They say the tradition is the bridge to the past, and we must keep the tradition to keep the past. I carry the past like a backpack, unseen on my shoulders, unfelt on my skin and I walk: out of a sudden the wind blows through the trees and their leaves rustle, like tiny birds rubbing their tiny wings. In front of me the path is all meshed up by the sun's sharp spears piercing the thick canopies, making them bleed with afternoon gold, warm and soft. Right then, right there I know for sure my ancestors and their ancestors and their ancestors saw what I've been seeing, heard what I've been hearing...
They say the universe started with a particle. They now look into the particle in the lab, and they see myriads of particles. Universes of particles. Nowhere to end up, nowhere to end down. We're actually not closer to the truth than our kin, the cavemen were. At least those believed in some gods who took care of the inexplicable...
My people say that if you do not have old people you have to invent them. And then you have to listen to them because they know better. I always listened to those older than me, not because they knew better, but because my mom taught me to respect them, no matter what. She also taught me to trust anybody else but me. Every year passing by I see less people older than me. At some point I'll have to trust myself as I'm going to be among the few old people I'll know...
Showing posts with label Some Call It Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Some Call It Poetry. Show all posts
Monday, July 3, 2017
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Falling in Love
I didn’t love you
when I first met you,
I was just obsessed with your body,
covered by the elusive shadows
of the perverse joys,
enchanted by your long legs,
dazzled by your hair, black, long, shinny
blowing on my cheeks like a forest kissed by the wind,
I craved your thick lips,
tasty like the sweet juice of the freshly harvested grapes,
I filled my eyes with the sight of your breasts
made by a genius angel skilled at sculpting painful beauties
with his bare hands,
and night after night I was chained by an insatiable lovemaking
which asked for more lovemaking
in an endless, contagious ritual
I started to love you
when I let myself out
from my self-imposed cell,
from the sweet prison of carnal desire,
and I realized
that your sweat leaves a heavy odor when your body works hard,
and your skin gets drier and gets crinkly,
and your breath is heavy with the sour scent
left by the night’s constant wrestling
with the dreams’ dragons
in the zigzagged corridors of the sleep,
and your hair is a mess
when you wake up in the morning beside me
and you ask without words
to be caressed
and want me to tell you without words
that I need you,
that love you,
while your stomach growls like a hungry beast
I started to love you when I noticed
that you talk in your sleep,
that you let a belch out loud when nobody’s around,
that you puke with a grunt when you’re sick,
that you swear when you drive,
that you confront your nightmares without fear,
struggling,
fighting,
screaming,
that you become a bitch
when the hormones take over your judgment,
in the monthly ritual of renewal,
that you laugh with a shrill and you cry with a grudge,
that you’re scared of snakes, of ghosts, of owls,
that you could cheat on me,
or sell me,
or hate me,
or hit me,
or say no to me and everything I am,
but in any case
you wouldn’t hurt me
I totally fell in love with you
the moment I discovered
that both of us walk together on the same stone path,
made from the crumbling marble of the day,
jumping from year to year,
towards our own pre-designed destruction,
that we share the same space,
the same flight in the deep sky,
two travelers through the quiet tempests of space,
on a ship called Earth,
that we felt the same thirst,
the same strong desire
to be protected, lucky, loved,
the same chance to sin or be sinned against,
the same odds to be weak, or sly, or helpless,
the same doubt that there’s life after death,
the same certainty that there’s young and then old,
there’s life and then death
I loved you deeply
when I realized
that you are like me,
so much like me that I can look at you
and see the perfect replica of myself
in a mirror
when I first met you,
I was just obsessed with your body,
covered by the elusive shadows
of the perverse joys,
enchanted by your long legs,
dazzled by your hair, black, long, shinny
blowing on my cheeks like a forest kissed by the wind,
I craved your thick lips,
tasty like the sweet juice of the freshly harvested grapes,
I filled my eyes with the sight of your breasts
made by a genius angel skilled at sculpting painful beauties
with his bare hands,
and night after night I was chained by an insatiable lovemaking
which asked for more lovemaking
in an endless, contagious ritual
I started to love you
when I let myself out
from my self-imposed cell,
from the sweet prison of carnal desire,
and I realized
that your sweat leaves a heavy odor when your body works hard,
and your skin gets drier and gets crinkly,
and your breath is heavy with the sour scent
left by the night’s constant wrestling
with the dreams’ dragons
in the zigzagged corridors of the sleep,
and your hair is a mess
when you wake up in the morning beside me
and you ask without words
to be caressed
and want me to tell you without words
that I need you,
that love you,
while your stomach growls like a hungry beast
I started to love you when I noticed
that you talk in your sleep,
that you let a belch out loud when nobody’s around,
that you puke with a grunt when you’re sick,
that you swear when you drive,
that you confront your nightmares without fear,
struggling,
fighting,
screaming,
that you become a bitch
when the hormones take over your judgment,
in the monthly ritual of renewal,
that you laugh with a shrill and you cry with a grudge,
that you’re scared of snakes, of ghosts, of owