I was since I do not remember,
    like your rhubarb.
    You compare yourself to a vegetable?
    No, I compare myself to your vegetable.

    See, it beats me on several levels.
    It grows faster
    it’s tastier
    it meets your caressing hand
    and, given the opportunity, peeks underneath your dress. More than once.
    Finally... it meets your lips.

    It also dies faster.
    Told you, it beats me on several levels,
    dying faster means less time to get sick, decrepit, depend on others to feed you.
    You are a strange man, I would call you nuts but then you’ll start making fruit comparisons.
    I will not contradict you on that.
    It’s also poisonous, the rhubarb,
    at least its leaves are.
    Are you poisonous?

    It was a good, relevant question.

    I am not, but I guess you will never know it.
    And this why?
    Because I will never meet your lips.

    I felt the silence, not hesitation but silence.

    You are wrong, terribly wrong.

    It did not matter to me why I was wrong,
    it mattered that I was.
    I could live with that.



    Tired like a twenty-three year old dog,
    like a pile of dog shit after being stepped into twenty-three times
    by a variety of shoes, part of them high-heeled,
    like a dog flea after jumping twenty-three times into the chemical death
    engineered by a powerful pharmaceutical consortium
    or concocted by a coven of ageless witches
    or mixed indiscriminately in his caravan sink by an itinerant merchant
    selling it alongside bibles and iron pots and love enhancing trinkets.

    Tired of dentists and tax forms and speeding tickets and parking tickets
    and annual car tests
    and doomsday TV news
    and hanging clothes after washing clothes
    and folding clothes after hanging clothes
    and shelving clothes after folding clothes.
    And the rest of life.

    Tired, and my goal in life? To die.

    It’s been always the same goal
    only I failed to identify it at its vegetating stages
    earlier when I was immortal
    and later when immortality was losing its luster
    and later than above later when the possibility of death became a probability
    and later than all above when it all became a certainty.

    No, stop snickering that all of living share the same goal of dying.
    All of living share the same goal of stretching life into death,
    my goal is to end it and meet it. Life. Death.
    Maybe it comes with tired.
    Or maybe tired
    comes with the goal.



    Do you want an apple? I asked her, innocently,
    innocence being my middle name
    though not mentioned on my birth certificate.
    Why? she queried, innocently, Eve and Adam?
    innocence being once her middle name, probably,
    until it faded from her birth certificate,
    her big big big eyes and her green green green irises and her long long long lashes
    (and other eye triplicates like luminosity, warmth, penetration, etc.)
    fixating me like a bug at the sharp end of a needle.
    I started doubting innocence, hers not mine
    (I knew exactly where I stood with mine).

    Don’t you want to find the door to Eden? I asked.
    You mean the door out of Eden... she emphasized specifically.
    In order to be out of something one has to be first in that same something, no?...
    she was asking most pertinent questions
    and I wasn’t really ready with the answers...
    and I find Victoria’s Secret quite comfortable
    so why return to fig leaves?...

    truthfully her preference was mine as well...
    and truthfully... (copycat!)... I do love children
    but I wouldn’t mind them coming a bit less painfully... a lot less painfully,
    she concluded.

    So you don’t want an apple, I concluded her conclusion.
    She picked the apple from my hand,
    rubbed it on her sleeve until it shone like a waxed billiard ball
    (do they wax billiard balls?)
    and took a bite the size of a horse’s mouth, wisdom teeth included
    (it was a big apple).
    On the other hand,
    it’s rumored that the beginning of the child-bearing cycle is quite delightful,
    she re-concluded,
    her big big big eyes and her green green green irises and her long long long lashes
    (and other eye triplicates like luminosity, warmth, penetration, etc.)
    fixating me like a lamb at the sharp end of a tiger’s hunger.
    I started doubting reason, mine not hers
    (I knew exactly where she stood with hers).

    We did did find the door to/from Eden
    we did were kicked out from/to Eden
    we did did discover the advantages of fig leaves over Victoria
    we did were surprised by the veracity of the rumor
    we did did buy a truckload of apples for imminent ensuing use
    we did were... you do get boring... did sing a mouth dripping with apple juices and other
    and I did sacrifice my share of apple juices for the savor of the other.

    Suddenly it hit me: Eve and Adam?
    Wait until you have to bear children, she laughed and laughed and laughed.
    I shuddered, but not for long. The other (did) were calling.


Eden, two

    I found the door.
    You’re joking.
    I am not. Question is – do you want there, back?
    And I will get what?
    For one – immortality.
    For one – immortality and no sex, right?
    Ahm, right.
    Strike one out. Two?

    I looked at my list, it wasn’t long.

    For two – no neighbors.
    For two – no neighbors, no family, no kids, right?
    Ahm, right.
    Strike two out. Is there three?

    I looked at my list, there was three.

    For three – silence.
    For three – silence and no music, right?
    Well, maybe angels’ harps.
    Strike three out. Four?

    I started sweating, my list was getting dangerously thin.

    For four – no pollution.
    Sounds interesting.
    Finally, I was getting somewhere.
    No insecticides, no food additives, no noisome fuel fumes?
    Lots of bees, lots of butterflies, I added enthusiastically.
    Tasty tomatoes, her eyes started shining.
    No plastic, I pushed my advantage forward.
    No garbage, she started looking for her glass slippers.
    No dog poop, I took a quantum leap
    and immediately wished I would better had bit my tongue
    and cut it into three independently flopping slices.
    No dog poop, you said?
    I swallowed dryly, my parched throat a desert at height of summer.
    No dogs, you mean to say? and she stopped looking for her slippers.
    Well, you know, at that time there were wolves but no dogs yet.
    No dogs?
    I was silent.
    Strike four out.

    I did not have to try further, there was no further. I lost.

    Come to think of it... did I?

    I looked at her...
    her Victoria’s Secret
    her dirty hands from planting tomatoes
    her human folk in her eyes and heart
    her dogs’ poop
    her dogs...
    my Eden.
    Who needs a sterile one, after all?


Strange People

    I want to undress you.
    So what are you waiting for?
    I wait for a more intimate place.
    More intimate than a metro station bustling with flesh robots?
    I... think so.
    Strange man.
    Strange woman, I thought.

    I want to take pictures of you, naked.
    You have to undress me first, remember?
    Why? To place on your Instagram and TikTok and Facebook?
    I don’t have Instagram and TikTok and Facebook accounts.
    Strange man.
    Strange woman, I thought.

    I want to make love to you.
    Before or after undressing me and taking pictures of me, naked?
    You mean you want to fornicate with my body.
    I mean I want to fornicate with both your mind and your body.
    Strange man, usually it is only the body they want.
    Strange woman, I thought, she knows exactly what I don’t want.

    She wasn’t so strange after all, actually miraculously nice.
    She took me to her place
    she let me undress her
    she let me take as many mental pictures of her as I wished
    her smell and taste imprinting upon my brain like childhood memories
    we fornicated with mind and body and other, unrelated,
    then she watched me write it all in rhyme.
    You aren’t so strange after all, actually miraculously nice.

    I blushed, unexpectedly.
    She blushed, unexpectedly.
    We blushed, we knew, we weren’t strange to each other.


Quoting Myself

    Most of the stuff I write is good. Nevertheless, some of it is excellent.

    Death must be a wonderful destination. Else - why would everybody visit it?

    Words are the clay poets use. When they “draw” a horse, the results will look in the end like a horse, but very different from each other. Thus... don’t rush to correct my horse your way.

    Finding a reader of poetry these days is finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. Finding an intelligent poetry reader these days is finding the associated non-proverbial haystack in a haystack of haystacks, and then the needle. If there is one.

    I am not an old man who the years have caught up with, I am rather a young man who the years have caught up with. Who not whom. I think.

    Now I know why old people die young: it's because of all the forms they have to fill, to justify their still being alive. Forms which, most probably, are intended to dissuade them from filling any forms.

    My goal in life? To die.

    Strange - started writing a rant, ended writing a manifest. Basically I always know how I start a poem story and I never know how I will end it. Guess I like to surprise myself.

    My sanity – the innocent collateral casualty to my imagination.

    A negligible number of existences are composed of three seasons, the middle of which is of negligible size – life. The vast majority of existences decided to skip that season altogether, lucky bastards.

    Poetry is a collection of words that made perfect sense individually, before they were jammed together into a poem.

    Poets, politicians and analphabets are the only classes able to effortlessly deform any existing language.


a long time ago

    I stopped smoking a long time ago,
    before I started.

    I stopped fornicating a long time ago,
    if it’s love then it is not fornication, right?

    I stopped dreaming a long time ago,
    more or less around the age that I stopped dreaming.

    I stopped writing a long time ago,
    someone writes with my hand, I don’t know who.

    I stopped living just recently,
    nothing to do with smoking or fornicating or dreaming or writing or not,
    something to do with living, or not.


Fed Up

    I’m fed up with my end.

    I’m fed up with speculating about my end
    with writing about my end
    with the interminable (ha, it will terminate) wait for my end,

    I’m fed up with pizza leftovers
    and world war three forecasts
    and waking up mid of the night to write worthless poetry,

    with nausea and nauseating news
    with knowing the tomorrow to its finest minutiae
    with never finishing the most finishable plans,

    I’m fed up with being fed up
    what about some being excited or enchanted or rapt in lieu?

    Hey, Didi, what holds you up?

    I envy
    angry employees for their rage rooms
    insane people for their padded rooms
    crackpots for their cracked pots

    mindless beasts for their mindlessness
    and this does not include dogs
    but does include fleas and flies and flabbergasting poets,

    I envy dead
    not dying
    never planning to
    and all those, probably everyone presently in existence,
    who never knew the taste of green plums jam
    only to lose it
    alongside with their mothers,

    I do not envy those lost to clouds of drugs
    or those lost to clouds of alcohol
    or all those lost to clouds of fanaticism be it religious or political or material
    I pity them, at most,
    I abhor them, at most.

    I believe any who intentionally harms a child should be shot
    any who intentionally harms a wild beast for money or pleasure should be shot
    any who intentionally starts a forest fire should be shot,

    I am fed up with them walking away unharmed.

    I am fed up with finding too late that I am an activist
    an extremist
    a humanist
    alongside with being a toooldist for it to make any difference.

    I am fed up
    with knowing there is a God
    who’s too busy
    or too indifferent
    or simply deaf
    to listen to a prayer.

    I am fed up
    and don’t even know how to say it
    without throwing up.


    started writing a rant
    ended writing a manifest.


And feast they did

    ...and my body became a glorious mosquitoes feast.

    I wish I could have added glorious to body too
    but I am severely hampered by several gloriousless aspects
    which prevents me from using such fanciful expression,
    still – it is my body and no one could take this feature away from me.

    And feast they did.

    I believe they published the availability on every mosquito billboard in the country
    advertised it on special mosquito news bulletins
    printed life size pictures of it on their yellow press to ensure it was not missed
    with close-ups of my ankles, index fingers and left side of the nose
    their social media buzzing with excitement
    and taking the buzz all the way to my ear.
    Ears rather, two of them, luckily I owned only two.

    Guided tours organized
    family discount packages devised
    no discrimination based on race and/or social status and/or religion allowed
    during the recurring seasonal pilgrimages to my body
    (under pain of being fed to frogs)
    though sexual discrimination was rampant and enforced,
    females being the only ones accepted for whatever feeding ceremony
    males being more than happy to give up food for sex,
    thus intra-relational tensions avoided.

    Mosquito written history, most of it written on my skin,
    bears witness to the sacred, pagan rituals developed since the dawn of civilization
    and drastic constraints put in place to preserve said rituals:
    the buzz keynote defined to a microsecond
    the blood volume defined to a milliliter
    the depth of the penetration defined to a micron
    (in metric countries, to a thou and to a millifloz in imperial unit countries).

    The moseum in Helsinki keeps a permanent display of my blood samples
    taken at various ages and various regions –
    each sample analyzed to its basic nutritional values and energetic values
    and is visited by millions of students
    in their early stages of apprenticeship
    learning who out there is to be trusted
    and who not
    with the future of the entire mosquito nation at stake
    Displays of cow, horse, pig blood samples are on lower shelves,
    the highest honors reserved for the highest donors (hey, such divine rhyme)
    i.e. for the highest donor. Me.

    Hail Yoyo!
    (Yoyo being the code name bestowed upon me by the mosquito government).



    Open your mouth, wider,
    stick out your tongue as far as it goes... this might do it, let’s see now.

    Here I will plant some rose bushes, for you.
    Also some tomatoes, if you insist.
    Here I will build us a wooden hut for you to prepare food and for me to delectate in it
    and here I will build a bed for me to sleep in and for you to bother me, incessantly...
    ok, you prefer to be the builder and I the preparer and the botherer?...
    fine with me
    as long as I do not have to bear children... I couldn’t bear bearing children, agreed?

    Here, this part of your tongue, I will keep for some sacred sex ritual
    and this other secluded part for some other, also sacred, sex ritual.
    I will contribute also parts of my tongue, don’t worry, even all of it.
    Similar sex rituals. maybe even mixing of tongues. Maybe even mixing of things.
    Don’t worry about the dogs. And the cats. And the bunnies and chickens
    and foxes
    and bears
    and mountain lions
    they all have place on your tongue,
    after all this is a very indiscriminating tongue, love and care to all
    and (hopefully) a lot of it indiscriminatingly to me.

    What about real estate taxes, you ask?
    There will be no taxes after the parcellation of your tongue, and your mouth, and your body,
    there will be no taxes for food preparing
    and bed bothering
    and various other activities above or under that tongue
    such as growing rhubarb
    and hiking up mountains
    and sleeping in my lap as you snore softly (I too? I too!) enveloped in a mosquitoes net
    (because, see, whatever I do and irrelevant how hard I try – mosquitoes are always there).

    OK, now you can pull your tongue back in,
    close your mouth,
    my passing moment of insanity having just passed
    I can assure you that my intentions are as indecent as just hinted at.
    Even if in a more realistic way.
    Care to ascertain?

    Fine, open your mouth, wider,
    stick out your tongue as far as it goes...
    now let’s see, what shall I do with it, or rather, what should you do with it?
    I have some ideas... not sure if they will agree with you...
    aha, they will as long as I open my mouth, wider,
    stick out my tongue as far as it goes...

    (the rest was a mixture of disagreeable agreeabilities
    and undefinable definabilities
    and misconducting misconductabilities
    that have no pair and no impair and no associated onomatopoeia
    in whatever dictionary or language one might search
    but the pleasing displeasures and comforting discomforts
    have no pair and no impair and no associated onomatopoeia except in our brains,
    oh, those wonderfully wondering wandering brains of ours...)


Shining Light?

    I watch the dust settling behind, and moments few I wonder
    Was I the one who paved this road with blunder after blunder
    Searching the words to put to sleep my ever growing hunger
    A whoring scribe, a minstrel’s curse, a clown, a rhyming monger?

    I loved just once so many times that counting stopped to matter
    Disbosoming those wrenching thoughts with blasts of pitter-patter
    And as the ink gobbled the page delinquent and forbidding
    Unholy screams rattled my brains, horrendous nightmares skidding.

    Romance was not my tool of choice though, scrupulous abettor,
    It married Eros’ lurid style and blessed me with their fetter
    Leaving me tied to walls unseen on which I scratched my wishes
    While flogged outside my cogent self by lust’s deranged militias.

    It’s time to sunder shield and sword, futility abounding,
    La Mancha’s knight has gone to dust, his spirit ever hounding,
    I sink within my barrel’s depths and scrap its stinking bottom
    In hope it doesn’t turn to be the devil’s hairy scrotum.

    Good bye benighted whores of word belittling and scorning
    I curse you with eternal itch from evening till late morning
    You may not have allowed my say upon your greasy pages
    I found my way, now fuck you all, you greedy bloated phages.


The man who was peeing potatoes

    is not a metaphor.
    Just an eye catcher, more so than The woman who was peeing potatoes,
    calling on whomever his/her eye gets caught
    to investigate whatever depths such a message heralds
    (shallow being a depth too, you know).
    Which is more than I ever intended,
    it just struck me
    stuck with me
    and I would have added suck with me
    but it would have become even more meaningless than it is already.

    If it was a metaphor
    I have no idea what it would metaphorize,
    if it was not a metaphor
    it could be one if I could find what to metaphorize with it,
    yeah, turning around my tail like a dog Narcissus in love with himself
    (himself because it is about me, if it was about you it would have been herself).

    The man who was peeing potatoes could have peed anything from peas to watermelons,
    looks to me that potatoes strikes the right balance between sizes
    and irretrievable meanings - big, small or medium
    same like breasts
    and nostrils.
    Thus this combination chose itself to be expressed and me to express it,
    I would have preferred that it chose some other alien of course.

    Why is there no Pulitzer for nonsense poetry, I ask you?
    It is as difficult to create and probably much more so than yeapsense poetry
    and less remunerative – not that ANY kind of poetry is remunerative.
    But I would have stood a chance to win it, or at least runner-up it,
    or at the very least of least being a rejection of it
    accompanied by a recommendation to a world-class asylum
    for the dangerously under-gifted.

    This under-gifted poem, as many of my as of late under-gifted poems,
    is the result of my mis-hearing or mis-interpreting some words I heard
    which triggered some kind of an avalanche in my brain, close to a stroke but not one
    and the anomaly typical of an abstract set-in
    and thus – this is the result.

    I guess some para-psychologist should research it,
    I would make a nice case study
    and maybe even get paid for it this once. I mean... for my poetry.


Losing, losing, lost

    my rhyme
    no more sublime

    my slang
    imbibed a nettle’s bitter tang
    I’ve lost
    what most
    would not have seen
    until they’re hundred seventeen

    I reached
    where others get to be
    blessed with advanced senility
    yet I’m devoid of that most kind
    cocooning warm endarkened mind

    the curse of thought
    stainless steel
    caged in a crumbling flesh ordeal

    the waning mandom basic drive
    that turned me beast among the hive
    defaults perversely to select
    the curse of resting intellect

    no breast on chest
    a bleeding heart
    impaled upon a giant dart
    no sip from lip
    collapsing lungs
    and blisters on invading tongues

    I growl and scowl and caw and claw
    surrounded by encroaching awe
    the curses army piles on me
    each curse a mortal enemy
    so why the hell I do not die
    I never knew a death so shy.



    If you were a bird
    and I a red cherry
    I’d plead with god Sun us to bless and to marry
    and when consummation would turn to consumption
    I’d whisper: my seed will await the resumption...

    If you a black widow
    and I male and hairy
    I’d laugh at those tales be they true be they scary
    and as you would gobble my seed with my body
    my last song of love would be proud... well, and bawdy...

    If you were the sun,
    and I snow on mountains
    I’d pray for your spring when I’d melt into fountains
    you’d never know love as berserk as that soaking
    inside a dry earth which my sobs would be choking...

    If you were a word
    and I a sharp pencil
    my aquarelle godly, my spirit prehensile
    I’d write you with letters encased in a fire
    that would overwrite that old word spelled... desire.



    You sowed inside my mind the thought of cherry’s bleeding flavor
    The pack of wolves roaming my brain intent on human savor
    They gobble chunks of willing flesh with my invading fingers
    One final gulp, one final howl... and yet the hunger lingers.

    We lie upon the sandy beach, a shared and tattered body
    Sprinkled with thousand sparkling blobs of a fermenting toddy
    I lick a drop, you lick fourteen, a rage sublime engorges
    And then in a conniption fit again a nonesuch forges.

    We split the body into mine, and into yours, the hunger
    Remindful of that mighty knell, the universe was younger,
    Shall we create another sun? those hanging breasts enticing
    And I am driven out of rhyme as hips, anew, start splicing.


    A crazy gull pecks at my toe in hope that I be dead,
    A crab the size of baby Kong insists we stole its bed,
    We roll inside each other’s flesh until we fall off world
    I look for life’s forgotten sense
    with you
    around me



    First you rearranged my clothing
    and I didn’t mind.

    Then you rearranged my body
    and I didn’t mind even more.

    Finally you started rearranging various items considered as my body parts
    which showed more interest in the rearrangements going on
    and I didn’t mind most of all
    until something that defies the laws of gravitation and relativity
    and anything that Shakespeare could have written
    I let it happen, not that I had much choice. Or you, for that matter.

    Now we lie on our backs
    competing for the most stupid of smiles
    and waiting for the universe to rearrange itself and us with it.
    We know there is a limit, given entropy and things
    and we do not mind disturbing that limit again.
    And again.

    Very immature of us, I know.


Plastic Nuggets

    It’s not poetry.
    It’s spasms, lately. Spasmetry.

    There is some p, poetry, to it.
    But also some s for shit, the second s probably for sorry,
    a for awful, I wish awesome, and the m mediating for maybe.
    Yeah, my nugget for today.


    Once, sex was your foremost.
    Now, sex is your lastmost.

    Once you were groping.
    Now you are groaning.

    Once you counted the hours,
    now more like the decenniums.
    From. To. Between.

    Once you were eternally insatiable,
    where did you suddenly find this eternal satiety?

    Now sex is your lastmost. If at all.


    And then you told me about your aunt.

    And then I told you about my uncle.

    And then we told us about groceries

    And then we understood.


    It’s when I start writing the way I write
    (here, now)
    that I lose hope
    (which I never had)
    that anything will change
    and then I decide
    (decisive Jojo, that’s me)
    that it makes no sense to change my ways
    (remember ol’ blu eyes Frankie?)
    and keep on writing the way I write
    (since that’s the natural continuation)
    until it will get back on track
    (or out of track, completely).


    Your hand on the TV remote control.
    Your hand on the blender ON button.
    Your hand on the keyboard, strange place for a hand, or not? Or when?
    Your hand cuts tomatoes and cucumbers and potatoes.
    Your other hand not, or sometimes.

    Your hand not on me. Strange place for a hand. Not to be.


    When I finish
    I will not know.

    When I finish
    someone will know.
    I hope.

    I probably said it already
    so what.
    It’s always true.



    Do you remember the total
    and totally reckless
    spiced with drops of seduction and veiled promises and hints of abandon
    act of almost divine creation
    called by humans making love?

    I remember, I think,
    though holes the size of Antarctica start eating away at it
    those few times
    when we perform
    a saturated with imposed duty and unapologetic haste and selfish interest
    act of almost mechanical compliance
    called by humans sex.



    subsidizes many institutions on Earth.
    Started billions of years ago,
    improving all the time, adding all the time
    new institutions
    new sub institutions to existing institutions
    new sub-sub... etc.
    Inventive, damn death,
    successful entrepreneur, damn death,
    best investment if investment would be possible in it, damn death.
    Thousands, millions its institutions and subs

    Sickness, war, murder, suicide, executions, famine and thousands of other main ones
    with subs type cancer, tetanus, bullets, gas, jumps, poison, locusts, drought...
    you get the point, no? Or points rather, no?
    And it found me, or rather my close environment too, why not,
    death knows its statistics.
    There is no immunity to death, right?
    as it kept and keeps finding family, colleagues, friends, acquaintances
    forcing me to howl, wail, scream. Impotently.

    Well, I decided to write an obituaria, an inexistent English word
    which in my mind translates into listing the various close to me humans who perished
    one way or another
    mostly too early.
    Maybe just spiting death?
    Yeap, probably more of a telephones book without telephones than a poem.
    Yeap, probably more of paying credit to those forgotten who should not be.
    Yeap, probably more of another form of howl, wail, scream.
    Who do I start with, random fashion?

    Costache, why not Costache?
    my gentle giant primary school colleague and unofficial friend Constantin C
    who ended his days at his own hand. A thousand years later and I miss you, Costache.

    Same school, same class, breast cancer this time the reason
    found Mariana, the exotic eyed looking girl, years later.
    Same cancer that found beautiful Mira, my cousin’s daughter
    who followed in the steps of her mother and grandmother, all died of the same bane.
    And a cancer is also that which downed my friend and competitor “Totosh” Israel
    he liking Cliff and I liking Elvis
    and all I remember now is his frozen-faced father next to his grave.
    And, of course, cancer murdered my best and greatest friend “Umi” Abraham,
    oh, such cruel his path towards death,
    oh, such handsome and talented tale-teller my gone friend Umi,
    oh, such deep wound left behind. Kathy, his wife, following on a heart condition.

    War. Wars. Skirmishes. Accidents. Death as the common denominator.
    This country of mine demanding so much sacrifice of its sons and daughters
    and those who live live and those who die stop living
    and there is no such thing as honorable death or heroic death
    and those who claim differently please do ask the families of those heroes
    and find their mind and say in the matter.
    I am sadly member of the most cursed year in my high school graduation-years memory
    with the biggest number of deaths related to the country’s struggle for survival:
    David A who competed on my later heart throb,
    Shmuel B who married one of the most beautiful girls around,
    cheerful Shabi Y,
    Hillel I who competed on my very first heart throb,
    “Bitchky” Yaakov the early leader,
    Meir S. who disappeared in the never elucidated Dakar submarine disappearance
    and for months I followed the search news, crying my eyes out.
    Then there is my cousin’s son, whose name I do not remember
    but at whose Bar-Mitzvah I went.
    My childhood friend gentle Larissa’s husband.
    My cousin Eli whom a training accident drove into insanity
    finishing with a tragic heart attack.

    Other colleagues, friends?
    Wonderful Shmulik R surviving a terrible accident yet downed by cancer.
    Yaakov S whom I didn’t like as colleague but appreciated as private person, cancer.
    Yvonne B always smiley always sunny always efficient, cancer.
    Balazs V, who decided euthanasia was preferable to horrible pain, cancer.
    Jeremy E, silent, talented, successful, heart attack.
    My eternally joyful neighbor and friend Nick, cancer.

    As warned - this is not a poem.
    Just some kind of personal stone wall engraved with names that marked my life
    with names of humans that death cheated out of their lives.
    Off my chest,
    not off my heart.

    Fuck you death.


Let it wonder.

    I sat at a table in the sidewalk café
    the beer cold
    eyes lost somewhere between the A and the T on the poster before me
    the surrounding chatter noise not penetrating,
    maybe I was getting immune?
    May I?

    I looked up.
    She did not look like a hooker.
    Actually, if someone believed in angels
    and was looking for a model for an angel
    she had the face
    and the figure
    to model for it.
    Hooker or angel? I asked, just to make sure.
    Neither, just looking for a free chair to place my behind on and order a beer.
    I looked around, the place is full.
    And it has to be safe too,
    she added.
    I raised a quizzical eyebrow, and nodded my OK.

    She sat down, took a sip out of my glass without asking permission
    and sighed contentedly.
    Same! she signaled a surfing waitress and smiled.
    I was still kind of shell-shocked.
    Safe? I repeated partially.
    Yes, safe, you are sufficiently old no to drug me or seduce me or lust after me
    and I am presently in every possible mood except for sex.

    Her frosty glass appeared in no time
    she paid cash and placed it in front of me, pulling my glass towards her.
    You didn’t think I was gonna leave you with my boogers, did you? she smiled again
    and I was shell-shocked again.
    Who, what was this creature? And why, statistically speaking, did she land at my table?

    I pushed my chair backwards and looked more attentively.
    God was she normal, God was she young, God was she beautiful.
    What there was to see above the table edge horizon
    was a pair of slender hands exiting the short sleeves of a deep cut, revealing shirt,
    some of her skin decorated with a few colorful tattoos, some making sense some not
    and yet from the neck upwards there was no blemish on that smooth skin
    except for a couple of artistically placed piercings...
    definitely not my generation, definitely my taste. I shuddered.
    You shuddered. You find me repulsive?
    I find you excitingly exquisite.
    I shuddered at the thought that your nipples might be pierced as well.
    Her explosive laughter pulled regards from other tables.
    I bet you would like to find out, no?
    No, I answered. I am old, remember, and in no mood for sex either.
    Who was talking sex? A sip. Old?
    She touched some of my visible body parts, fleetingly.
    She touched some of my invisible body parts, fleetingly.
    She touched some of my intimate body parts, fleetingly.
    I am not sure I wouldn’t want you to lust after me. Another sip.
    Another smile.
    Not necessarily an encouraging one.
    She blinked and I froze, beer glass half way to my mouth.
    Her eyelids rose
    and it was as if it was the first time I saw a cloud move away from the sun
    or a flower crown opening in accelerated motion
    or a fist smashing though the ice covering a lake

    Are you sure you’re not here to seduce me?
    I am sure.

    No answer. A sip.

    You are incredibly, extremely beautiful, I said.
    A blush was not what I expected, yet it was what I got.
    I believe you believe it, she finally said, a slight tremolo to her voice.
    It’s the truth, I said.
    I believe it is, when you say it.
    She stood up. Let’s go to the beach, as if it was the most natural thing to say.
    Let’s go to the beach, I echoed, as if it was the most natural thing to say.
    We stood up.
    She took my hand.
    You know, if it was a story or a poem, people would think it was exaggerated.
    I know, if it was.

    We walked in silence. Our silence.
    The world was noisy around us – cars, bikes, people, a dog barking at times.
    The moon was almost full.
    In a few days one of us could turn werewolf.
    Knowing my luck, it would be me.
    Knowing my luck, it would.
    The sand was getting deep under our feet.
    Will you write about us?
    How do you know I write?
    Now I know. A giggle. Will you describe me as beautiful?
    There are no words to describe your beauty. I will try.
    She laid her cheek upon my shoulder, until waves started licking our feet.
    We stood like that for long minutes.

    Let’s move back a few paces. Let’s undress.
    We moved back a few paces. We undressed. Naked.
    We lay on the sand, next to each other, elbows barely touching.
    Only elbows.
    Want to check if my nipples are pierced?
    I hope we wake up before the first bathers visit the beach.
    Otherwise we’ll find ourselves beating the million hits mark on Instagram.
    I will make sure of that.
    Wake up.

    She lifted her torso slightly and placed a kiss upon my lips.
    It was not a lover’s kiss,
    it was a loving kiss, mixed with sand and a salty wetness.
    Thank you, she said.

    I never returned to that café, afraid reality may mar memory.
    Lately, I even started wondering if it actually happened. Probably.
    Probably yes or probably not? a nagging voice in my head kept wondering.
    Let it wonder.



    I woke up middle of the night
    sat at the keyboard
    and... had nothing to say.
    Except for these few lines.

    If I was someone else
    I’d have had pity on myself.



    I miss your snoring.

    I miss you, the hermaphrodite parent of your snoring,
    its music stretching the better part of an octave
    don’t know exactly which
    with a few special effects thrown in.

    It matters not the hand hammers followed by the pneumatic hammers
    the neighbors were using on the walls
    trying to either get to us
    express their unswerving appreciation of our apartments’’ proximity.

    It matters not the fallen paintings
    which forced me every morning to sweep the glass shards off the floor,
    anyway most of the glass was plastic
    and I could always buy a new Picasso or two.

    It matters not the hearing aids I’m presently applying for
    (though I slept with ear-plugs claiming an NRR of 57 decibels).
    Or the plastic operation to my nose
    (which moved almost an entire millimeter to the left).
    Or failing the Guinness application when compared to Trinity’s Gadget test
    (I am certain the measurement instruments were defective at the time).

    I miss your snoring,
    it being at the center of my Gaussian curve of missing things
    a graph whose one sigma deviation would be
    a single 1 preceded by twenty seven 0s after the decimal point
    and one single 0 preceding the decimal point.

    I miss your snoring.
    I miss. You.



    I loved you.

    You were beautiful.

    Your body the missing element in Mendeleev’s table

    your skin taut like a tuned violin’s string
    your spine’s litheness that of a lilac bough
    your intensity of stare that of an eagle.

    Years passed.

    Your intensity of stare that of a sleeping eagle
    your spine litheness that of a lilac trunk
    your skin taut like an untuned violin’s string

    your body an isotope of the missing element in Mendeleev’s table.

    You are beautiful.

    I love you.



    You took me by the hand: Let’s go.
    Where? I asked
    and you placed a thin index finger over my lips
    took my hand
    and started leading.
    Or rather dragging but I wouldn’t complain, would I?

    We crossed a few streets
    jumped over a couple puddles
    ran three times around a lamppost
    two mountaintops later... here.

    Here... where?
    My heart.

    I stopped, looked around,
    not frightened but my hand started squeezing yours in a crush.
    No, maybe... apprehensive?
    (as if I understood the full meaning of it and its accompanying synonyms).

    What is this?
    A tomato.
    A tomato in your heart? What is this?
    A dark memory, help me paint it some light?
    I painted it some light and you touched the wet paint and smeared it on my nose.
    As a thank you note. Don’t go there, even darker. Even I don’t dare.
    I didn’t go there but I went next to it – birds, dogs, kids, an erupting volcano...
    I don’t get it.
    You’re not supposed to, it’s symbolic, a memory where I’m erupting with joy.
    Are there many of these?
    Not enough of them, I need more.
    You need my help?
    I need any help. I need light. Do you have some more light?

    I looked in my pockets
    checked in the mirror
    opened my wallet... c’mon, you can be more creative than this.
    Is there so much darkness?

    We visited some more corners
    beneath benches
    inside caves, suns, touched a few clouds...
    a few sparks, a lot of chaos, a beauty unwritten, a need.
    Shall I sing you a song? You will get a rash inside your ears.
    Then maybe write me a poem? Or some poems? Or many poems?

    She wasn’t joking, she wasn’t laughing, she wasn’t even talking,
    it was strange, it was the only glimmer of light I was seriously capable of
    well, match size, at best candle. But I could try.
    Do you have a place where we can sit?
    I have a place where I can lie down and you can sit and... it’s quite dark.
    Doesn’t matter.
    Can I bring my dogs along?
    You have dogs?
    I do. And also a tomato.
    Bring also your tomato along.

    After she finished bringing her wishes along there was not much place left for me to sit
    so I stood,
    leaned on her nearest rib and started writing.
    Then reading aloud.
    Then writing some more.
    Then reading aloud some more.
    When her entire menagerie, tomato excepted, fell asleep, I stopped reading aloud.
    Why did you stop? I like the soft light. Go on.

    It was all the encouragement I needed. I went on.

    Somewhere a sunrise started playing with some orange hues on the horizon.
    I’ll have to stop soon, day is coming.
    You don’t have to stop, you’re bringing the day.

    I didn’t stop.
    I hope not to stop for a long time.
    Never expected a candle to be taken for a sun,
    I guess this was a possibility.
    Another possibility was that I was starting to reflect the light that already was there,
    in your heart.
    But I wouldn’t tell it – to you or anyone else.
    For a moment I felt good, it was good feeling good.
    I feel good, you said, I like feeling good, you said.



    How old are you?
    Certainly not physically. And you?
    Thirty, physically. And mentally. Do you think we are a good match?
    I think we are a perfect match. Mentally.
    And physically?
    To be investigated.
    Are you scared?
    Yes, that we may be too good a match.

    She giggled.
    What others may call an exploding nova I called a giggle. Her giggle.
    I did not see it, of course,
    she was there and I was there, another there, thousands of miles apart,
    but I heard it and saw it as if I saw it.

    You speak a strange language.
    Of course, I create variations on the fly, you’ve seen it before.
    I’ve seen it before. Probably to do with the difference between mental and physical.
    Do you care?
    I adore.

    We walked hand in hand under a canopy of blossoming linden trees
    falling tiny flowers embedding themselves in her hair
    the perfume inebriating. Her perfume, not the linden.
    It was not real, of course,
    she was there and I was there, another there, thousands of miles apart,
    but I heard it and smelled it as if I smelled it.

    Ever imagined us making love?
    Ever imagined I anything else?
    Far from it. Living it.
    Imagined is not living.
    Beg to differ.

    We meet somewhere between your there and my there, undefined,
    crabs cutting our clothes
    bats carrying the formless patches away
    hummingbirds wadding their nests with the mottled rests and pieces of skin, ours,
    my left fingers interlaced with your right, my right with your left
    my belly hemisphere knotted to your belly hemisphere inextricably
    with our back hemispheres cupped in the gigantic fist of a muscled pocket
    the throb
    somewhere in between us
    growing in intensity until its roar puts to shame Krakatoa 1883
    the flesh machinery ripping a gash in space time
    and us moving seconds long from one universe to another
    until, unfortunately, we return to ours
    and only memories of magnificence linger
    slowly dissolving into nothingness.

    I see.
    Do you?
    I do.

    She did.
    I know she did. I lived it.


The answer is negative

    The answer
    is negative
    to the question: will we ever, ever ever, ever make love in the rain?
    We will never, never never, never make love in the rain.

    Once we were lovers, the greatest lovers probably in our intoxicated minds.
    Meanwhile we fought
    we scratched
    we yelled
    we bit
    we separated and I went west and you east
    or the other way around
    or at ninety degrees to the above mentioned
    and I lost the greatest love of my life
    and you lost the greatest love of your life
    and we never never, never never, never made love in the rain.
    A broken promise, probably the only broken promise in my life.
    I don’t know about yours.

    You may be dead by now, God only knows.
    I may be dead by now, God only knows
    though I keep writing
    and reminiscing
    and sometimes crying my eyes out. And in. And everywhich other way.

    Will we ever, ever ever, ever make love in the rain?
    Pounds the rain
    Throbs the pain
    In my mind drums a refrain
    And my fists clench impotently
    As I rage and howl in vain
    We will never, never never, never make love in the rain.



    The countdown started

    The only question is where did it start -
    at one hundred? at seventy eight? at eleven? at nine?
    Or maybe at one
    and this is the last one I’ll ever write?
    This little I’ll know with next one, when I write it if I write it.
    But where am I starting at?... I’ll never know.
    Only those after me will know
    if they care to count,
    if they care at all.

    Maybe I’ll start a count... up?
    This will help whoever’s interested know where the countdown started,
    there, at my last countup number,
    it will be accurate to a tolerance of plus/minus three (just a nice number).
    I will not know the number but they will do.
    Ha, and who gives a damn but I, the one not to give a damn ever again?

    I envy those who knew when to pull out from their art
    and then went waiting for their death
    basking in their past glory like, say, Greta Garbo.
    At least they had this past glory
    even if their countdown was at zero.

    I have neither.
    Glory zilch
    countdown unknown.
    And, damn I, I can’t stop myself from blabbering,
    if there is a writer’s curse – I guess this is it, incessant blabber.

    OK, this is count one in my count up sequence.
    I will not bet how high it will go,
    this is one bet I will lose.



    You sit on the balcony.
    Then you sit in the living room.

    Then you sit on the balcony, again, drinking coffee. You hate coffee.
    Then you sit in the living room again, not drinking coffee, you hate coffee.

    Then you sit nowhere
    eyes closed around imaginary me sitting across from you
    same nowhere
    no coffee, we both hate coffee,
    heart beating wildly
    hearts beating wildly
    we love, coffee or no coffee.

    A drop of rain, unknown to sun
    Insists on maintaining its hold on a leaf,
    You write me a letter, your hair in a bun
    As letters weave magic with ink and serif.

    The drop of rain, betrayed by time
    Begins to extend tiny fingers above,
    You seal a long sentence with comma and rhyme
    Uncertain what flower embodies your love.

    A drop of rain, assails the tile
    And splashes a beautiful rainbow in death,
    You sign the damp paper with flourishing style
    The words lie there, painted, and soaking your breath.

    You return from nowhere
    from balcony
    from living room
    you wash me from your coffee
    your wash your coffee from your mouth
    you wash your mouth from the leftovers of bitter taste
    and close your eyes.

    We meet again, somewhere, nowhere,
    we love, coffee or no coffee.



    Your nipples
    ripe for the picking
    hanging on to planet you
    and floating above planet I
    at an infuriatingly constant-tiny-impenetrable distance
    one thousandth of any measurable measure invented by man
    one thousandth of a millimeter one thousandth of an inch
    for all I care they could have been one thousandth of a light year away
    and as inaccessible
    as they kept floating ascendingly... descendingly?... whatendigly above my mouth
    eyelids fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird
    craving to penetrate unfathomable depths into lakes of denied nectar...

    Planet you kept ascending... descending?... whatending
    which way are you floating rolling pivoting gyrating carting? asked my eyes
    as a stain the size of Saturn’s great vortex passed above them
    almost burning my retinae to a crisp
    and which I rapidly identified as your navel
    and if the direction was right...
    thankfully it was
    judging by the shadow of an almost perfect shave’s leftovers which followed
    burning my retinae to a crisp with no almost involved
    dragging after it soft contours emblematically feminine
    further ascending... descending?... whatending toward my nose
    and inundating it with innuendoes of majesty and wild flower fields and insanity
    and the moment it reached the propinquity of my mouth
    a tongue the length of a chameleon’s shot upwards with the fury of a solar flare
    crossing that infuriatingly constant-tiny-impenetrable distance
    and sinking into those unfathomable depths of lakes carrying denied nectar

    planets suddenly joined
    crashed into each other...

    Upheaval the universal balance shattered like a crystal bauble hitting an anvil
    and Big Bang’s brother sister entire family and genealogy ensued
    as those soft contours emblematically feminine ripped away from tongue
    and floated rolled pivoted gyrated carted to other universal corners
    and other forms of flesh got mixed in the melee
    waves of the cosmic disturbance shattering neighborhood street lamps
    a window pane
    the half empty glass on the night-table...


    So... from planets and Big Bangs and universal values
    down to a shattered half empty glass on the night table?
    you muttered
    content, warm against me.

    I did not answer, there was no need.
    A new universe started forming around us
    and we watched it silently, peacefully,
    the perfumed haze momentarily refusing to dissipate and carry with it
    that one moment of eternity
    into the ever growing singularity of a reality
    resurrecting itself around us.



    You held autumn in your hand.

    How does one hold autumn in one’s hand? someone might ask...
    well, someone does not know you, do they?

    The vines brownish going on red
    the yellow stained with dry blood splotches
    here and there a remainder... a reminder?... of the once green
    your fingers holding it like the holiest of relics
    afraid the most imperceptible breath would make it crumble away
    and all you’ll be left with on your fingers would be autumn dust,

    and yet, you risked damnation
    and brought it to your lips
    and kissed it.

    Lo and behold, it did not crumble away
    for an immeasurably short moment its vines filled with sap
    its dry blood started pumping
    its yellow swelled with memories of its green... your green,
    for a short, immeasurable moment.
    Then it crumbled.

    I wish I was autumn in your hand,
    that autumn.
    Alas, I’m winter already.



    Is the perpetual and repetitive joke that the gods play on us,
    I wonder how they can keep laughing at it
    all those trillions of times that they proffer it,
    not even the greatest comedians could have succeeded such a feat.

    Not very original as definitions go, I know.
    And not that I believe in multiple gods
    nor a single god, come to think of it
    be the invoked sub-definition of god(s) anything that anyone may believe in
    within or without inverted commas
    called by such name or such other name anyone may call or have called it
    under any scientific or philosophical or religious doctrine.

    There are a few variations to the joke’s climax, admittedly,
    when succumbing to afflictions type eaten or sick or killed or by accident
    (and relevant sub-sub-classifications)
    or even to that which humans call affectionately old age slash natural causes
    when actually they all fall under the one and same all-encompassing umbrella.

    Ha ha ha.
    I really do hear the laughter
    and for the life of me
    I do not get the joke.



    It’s so long since I wrote something original
    that even my one most devoted, forgiving, loyal reader – I
    starts showing signs of impatience.
    Short coughs, shuffling of feet, impotent honking at the red of traffic lights.

    Sure, I am not alone in this category
    the way Picasso did towards the end of his life
    or Rowling did at the height of her run
    or Gaga does with her outrageous outfits
    but they at least made (and make) heavy money with their unoriginality.

    Masses call it style (debatable)
    Cynics call it greed (debatable).
    Shrinks call it obsession (debatable).
    I call it whatIlack (sorry, had to create a one word).

    I could try to work at it, push it,
    but with so little time left to achieve it (again) I decided to give up.
    I’d better start some other, safer paths, where time is of no relevance
    like counting my number of followers (even hook-handed pirates could count these)
    or collecting parking fines (I’m on my way to breaking some record, I think)
    or start my own political party (parties never finish what they start).

    In any case, I’d better stop reading what I write altogether
    else even the little time left will be probably cut to half.


    So why do I bother, you ask, still placing all these squiggles on paper
    which don’t mean much anyway
    and will soon lose their one reader anyway
    and some other things anyway?

    I guess the answer is that this is some kind of sickness
    a terminal kind of sickness
    in its final phase sickness
    and it has to run its natural course towards end
    and coma
    and oblivion.


one of those if's


    you give me your life
    I have nothing to best
    but a few colored marbles from my childhood’s chest

    if you give me a year
    I could offer you words
    that I’ll twist and shepherd to poetic herds

    but if you give me a second
    I’ll play you the strum
    of my year and my life for all time to come
    I’ll gather the moon in my iris’ lake
    to break into comets in your breastroke’s wake
    and if inside that second
    your nipple will find
    adytum awaiting in my mouth and mind
    just lay one red flower
    in my tombstone’s shade
    while I paint my Hades with your eye’s deep jade.



    F. Like Fucked.
    Couldn’t have named the poem Fucked, can’t have such a title in my TOC
    so I went for F. The same.

    Of course, F could stand also for Failed or Flunked,
    they’re all related, same family, you’re free to interpret.
    Left knee, Fucked, right knee, Fucked,
    elbow Fucked, one of them, don’t remember which.
    Right shoulder Fucked,
    left Fucked too but differently,
    neck Fucked
    spine Fucked
    sternum Fucked though not many would know they have one or what it is.
    Prostate Fucked.
    Hearing on its way to get Fucked
    sight was always Fucked but stable so, hey, I can still read with no eyeglasses,
    for how long?

    Teeth, E. Expensive, AND Fucked.
    Hair was never my pride
    but now starts pushing wherever I wish it would not, how would you call it?
    I call it Fucked.
    Heart, no idea and don’t want to know,
    blood no idea and don’t want to know,
    kidneys no idea and don’t want to know,
    I trust they will tell me when they’re Fucked, talkative organs, aren’t they?
    Liver, stomach, various intestines of various lengths inclusive the exit one,
    same as above.
    Big left toenail Fucked a certain way
    big right toenail Fucked a certain other way.
    Left hand honorary finger Fucked
    left hand index finger Fucked
    luckily the right hand can still crush a hoe’s handle.

    Comme ci comme ça,
    not like bunnies, pigeons, rats,
    more like bears in winter (they sleep, I know)
    like dinosaurs (they’re extinct, I know)
    like totem poles (they never meet, they’re made of wood, they’re worms eaten, I know).

    Brain still Poetic.
    One day it will go its own alphabet way like A (Alzheimer) or D (Dementia) or S (Senility)
    or S (another S, for Stroke). Translating to Fucked, what else?
    The other bodily bits and pieces, the thousands of them?
    I could start enumerating, detailing, making drawings,
    I could.
    I believe it is sufficiently disgusting as it is
    even though it is all Poetic fiction.
    Definitely maybe.


another one of those if's


    you lay your head
    on the flowers bed
    among crumbling seeds seven seasons dead

    you will hear my wail
    crawling on the trail
    as my last tomorrow and my winter wed.

    If you look my way
    as I wish you may
    you will find that I never dared to pray

    as I feared I could
    lose my faith for good
    and my verse would change into rasping bray.

    If you think of me
    and convert to we
    mixing shards of maybe that will never be

    you will hear the din
    of unsated sin
    in the fizzling embers of a love’s debris.



    I walked my sidewalk.
    I hoped she would be there her sidewalk
    she would not wait until I passed,
    she was
    she didn’t.

    It was she who smiled shyly
    who waved embarrassedly
    who crossed the street to my side.
    Who proposed we go a bit of the back ways.
    Where I pointed to her the beauty of the landscape
    in greens and yellows and browns.
    I don’t remember us holding hands,
    I do remember hesitatingly, willingly touching lips –
    half lips
    sideways lips.
    Touching lips, still.
    We become more friendly, you know? she said
    and I said I knew
    and then I woke up.

    If there was a wall close by I would have banged my head against it.
    Forty years after and she was still there,
    roaming some corridors of my mind I never knew I possessed.
    I started looking for that wall.



    with nostalgia

    some part of it
    some part of it

    in its splendidness.

    i thought that only old people are afflicted by it.


the secret

    you have a secret, she said,
    what is your secret? she said
    and i smiled, embarrassed
    because i did not know i had a secret until she told me i had a secret

    you see, i kept my secret secret
    even from myself

    until a million miles away
    a girl I met just yesterday
    forsook her day
    and turned my way

    you have a secret, she said.

    i have a secret, i said,
    now i have to find it, i said,
    and when you find it, she said, please wad my mind’s corners with it
    all these million miles away from you
    and let us share heart and soul and flesh.

    could i refuse
    the gentle muse
    who chanced upon my syracuse

    and with the might of a newborn’s innocence
    painted upon its crumbling walls and creeping blues

    the brazen glory of word
    and of doubt
    and of wildest imagination?

    i have a secret, i said,
    now i know, i said
    and when i find it i will wad your mind’s corners with it
    all these million miles away from you
    and we will share heart and soul and flesh.


My brother Archimedes

    My brother Archimedes,

    I will never equal you in glory
    I will certainly equal you in inglorious death

    you at the hands of an ignoble Roman
    I at the hands of an ignoble Chronosan.

    Damn Ananke, she saw to it both times.

    I mean you are already dust and gone
    I will be dust and gone in a few centuries,
    small inequality there but on the scale of an infinite (?) Cosmos, who cares?
    There are some more.

    Like you left a legacy that survives you for millennia, but what do you care?
    And I will leave a legacy that will survive me for days, but what will I care?
    Like you founded mathematics and hydraulics and mechanics and other ic’s
    and I founded a CDs collection and a DVDs collection and a Stamps collection and other ion’s
    but what do/will you/I care?
    Like you found an approximation of Pi by drawing a 96 sides polygon
    and I found a better approximation by opening my calculator
    but what does anyone care?

    This poem (another ? here, this time relating to the word poem) is one of those bitching poems
    telling me and the world how unfair fate and statistics and IQ and wealth and telomeres are
    and had I (I) been born then, it all would have been different
    and had you (Archimedes) been born now, it all would have been different
    (probably I would have founded mathematics and hydraulics and mechanics and other ic’s
    probably also microbiology and astronomy and psychology and other y’s
    and you would be the one stuck with CDs and DVDs and Stamps collections and other ion’s
    probably also autographs and photographs and epitaphs and other aph’s.)

    My brother Archimedes,

    you said (or not) noli turbare circulos meos (of course in Greek, you sucked at Latin)
    I will probably say (certainly not) noli turbare sepultura meae (of course in English, I suck at Latin)
    we both suck/ed at something
    yet we both share/d something too, which makes us brothers:
    a zest for life and for knowledge and for art.
    Not necessarily same life, knowledge, art.
    Not same women either.
    Still, I think of you as my brother
    you don’t think of me at all,
    soon we’ll meet and discuss the details.

    Until then sayonara! (this is in Japanese, which we both share complete unknowledge of).


One day

    One day
    I’ll meet you, maybe,
    and I’ll find that down there you are a perfectly normal person,
    though lovable.

    One day
    you’ll meet me, maybe,
    and you’ll find that down there I am a perfectly normal person,
    though lovable, hopefully.

    One other day
    we’ll meet, maybe,
    and we will talk love
    and sing love
    and fight love
    and make love, maybe,
    and following day will find us side by side
    or any other tri-dimensional composition that two bodies can create on a bed,


Those eyes without pair

    Those eyes without pair...
    you did not close them
    to the end.

    We undressed each other
    febrile fingers fighting clumsily over the variety of buttons and clasps and zippers
    shivering uncontrollably like a pair of first-classers
    having just discovered that there are intriguing differences
    and afraid not that they are discovered while searching for them
    but rather that they will be interrupted while discovering.

    We took turns on our backs
    nipple tips teasing nipple tips with me at an obvious disadvantage
    curly tips teasing curly tips with me at an obvious advantage
    drops of sweat closing the infinitesimal distances separating tips from tips
    and grabbing like fishing hooks whatever they laid their shiny surfaces
    on... grab, hold, munch.

    Our tongues, immaturely, decided to invest their studying time into dentistry
    and after fiercely mapping the other’s tongue musculature
    and dental damage
    and oral cavity nooks and crannies
    decided to continue on a much wider and wilder exploration
    where nooks and crannies became ridges and canyons
    and brain waves surging from hitherto inexistent sources
    turned the entire body into burning crematorium.

    The moment
    The end.
    You closed your eyes.
    You opened your eyes, those eyes without pair.
    I wasn’t there anymore.

    The buzzing... was it supposed to stop?
    It did not stop.
    You turned eyes to a cataclysmic view
    thousands of bees hitting against the window pane
    the swarm darker and thicker by the minute
    and for a moment you were thankful for technology and its temporary invincibility
    when facing such relentless invasion of mindless creatures
    whose only aim in life at that moment was getting to the source of that unique perfume
    that was driving them insane.

    You giggled.
    Time for a shower, you murmured
    and rushed to the bathroom, whiffs of the perfume trailing you
    reaching around the world,
    to me. Getting there.
    Damn, I thought, why do I suddenly feel like hitting my head against the window pane?



    No need to wait for Earth to fall in the sun, I said,
    sufficient for an atomic bomb to fall upon us
    and my writes and I will metamorphose
    into vaporized matter of our previous selves,
    and with the morning breeze even this dissipates
    leaving behind

    No need for sun or atomic bombs, she said,
    fixing a thinner one of my books under the leg of the wobbling table,
    sufficient to wait a bit until you’re gone
    and there will be nothing left,
    she added.

    She was right, I told myself,
    removing the book she placed and replacing it with a thicker one.
    That’s it, now stable.
    Her claim is another version of nothing
    and what does it matter,
    nothing is nothing irrelevant which version.


    A few years later someone fixed the table leg,
    picked the heavily indented book supporting it
    and dumped it into the paper-waste chute.
    Now it will become a plank, glue, cardboard wrapping... something.

    So I was mistaken, it was not nothing after all.


ad hoc, three

    You are
    so soft
    in the chilly loft
    you promise me heaven and shivers invade
    as your whispers waft.

    the hay
    at the end of day
    the stars in your eyes fill the skies blinking jade
    my November’s May.

    the stairs
    the attire tears
    and long minutes later the world starts to fade
    with fingers in pairs.

    I swear
    to keep
    to my marrow deep
    you called me ‘my man’ and I called you ‘my maid’
    and daffodils weep.

    You walk
    it’s your end of stay
    a dignified princess majestic and staid
    I start to decay...


    You float above me
    what?... how?... anti-gravitation? magnetic flesh? invisible altar?...

    your various ‘ends-of’ hanging underneath invalidating any such scientific thought
    your ends-of hair slowly fluttering with the imperceptible breeze
    your ends-of eyelashes sending grating thoughts upon my skin
    your ends-of elongated apples ending in ends-of cherries fomenting rebellion
    within their desire to meet the heat of my palms

    fall, woman! fall! crash! crush!
    decimate the inebriated army of my senses
    and teach me the wonders of all those ends-of
    while they invade my flesh and devour me with insatiable


    The world ended. Ends. Ended.
    Order of events irrelevant.

    You sent me a picture you took when I wasn’t looking
    you sent me the plastic cup we shared, your lipstick still visible,
    you sent me an empty sheet and said: this was a poem that I deleted
    since it was not sweet enough.

    I sent you a picture I took when none of us was looking
    I sent you a plastic cup we shared, no lipstick, you have to believe it,
    I sent you a mangled sheet and blamed it on the sugar that ate it away
    dripping from previously scribbled words.

    We kissed the pictures inside albums.
    we added the plastic cups in the same albums, squashed, another page,
    we found a suitable place for the poetry sheets
    quoting underneath it the text that might have been.

    The world ends. Ended. Ends.
    Order of events irrelevant.



    I dreamt of you this morning,
    forty years later!... imagine,
    you probably still own that corner of my heart you always owned,
    probably?... certainly.

    We were seated at your place
    doing something which seemed important
    and suddenly I dared and said – let’s go for dinner tonight, together.
    You looked almost the same, almost,
    I guess the dream wanted to dab slightly into reality.
    You raised pained eyes, blushed, said – I have plans for tonight, sorry.
    Or maybe it was – sorry, I have plans for tonight.
    I leaned over and kissed your cheek
    and then we returned to doing that something important
    with you glancing from time to time my way
    seemed like you wanted to say something.
    And then I woke up, luckily, so that I could remember the moment.

    So many what if’s,
    so many what if’s left unanswered
    and not only in the dream.



    I plan on living forever,
    my forever horizon being five-six years from now.
    Because after that it is no more living, forever ends and whatever replaces it
    is not worth mentioning.

    I wonder what will go off or haywire first...
    hearing, seeing, peeing, breathing, joints, liver, sex drive, brain clarity?...
    the choice is immense and joint occurrences are a winning lottery ticket and anyway... who wants to become a Guinness guinea pig
    who doesn’t even know of becoming a Guinness guinea pig
    with tubes entering and/or exiting various natural or unnatural orifices?

    If my plan doesn’t work out?
    Then I might... help it a little along the looming edge.


J, two

    Forty years later it suddenly resurfaced
    and now, forty years plus a few days it resurfaces again?

    My dialogue partner, the one in the mirror,
    cocked his head to one side and looked at me quizzically.
    You must be bonkers. And how was it? he asked, curios.

    It was impossible to tell him how it was
    and, anyway, he was there too, he knew already.

    A softness unequalled by chick fluff, dandelion fluff, cloud fluff
    hovered around her as she seemed to laugh
    seemed to run away from me
    seemed to run toward me
    seemed so many things
    evading my reaching arms the way smoke evades a steel mesh
    never tiring from running while I did
    never tiring from whispering while I started tiring from raging
    and aging.

    I tried to say love words but I found we spoke different languages
    and by the time I learned her language I also woke up.
    Dreams can lead you into despair, you know, when you wake up?

    I wonder if there will be a J, three.
    I find it difficult to depose the right words into the ethereal manifestation
    so I will not try too much.
    All I want is to remember it, as if it happened. As it happened.
    Forty years and a few days ago.



    I stopped measuring my telomeres,
    there’s nothing left to measure.
    Well, maybe a few angstroms
    otherwise I wouldn’t be talking now about angstroms, right?

    Truth is – I have no idea what a telomere is,
    something to do with DNA and chemistry and life’n’death and things
    and if I saw one I surely wouldn’t have known I saw one.
    Maybe this is what renders it mysterious, bewildering, sibylline...
    idiotic after all.

    Why I write a poem about telomeres, you ask.
    It could as well have been about the appendix, you say.
    It could, I answer your second statement yet not your first question.
    But it is not, I answer the second statement still
    and then I move on to talk politics and climate and shit.
    Because the matter is too intimate
    and talking telomeres and talking death is synonymous
    and talking death is a specialty of mine, intimate.
    Still is, for a few angstroms more.

    Until not so long ago I had an intimate relationship with death itself,
    Didi I called her affectionately while I still thought I could talk to her,
    while I still thought it had a mind of her own, decision power, influence,
    while I still thought it was to a certain extent... human.
    Until recent events.
    Until I realized that my Didi has nothing to do with death
    that she was...is just a messenger
    an impotent messenger at best,
    that Didi is one of many in a parliament of similar species
    and when the time comes all she does is just deliver the message...
    oh, Didi, you so disappoint me...

    The real power you ask, the real ax wielders in the parliament?
    Well, let me tell and I will not surprise you I am sure
    and the list will not be complete
    but it is mainly telomeres.
    And statistics.
    And bacteria. Viruses. Parasites.
    AND far from last and far more from least – it is... humans.
    Yes, very far from least, it is cruel vindictive heinous monstrous egoistic bigot humans.
    a life form that Earth would have been so blessedly better without.
    Didi is but a pale emulation,
    a putrefaction feeder in the wake of its sanguinary parliament,
    mostly its human component.

    God, before re-designing the telomere,
    don’t you think it a good idea to re-design the human?
    Or maybe... eliminate the relevant species?



    It took nine hours to it.
    Once it was nine minutes, even nine seconds
    for thirst and hunger and lust to mingle into an explosive concoction.
    Now it took nine hours,
    preceded by saving the world
    and evaluating the real-estate market
    and discussing health matters
    and eating protein based lumps of things
    until thirst and hunger and lust mingled into a bland concoction.

    It will take probably ninety hours to the next it. If at all.
    Maybe nine hundred hours
    or nine thousand hours
    which could be re-defined as forever. Or never, in context.
    To a something that is better called a nothing
    and in different circumstances I would have added a ha-ha-ha
    in appreciation to my smarties,
    I don’t.

    We’ll keep saving the world,
    meager compensation for being unable to save us.


Oldies Lovies

    You must be jokies, lover,”
    she frowned jocundly at my title
    yet looked intently to my left,
    clearly hesitating between several options
    all of which included running away
    the only difference being the speed and the direction to follow.
    Old people are not lovers, she followed say
    taking a first step east to north-west, whichever name it may carry.

    You must be out of your mind, lover,” I retorted vexedly
    and she halted, one leg still above ground being lowered slowly
    to meet the elevation of the other leg,
    clearly deciding to postpone slightly her final decision on the running matter.
    “Old people are not lovers,” I followed say
    and the flash of anger in her eyes burned away any and all leftovers of reason.
    From both our minds.
    Agreeing seemed to be the worst of disagreements
    and she made one threatening step... my way. Huh?
    How do you call it when people fight over what they agree, madness?
    Or, maybe, a difference in the interpretation of the subject matter?
    Or is it some synonym of love that wasn’t invented yet
    neither as sentiment nor as word?

    “Old people are... old,” she finally blurted dejectedly.
    “Old people are old,” I echoed, eliminating the ellipsis
    and she made another threatening step my way,
    a few more of these and she’d go right through me.
    Or maybe this was the idea some eonsless creator’s mind had wired inside her brains
    and now was the moment it was called into action, all these eons later? Finally?
    “Old people have screeching joints,” she added
    and I was afraid (was I?) that it might change into a tirade. It did.
    “And they have wobbling teeth
    and clouding eyesight
    and dimming hearing and screeching knees and sagging tits...”

    “And swelling prostates...”
    “I don’t have a prostate.”
    “Are you sure?”
    The tirade was broken for a moment.
    The tirade was broken.
    “And they have eagle eye view,” I pursued my momentary advantage
    “and they have complexity comprehension and perception and definition
    and they have... memories.”
    She halted, just before that higher up mentioned going right through me.
    She was actually right in front of me.
    “And they have memories,” she echoed, eliminating the ellipsis.
    “Memories. Remember last night?”

    The anger. The hunger. The rage of all those memories going way beyond last night.
    She passed right through me
    and I didn’t mind.
    Oldies. Lovies. Try to define!


    We went shopping.
    We bought some bread, cheese, water.
    Hand in hand, always hand in hand.



    Everything and everybody in this world
    walk towards their personalized gallows:
    wash machine (short circuit, leaking pump, seized ball-bearing)
    tomato (boar teeth, crushing blender, throwing at artists)
    crocodile (bigger crocodile, poacher, meteorite)
    man (a staggering variety here).

    Some commonalities can be observed among the population choices above
    the biggest one being age:
    wash machine (rust)
    tomato (rot)
    crocodile (fallen teeth)
    man (still the biggest variety).

    Which brings me to my personal and personalized gallows:
    I have no idea what it will be.
    The only sure thing is that it will be.
    I started composing a list of possibilities,
    at around four hundred thirty I started giving up
    and at five hundred sixty six I gave up.
    Patience, I told myself, you will know, maybe, I told myself.
    Not sooner than planned (by whomever)
    but sooner than wished (by myever).
    Or maybe... later than wished by myever?... hmm, a distinct possibility
    though I wished it a distinct low probability.

    Which brings me to me and to you and to my dog.

    I will or will not know the why and the how and the when
    but I will not be there to miss you, which is great, no understanding necessary.

    You will know the why and the how and the when
    and it breaks my heart that it will break your heart missing me, understanding.

    My dog:
    This is why I do not take a dog anymore
    it would break my heart to know that it would break its heart, not understanding.


Another day

    Another day. Shit!
    Another day. Shit! mimicked the other me using Elmer Fudd’s voice
    and for a moment there I was tempted to strangle him
    before I remembered that we shared the same neck, so I didn’t.
    But he really ruffled my feathers.

    Yes, another day of shit, shit! I repeated, fists balled.
    He shut up and I was strangely thankful for it,
    maybe he started seeing my point?

    Waking up
    then going through those necessary/unnecessary pleasant/unpleasant motions
    then starting to scratch corners of memory
    trying to remember those necessary/unnecessary pleasant/unpleasant todo’s
    then choosing the todo’s to do and the todo’s to not do
    giving up on some todo’s and strengthening the ranks of the todo not’s
    filling forms to fill
    sending forms to send
    classifying forms to classify
    checking the fridge
    checking the garden
    checking the mail
    downing some pills some down the throat some down the john
    paying bills paying bills paying bills
    afraid to open the TV yet opening it nevertheless...
    Shit! sighed the other me watching with me and I agreed mimicking no one,

    lunch with a lot of calories
    just to extend my zombie state for so and so many minutes
    two push-ups and then huffing like a rhinoceros after doing “it” to his missus
    downing a full bottle of sickeningly sweet soda
    then more of whatever was mentioned in the previous lines

    then more of whatever was mentioned in the previously previous lines

    Shit! screamed the other me trying to strangle me
    before he remembered that we shared the same neck, so he didn’t.

    When the hell is the end of those another day’s?

    We sat on the balcony
    letting the mosquitoes have a ball
    and then the I in the couple took out the keyboard and started writing this.
    This is shit! he said. This is shit! I mimicked him using Elmer Fudd’s voice
    nevertheless saving this meaningless epistle.

    S-h-i-t !! we somehow managed to blurt together.


After all these years

    First time I dreamt about you was fifty years ago.
    Two years after.
    After nothing happened between us
    leaving me broken, hungry.

    Now, a lifetime later,
    I dreamt about you again.
    Not broken anymore,
    still hungry, I guess.
    I wonder what is that formidable corner
    in which my brain hid you, kept you, pulled you suddenly out with no warning
    no reason
    or maybe all the reasons in the world? Which are one?

    Young, I guess... hey, know you’re not young anymore,
    neither am I. In the dream we were, both.
    Narrow waisted, I guess you’re not narrow waisted anymore,
    neither am I. I was, once.
    Beautiful, I guess you’re not beautiful anymore,
    neither am I. Never was. In the dream we were. Both.

    It was you who came to me
    as naturally as sunshine early morning
    pulled my palms to rest upon your breasts
    and then crushed my body into yours and your mouth into mine...
    oh, finally,
    knowing what your breasts feel like and what your kiss tastes like
    and then waking up frustrated like a wild beast in heat
    and hungry.

    You’re still young, I know.
    You’re still narrow waisted, I know.
    You’re still beautiful, prepossessing, alluring, I know.
    And I’m still hungry,
    after all these years.



    Do fleas have balls? she asked.
    You mean balls like testicles? I queried.
    I certainly don’t mean as basketballs, she answered, upset. You have seven days.

    She was always upset, one way or another, when testing my capabilities.
    Like when she was testing my physical condition
    by commanding me to scale the Empire State Building from the outside
    (only to floor thirty, love...)
    carrying her on my back.
    With my bare hands, mind you.
    And when I gave up at floor twenty-nine and crawled inside a broken window
    (which I had to pay for, subsequently)
    she was upset.
    I wanted thirty! and we haven’t had sex for seven days, following.

    Or like when she decided to test my memory capacity
    and asked me “just” for the first two hundred fifty thousand Pi digits,
    comparing my numbers to a booklet she held.
    She allowed me to drink from time to time.
    Also to pee, provided I didn’t cheat (surprise inspections).
    Then when four days later,
    after reciting correctly two hundred thirty thousand and eighteen digits,
    I mixed (I started having hallucinations) the following digit with the one from e
    she got upset as well.
    This one belongs to e! and we haven’t had sex for fourteen days, following.
    Seemed like multiples of seven was her standard punishment quantum.

    And then, when, goodness gracious
    she asked me to learn twenty one languages in sixty three days,
    to Shakespeare translation level
    (fair is fair, she made sure I had all relevant manuals)
    we did not have sex for twenty one days. Following.
    What was she upset about? You mis-spelled Juliet! She tested me in Sanskrit.
    I had passed Mongolian with flying colors, it didn’t help my case.

    There were other tests thrown my way,
    with the punishment getting heavier and heavier for failures,
    heavily compensated by the “after the punishment” sex quality.
    But I started getting worried.
    We were nearing my no-sex-sanity-limit of ninety-one days
    at which stage my body would crumble into its vegetative state
    and my four hundred ninety IQ would evaporate into forty-nine. Or less.
    So we agreed on this one final test I now faced,
    make it (sex forever) or break it (forty-nine forever).
    With an IQ of four hundred ninety-three
    I would have expected her to be more creative.
    Why didn’t she ask me something simpler
    like to write a poem or invent a time-machine or something?

    It took me the best part of five days to invent and build a suitable microscope
    stealing books from the university, time (shush), parts from the DOD,
    bribing Navy pilots to bring me stuff from China
    and the rest of the time chasing fleas and flea donors around the city dumps
    persuading the donors that no harm would come to their pets
    identifying the males among them (fleas, not donors)
    then, the toughest,
    persuading my investigation subjects to rest still for a couple seconds.

    I returned them safe and sound to their legal owners
    and almost missed my deadline because of a traffic jam downtown...
    she was waiting, impatiently patient
    (sex was important for her too though her sanity-limit was longer)
    I turned on the projector
    chose the relevant file and there, in all its technicolor glory,
    lay the answer to the quest.

    No, I will not tell you,
    if you want to know the answer you’ll have to invest in my next poem.
    But she, oh, she was delighted, oh, she was delighted...
    Finally, one test you passed with flying colors, now I’m so inspired...
    and I must confess, the sex was flying colors too.
    She was in love with me, madly, and vice-versa. That helped too.

    Please forgive me for keeping this so short, it’s just a break in our...
    you know...
    (it never stopped).
    I’m comiiiiing, my love!

    [...and he jumped all the way from the computer to the bed,
    oh, those dear fleas trainers... says the narrator, tears in his eyes]



    so I’m gonna wail again that I am dry
    like the Sahara
    like the Kalahari
    like the moon on a sunny day, as if it matters
    (probably it matters, to me, poetically... ha ha, yeah, the great undiscovered poet).

    So I’m gonna complain again
    that I remember those days when I didn’t hurt in all of my joints
    that I didn’t hurt in any joint
    that I am more worried presently that I will also stop remembering
    (did I tell you about my being undiscovered?... aha, I did... see?).

    So I’m gonna rave again about the seven hundred thirty four loves I missed
    and the one that I miss
    and the countless family, friends, pets and dreams that I buried
    and the countless politicians, religious zealots, greedy inhumans I wish I could bury
    (plus pharma companies and human traders and sweatshop owners and etc.).

    So I’m gonna chastise creation again
    about the lack of humanity in humans
    about the beauty in a humansless nature
    about the choice to raise humans above dogs or sardines or hyacinths
    (as a matter of fact any other choice would have been poetical justice).

    Then of course, in a one hundred-eighty degrees turn like in Hello Muddah Hello Faddah
    I stumble upon a photo of my pet biting my finger
    of my son holding my finger
    of my granddaughter raising a threatening finger and I melt
    (I still don’t feel good about this world, yet, somehow, I feel deliriously happy).


Coal to Hole

    The result arrived by courier, at 2:17 AM. It was not unusual for messages to arrive this way, given the secrecy surrounding his work, but it was unusual for him to dress and drive there immediately after. He hastily finished a morning prayer, kissed the sleeping family and let the courier drive him to the lab; he was too excited to hold the steering wheel himself.

    The computer calculated at 99.99991% the probability that there will be no chain reaction. Of course, the Heisenberg principle plus the tolerances introduced in the calculation didn’t allow for a 100% certainty. “I actually hoped for even less...” he chuckled to himself, in physics 1+1 never equals 2. Better than they had at Los Alamos when they exploded the first atomic bomb and feared the annihilation of Earth.

    Hamid was the first bedouin to ever have been accepted to work on an Israeli key defense program. Not only accepted to work on it but actually manage it. No wonder, with a Physics Nobel prize for his work on powerful lasers, it was self-understood that this specific project was initiated and Hamid placed at the head of the team.

    But Hamid was a dreamer, and alongside his main job he was running a small pet project, with the head of the department’s full permission. The ongoing joke was that he might become the first physicist ever to get a Nobel two years running, another first. For his poetically named “coal to hole” project, fully sponsored by three American universities and the Chief Scientist’s office. In layman’s words – Hamid aimed to create the first nano-size lab-controlled artificial black-hole. Yes, another first as some would observe.

    The lab was deserted except for the guard. The four powerful lasers at the apexes of a perfectly equilateral tetrahedron were humming gently, ready, their business ends pointing toward the small black graphite sphere positioned at the center of the structure and held static in space by a steel heart and several electro-magnets around it. Cameras ready, recording devices ready, everything was placed, calculated, calibrated and the only missing thing was the finger pushing the button that would lift the multiple-mirror shutter out of the way.

    Hamid checked the calculated probability result on the computer screen again, counted with his finger the number of digits after the decimal point, chuckled for a second time that night and at 4:23 AM triggered the Cesium countdown clock. He didn’t need a countdown, it was more for his own personal drama effect. 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1...


    To an alien, reaching the solar system at whatever time after, the strange view of a third from the sun small, cratered, dry planet tightly rotating also around an invisible gravity center towards which it kept always the same face, would have seemed like another weird, astronomical anomaly to be noted and researched later on. Making things weirder – they would have found some kind of material with red stripes on it, stuck somewhere on the surface of this planet. Clearly a sign of some visiting civilization sometime in the past.


Regrets, mish-mash

    I wish I could forget
    but they keep popping and pricking and pinching,
    how the hell do I cut them away from the tree
    and let them rot somewhere unknown?

    Memories I wish I could bring better into focus
    clearer, sharper, better color, chronologically sorted and accessible,
    wouldn’t this be nice?

    Words I said, wish I didn’t,
    words I didn’t say and wish I did,
    deeds, decisions, crossroads,
    friends, colleagues I cut from and I blame life, geography, the universe
    and now I miss... who knows, maybe some of them better I did cut?
    Yeah, who knows?
    This aunt and this uncle and this cousin and this or other definition
    with snippets of events invading a tired brain,
    leafing through old photos... is this a caress or a fist closing in on my heart?
    Pets, where are you pets?
    Parents, where are you parents
    so young and jubilant and loving?

    The bastard.
    The ogre.
    The heals nothing and murders everything.
    The master of regrets alongside with coincidence and statistics and cosmic radiation,
    I am glad I have something to blame, else it all would simply be unbearable.
    I am glad I also have something to love, else it all would simply be unbearable.
    the first telltale sign of dementia.
    You know the problem with dementia?
    The problem with dementia is that it comes in drops
    instead of in one mighty wave and bang!... all is gone. Wouldn’t this be nice?

    Yes, I should stop writing, I know.


Petty Philosophy

    it’s over.
    So what reason is there to keep on living?
    Traffic jams?
    Calories intake?
    A variety of undefined pains in undefined places
    that keep doctors and hospitals and pharma companies and similar fat and happy?

    Aha, a good book, ha!
    Aha, a good movie, song, show, ha-ha!
    Aha, kids and grandkids, hey, they have their own lives and one is excess weight, ha-ha-ha!
    Aha, pets... ok, there is something there, first take care of them to their end. And after?

    Life is overrated.
    Quality of life is everything, not life.

    Sex is not over
    but I try to get my head beyond the bend in advance.
    Sure, I’m just a petty philosopher.


I’m not xyz yet

    One plus one makes two.
    The world is round.
    The previous president of America was an exception to the rule
    which proves the rule that to every rule there is an exception to the rule
    positive or negative, your choice.
    See, I’m not senile yet.

    I love Elvis’ music.
    I love also others, with less intensity, like the Stones
    there are some classic pieces I love like Carmina Burana
    some opera pieces I love like Nessun Dorma
    some modern rock I love like ACDC,
    some Romanian, some Yiddish, some Hebrew, some French, some Russian,
    even some Chinese.
    See, I’m not spavined yet.

    I watch the news and I shudder with indignation
    at the way the world reacts to acts of indignity
    at the way world leaders support such ignominious acts
    at apathy married to incitement married to idiocy of masses of goats walking on twos
    and following those who shout loudest and dirtiest,
    at times I wish I could have placed my palms around some throats and squeeze.
    As you may certainly conclude, I am not struck with dementia yet.

    I know what I want.
    I know what I say.
    I can accept reject object any proposition, I can be persuaded to change my mind,
    I may decide I do not want to change my mind even if I logically should,
    logic being only one component of the equation.
    In other words I am as stable as I should be.
    In other words I am not tottery yet.

    And this brings me to love. Human love. Human to human love.
    I do not play with love,
    I accept and reflect love and many of its components,
    I also make mistakes, I also suffer and redeem myself, I also sing.
    I also cry.
    But I never say no to love.
    You see, I am not gaga yet.



    doctor one

    He tried to calm me.

    “It’s not the biggest, King-Kong’s prostate is bigger.”

    Yeah, how does he know? When was the last time he consulted King-Kong? And even so, maybe what works for a monkeyoid doesn’t for a humanoid? I decided on a second opinion. The next one, a joker, said if not for the industrial revolution it wouldn’t be possible to measure it. The following lifted eyes to the sky, the following promised to pray for me, the following choked on his laughter and died, good riddance...

    I returned to King-Kong. At least he gave me a King-Kong t-shirt.


    doctor two

    She got my blood, pee, and other similar/dissimilar fluids’ results. She frowned, took a magnifier glass... your numbers are so small... then held the paper far from her eyes... your numbers are so big... then shook the envelope... some numbers are missing...

    Then she started telling what was wrong with me, everything. Insufficient carbonium, strontium, ironium, aurum, etc, then too much of same, then none of same... at least this is what I heard.

    Finally she prescribed a hundred one-per-day’s (economics, surely she owns shares there) and charged me four times normal fee (security, she’s sure I’m gonna die soon).


    doctor three

    He started with a long story about his own pains, limitations, family problems, building issues, car parking complexities, etc. Then asked me why I came and before I could answer he added some forgotten pains, limitations, family problems, etc. Then he got an urgent phone call to which he added some more pains and limitations and family problems I wasn’t even aware of yet. Finally he charged me nothing because I had no problem. In reality, I didn’t even get to the stage of telling him of my pains, limitations, family problems, etc. Good doctor. Positive. I forgot my problems.



    Excusez moi! she blurted indignantly
    her accent wrong, her intonation wrong, probably also her spelling wrong
    but there was no way for me to check it.
    Why French?... beats me.
    I am only responsible for the collection of souls,
    for death to its kinds there are other responsible entities:

    (she started counting on her outstretched distal phalanges)
    ...humans first and foremost, then microbes, viruses, animals, natural disasters, God...
    God? Not gods?
    God! There is only one, I know because he interviewed me for the job,
    he found me the most representative for the job at hand,

    and she threw her skull sideways and backwards à la Miss Piggy, if only she had hair...
    AND... I heard the capitals... he is last AND least, getting involved only in charitable cases.

    It was not the first time we had this discussion, Didi and I,
    and probably not the last.
    We stayed friends, somehow, no normal mortal (I included) would understand why.

    I watched her closely, again, for the umpteenth time –
    those dark orbs... if only there was a pair of blue eyes there,
    this smooth skull... if only there was a cascade of blonde curls there,
    these arched ribs... if only there was a pair of shapely tities there...
    Tities... she chuckled, I forgot she could read minds ...then I would not have gotten the job.
    And if you let this word out you’ll be mobbed by a bunch of feminist ninjas.

    Then she let out a roar I knew by now was her hearty laughter
    and which caused some limited damage to the pyramids and to the Eiffel tower.
    No one got hurt.
    Don’t worry, I will protect you. She clasped my shoulder and squeezed slightly
    and for whatever reason I believed her.

    This time we were sitting on a ledge overlooking the Grand Canyon,
    she insisted on taking me there
    and I knew there was no chance in hell I would fall. Even if I stood and stepped forward.

    Tell me, Didi, have you ever thought of founding a Didiism movement?
    You mean with me as the Didinity everyone prays to and worships and is afraid from
    and with offerings
    and veggie sacrifices...

    Hey, that’s a novelty...
    ...and priests with crossbones on their kimonos and golden pouches hanging from their haramakis
    where they stuff the money they take from the poor and give to the rich?

    I was serious, she clearly was not.

    Didiism is already a fact my friend, except that you humans call it by various other names
    any of which name and principle I am deeply unproud of:
    death worship, blind obedience, organized crime, banking, attorneyism, politics, social media...

    Religion? I interrupted what was developing into a flood.
    Religion? Depends and who and on what and on when and on why.
    And your God, what does he think of religion?
    Our God, you mean. And he hates religion.
    He’d rather be neither blamed nor thanked for whatever humans do in his name.
    He created. Then he disconnected and let it run on its own.

    Until after, when he’ll re-create, applying the lessons learned.
    You mean he’s not all powerful?
    I mean he IS all powerful, just disinterested in the details.

    A vulture flew by, hesitated a moment mistaking Didi for a carrion carrying skeleton
    then thought the better of it when it saw the scythe and flew elsewhere.
    It was getting dusky and chilly.
    Didi wrapped her cloak around me
    and let me lean my cheek against her acromion. It felt... soft.
    I don’t intake a lot of calcium, she chuckled, so some spots are soft.
    I didn’t mind.
    The vulture returned, maybe having me in mind, and settled a few paces away.
    Dali would have made a great painting of the setting, I thought,
    drifting away into a dreamless sleep.
    When I woke up the sun had just started showing a flaming corona
    and the vulture seemed to have called a few friends for the eventual feast.
    They were three now.
    Time I return to work, said Didi, or I risk getting fired again. You are a bad influence on me.
    Where do I deposit you?

    I found myself at my desk.
    I started writing right away an essay on the subject of Didiism
    but ten percent into the job I stopped, tore the paper and burned it.
    Let me rather write a poem that no one will understand, less than that believe it.
    Didi, till next time.

    She didn’t answer, too busy collecting souls that she was.
    Too many souls.
    I started screaming.



    I just learned a new word,
    didn’t know of its existence until short ago
    and it... paralyzed me with fear.
    Certainly some exist maybe some do not
    but I could easily imagine impotentize, eunuchize, castrate, excise, purge...

    God! (change to Heavens! in the bowdlerized version)
    if this is what they did to good old Bill Shakespeare
    what would they do to some of my poetry of the more raunchy type
    (of course, provided a bowdlerized minded person reads it first
    which shows you the rich in imagination person that I am).

    I read, as a child, Hansel and Gretel in an unbowdlerized version,
    same with Little Red Hood
    Greek mythology stories
    and Lady Chatterley’s Lover (no, not as a child, later)
    and I grew up to be a perfect normal human. I think.
    Sure, others may think differently and throw at me their bowdlerized versions.

    Well, I decided to make an experiment and write a passage
    then bowdlerize it myself. Just for laughs. I did not laugh. I wept.


    ...and then I touched your wanting breast
    at your insistent, hoarse behest,
    the flimsy garment that ago
    protected your hot Jericho
    flew into shreds as trumpets blared
    those tangled tongues that now we shared
    releasing into space and time
    obscenities that didn’t rhyme
    as curl met curl and pouring hell
    streamed into life’s embracing well
    until you growled... hey es-oh-bee
    now that you know the depths of me
    it’s time I cash my eye-oh-you
    my turn to learn the depths of you...

    etc. etc. etc.


    ...and then I touched your wanting baby feeding organ
    at your insistent, influenza touched behest,
    the garment that women wear under their skirts
    for protection against cold weather
    was neatly folded on a chair next to the bed
    as our lips met in a gentle kiss
    and we whispered cheek to cheek
    sweet rhyming words of endearment
    and we embraced softly
    while butterflies roved around us
    until you whispered... hey love of my life
    now that you held my hand on the path of life
    I wish as well
    to hold your hand on the path of life...

    etc. etc. etc. (the etcetera stays).

    Do you think Hallmark would accept though too daring a scenario?
    Maybe still too bold?
    Maybe some additional bowdlerization needed?
    Maybe I need my head examined?

    Sure, there are much more horrible words in the dictionary
    and much much much more horrible deeds that humans do
    but I just felt this one pricking me at this moment in time.



    I must pre-empt and clarify: it was a dream.

    She slid next to me, the young woman,
    same like the one that slid next to mighty David
    when he stopped being mighty having become old,
    this one slid next to mighty I
    now that I stopped being mighty having become old,
    her mouth generous her skin generous her hands generous...

    How do you know about David? she asked acrimoniously.
    What do you mean, it is written in the bible.
    Now please shut up and let me tell it further.

    Of course I knew also, and I am more emancipated than any woman I know,
    that women are born with this genetic speech (mal?)function
    which prevents them from shutting up.

    How young?
    David’s or mine?
    As young as you when we met.
    I wasn’t young.
    You were younger. And beautiful. More beautiful.
    More beautiful than her? she was beginning to thaw.
    More beautiful than David’s... she was beginning to seethe...
    who was more beautiful than mine.

    Her hand, poised upwards with the smallest frying pan, pure luck,
    stopped its diving arc.
    She was clearly weighing the implications of the comparisons just made
    pros and cons and historical perspective...

    Who was in your dream? she finally asked.
    You. Younger you.
    So I was being jealous of younger me?
    Not really. I was thinking of someone even more beautiful, more generous.

    Of course I knew also, and I am more emancipated than any woman I know,
    that women are born with this genetic temper (mal?)function
    which defines frying pans as their weapon of choice.

    The frying pan started its upward arc again. I rushed my answer complement...
    You. Present you.

    Oh, what followed was real generosity,
    her mouth generous her skin generous her hands generous...



    When was the last time I wrote you a poem?
    Before we met?
    After we met?
    Both implying that I never wrote you a poem
    which implies the existence of a paradox that only implications of love can imply.
    Because I wrote you a poem.
    And then some, and some more after that
    both before and after. We met.
    Implying a sensorial quantum effect, of course.

    The creature from outer space watched me quizzically
    her saucer size gorgeous eyes batting eyelids hummingbird speed
    her saucer size gorgeous mouth chattering teeth hummingbird speed
    her saucer size gorgeous breasts hammering heartbeats hummingbird speed
    her saucer size...
    Enough! the creature from outer space almost bit my earlobe off,
    my eardrum in tatters.
    I don’t wish to imply... I stuttered... saucers are various sizes, you know...
    and even the tatters ripped away from the concerned ear, luckily I had a second ear,
    the way of humans.
    You human, I saucer size, we make love. Now! she added to prevent eventual misinterpretation.

    I wasn’t sure she was mocking me or mocking Tarzan or mocking humanity in general
    implying our obvious sub-species status in the wider universe.
    But I gladly obeyed because of the implied doom and devastation of the human race
    versus the implied thrill and infatuation of my personal self.
    So I offered myself oblation for the well-being of all living.
    Liar! she hissed, but since my leftover ear was far from her mouth I heard Lie!
    implying that which it obviously implies under the circumstances.
    Which I complied with immediately.

    You know, imply comply, these are perfectly rhyming...
    Shut up!
    Which I did, for other implied reasons
    my mouth filling up with delicacies never imagined
    my teeth chewing delicacies never imagined
    my lungs sucking in delicacies never imagined.

    When it finally was over, unfortunately (for me but fortunately for the human race)
    she sat herself comfortably, cross-legged on my chest (did I mention she was naked?)
    picked a crumb from my mouth and stuffed it into hers (still hungry after all this?)
    and placed my left thumb and forefinger around her left nipple (complicated, I know).

    You’re a strange creature, she finally concluded after much observation,
    we never met, you wrote me poems, you imply an extraterrestrial
    extrasensorial relationship
    and yet I fall in love with all of this like I fell in love with chives.

    I really couldn’t have cared if she would have fallen in love with urtica dioica...
    with what?...
    as long as my thumb and forefinger rested on that piece of stiff heaven suckling its nectar.

    You’re a strange creature, I finally concluded after much observation,
    we never met, I wrote you poems, I imply an extraterrestrial
    extrasensorial relationship
    and yet I fall in love with all of this like I fell in love with chives, dandelions, thistles.

    Not roses, tulips, orchids? Implying what?

    I rolled over, now she pinned beneath me, now I sitting on her chest cross-legged
    caring not for her labored breathing.
    Implying you are so amazing, glorious, sublime
    that only descanting the most extemporaneous of portrayals
    can do justice to your most extraordinary of singularities.

    I guess she understood all my long words
    since all of a sudden my thumb and forefinger found heaven again,
    and the rest of me too.

    Implying... you know what.


Lilac ambrosia

    I wish you could breathe the air in my lungs, she said
    gulping tons upon tons of lilac ambrosia with such greed
    that for a moment I was afraid for the fate of the entire art of apiculture
    in the northern hemisphere
    not to mention a renewed hole in the ozone layer
    right above the spot where she rested her beatific smile
    and those tiny breasts keeping guard upon her gigantic lungs cavity.

    I opened my eyes, the vision over,
    and I raged at waking up from unparalleled absolute bliss.

    I wish you could breathe the air in my lungs, she wrote
    and I knew the vision was just beginning
    with me gulping tons above tons of lilac ambrosia straight from her mouth
    suddenly oblivious to the fate of the entire art of apiculture
    in the northern hemisphere
    and the renewed hole in the ozone layer
    which allowed all manner of fiery hell seep through to the top of my skull
    while my hands played havoc upon those tiny breasts
    adorning her gigantic lungs cavity.

    I opened my eyes, the vision never fading
    with me foaming at the mouth like an enraged dog tearing down the gates of heaven.

    You breathe the entire volume of air from my lungs, leave me some, she complained
    one hand clasped tightly at the nape of my neck precluding any freedom of movement
    the other crunching the palm crunching her breast and demanding more
    while lilac ambrosia kept building itself layer upon layer inside us
    around us
    enveloping brains, obfuscating reality, inebriating.

    Morning found us hugging,
    she her part of the world
    I my part of the world
    all those separating miles and decenniums reduced to naught
    while we alternately breathed in and out from and into each other’s lungs
    lilac ambrosia.
    Oh, the eternity of ephemeral life, oh, the beauty of the paradox.



    She wiped her brow with the back of her hand,
    leaving both dirty,
    she wiped her nose on her sleeve
    leaving both dirty,
    then she bent deeper over the... what was it?... cucumbers, tomatoes?...
    and the almost short skirt turned a bit shorter
    the back of her knees dirty of course
    my mind several shades dirtier of course
    and for a frightfully long moment I was tempted to crawl underneath her
    and blame the dog, the cat, George Washington for having tripped me there
    but then my adult self whipped my adolescent self back into line
    and I just sat down on the lowest chair I could find
    and waited for the breeze
    the dog’s tail
    an earthquake to do their job
    and reveal that which would nevertheless be revealed later that night in bed
    yet it not be as sweet as that lecherous frozen moment in time.

    Enjoying the view? I heard her grunt my way
    and the deep red of a glowing volcano’s mouth would pale
    when compared to my cheeks at that moment.
    Honesty above all, she once made me swear.
    Yes, I admitted and she suddenly bent slightly... more.
    Luckily the dog’s stinking tongue licked me awake from the faint
    before she could observe the devastating effect of her act.
    Or... did she?

    Next in line for her attention were the cherry trees.
    Thankfully tall enough
    thankfully the ladder rickety enough... could you please hold it?...
    thankfully she insisted on keeping the same almost short skirt
    but this time I needed no excuses to place myself there, beneath heaven,
    and this time looking upwards was basically an act of ensuring her safety
    of keeping her from harm
    of ascertaining that she does not miss a rung...
    yeah, yeah, yeah, keep thinking them... she mocked me
    and stretched one long shapely leg to pass from one ladder to another ladder
    stretching it larger than necessary
    and luckily the dog’s biting fangs reminded me that there is a time for fainting
    and there is a time for ensuring her safety.
    Luckily she did not observe my moment of lapse.
    Or... did she?

    Hmm... I think I seeded them too early.
    Hmm... I think I seeded them too late.
    Hmm... I think I forgot to seed them.
    Hmm... it was too cold, too warm, too sunny, too much moonlight...

    Yes, I started hearing voices, probably,
    and it had lots to do with the behavior of that skirt.

    Join me in the shower?
    Ahm... what?
    Join me in the shower?!
    Ahm... what?
    Join me in the shower!
    Do you, reader, observe the evolution of those punctuation marks?
    I do, I am a reader as well.
    Poetry is a world, too few people realize it, I did. I do. Join me?

    In the shower?
    In the world.

    The skirt disappeared, melted.
    The test of the layers disappeared, melted.
    My layers disappeared, melted.
    It suddenly did not matter anymore shower, poetry, world,
    suddenly we were not anymore friends, lovers, humans
    but an indescribable tangle of beauty
    that not even the best of abstract painters could put into color without going insane.
    Luckily what?
    Luckily you are not a painter. You are a poet.
    It was the last time I fainted that day.
    I thanked the dog
    but, as for the rest, I did not need his services.
    I was perfectly capable of collecting my poetry reward on my own.

    It was a one on one reward ceremony. Of course, at the end of it, I fainted.


Dialogue of kinds

    “Hello, Joe.”

    I nearly chocked on my beer,
    no one had called me Joe for... how long?... fifty years or so?


    We were not on speaking terms as of late due to some horrors I blamed her for
    and maybe she was trying to... appease me?

    “How do you know I was called Joe in my early history?”
    “C’mon, my friend, you know better than ask such questions.”

    She sat herself down, femur over femur
    caring not for the cloak which fell away from her pelvis
    revealing nothing enticing, of course.
    I guess she was trying ‘friend’ as part of her charming offensive.

    “You know that it was not I responsible for the horrors you blame me for
    but actually your human brothers.”

    I was going to strangle her, then remembered there was nothing to strangle.
    “Brothers, huh?”
    “Yes, created by the same creator. I was sent only to collect souls.
    They were there for the flesh and blood.”

    Hate it as I might, she was right.
    God, how I hated her at that moment for being right
    and for leaving me with the obvious knowledge. Humans, huh? Brothers, huh?
    Fratricide was the other word that came to mind.

    I turned away from her.
    I was not in the mood for discussing the events
    so asked as coldly as I could: “Didi, why are you here again? My soul?
    I don’t think I would mind.”

    She gazed at me blindly for a few moments then thrusted the scythe my way.
    “If you want you can have it.
    But I wouldn’t advise you to do it. Think!”

    Which was my problem because I thought too much and I knew I couldn’t do it,
    I had no right to do it. I was not alone.
    I pushed her hand’s bones back and stepped a few paces away.
    “So again, why are you here?”

    She stood up and pushed the right index distal phalange into my chest.
    “Joe, you are in pain, so many reasons you are in pain
    and therefore what you write is closer to shit than to art.”

    “Inclusive this one?” I knew it was a rhetoric question.
    “Inclusive this one. Is this the way you want to be remembered?”
    She pulled the phalange back and turned to go.
    “You don’t have much time left. Let go, Joe.
    Stop writing while it still makes sense to people. Wander beyond it and...”

    She disappeared with the sentence unfinished. I could have finished it for her.
    I didn’t.
    If I did the impossible and forgot my unjustified animosity towards her
    I would have sided with her fully.
    Didi was right, Didi was always right. Why did I need a Didi to tell me things I knew?

    I stopped writing. At least for the time being.
    Damn you, Didi!


On my death bed

    Lying there
    not yet dead.
    This is why it is a death bed and not a morgue bed, or fridge as the case may be.

    not a physical death bed but a temporal one,
    what is the difference?
    Both dealing with the almost there not yet there soon there
    and a variety of so called human characters swarm around your body, physical or temporal
    completely disinterested in your fate
    yet certainly interested in the money related to the during,
    not so much to the before (these are others) or after (these are other others)
    so they all go through the motions of ohh and ahh and eeh
    depending on nationality/race/gender/religion.

    So I am on my death bed
    it is probably the right time to start playing dead (as preparation/foundation/framework)
    and stop writing (as relaxation/protest/acknowledgement)
    and do some irrelevant pass-time activity like growing mushrooms
    do push-ups
    watch CNN and/or BBC and/or RTBF and/or Al Jazeera and/or similar.

    This way when the physical joins the temporal
    no one will have reason to mourn me or remember me.

    And as a goodbye poem this is a disgrace
    but not much more than the rest of my creation if to judge by my readership.

    There is no smiley following, sorry.


    my friends from so many a poem
    decided to go on strike hearing the news
    and built a wall around me so many miles high
    so many miles wide
    knowing there was no way for me to step back from my decision
    yet, trying symbolically to thank me.

    A few even tried to speak, failed of course.

    I was certainly thankful for the appreciation
    and told as much
    before they all died en-masse
    after all butterflies are short lived, same as humans,
    and the next generation will not have known of me and of the words I dedicated to them
    seen that I will not have been there for them.

    I did my best to preserve the mass grave
    but winds and rain and sun turned it all to dust, and that included the beauty there was
    and will never be again.
    Like mine... is there a lesson here?


    Dear lover,
    you know who you are, right?

    No need to be sad
    (I guess you will not be but it sounds good me saying it)
    and no need to write articles about me
    (I guess you will not but it sounds good me saying it)
    and no need to cry if you outlive me
    (I guess you will not and I guess you will and it sounds good me saying it).

    I really loved you.
    I really love you still since I write this in the present
    but you will most probably read it in the past so past tense sounds appropriate.
    We had this magic partly physical partly meta-physical linking us
    and you donated me all these thousands of words
    and hundreds of metaphors
    and tens of grammatical blunders
    that I will not live long enough to thank you for.
    But maybe living short enough and thanking you here is good enough?

    Dear lover,
    I loved you.
    I love you.
    Please place here as many heart-smileys as you feel there should be, it’s certainly correct.
    This is not the great poetry I got you used to
    yet this is a message to you to read it all again and assimilate it as part of you.
    You were my poetry.
    You are my poetry.
    You are poetry
    and let no one tell you differently
    (threaten them I will haunt them if they do).


    I cannot close without some rhyming, can I?

    we crushed the world to marble size... I here, you lover... there
    sometimes I lion you the fox, sometimes you fox I hare
    yet when the human rose to might
    to roar, to slash, to flog, to smite
    we let the cannibal in us unleash a crude Brumaire
    and feasted on each other’s bones with primal savoir-faire.

    I did my best to brush my teeth with nipple’s crimson flare
    and send armadas to their death in mouth’s welcoming lair
    then when the morning slayed its night
    and sun’s libidinous delight
    poured fire down awaking thighs in frantic wear and tear
    you claimed anew my tortured flesh inside your sanctum’s snare.

    I used abused excused my rave, those moments of despair
    when thigh to thigh and hip to hip and curl to curl confer
    and let my horses’ savage flight
    to drag your screams through bouts of plight
    until exhaustion drowned us both in stinking sweat’s mohair
    and nightmares culled us ends of world... I here, you lover... there.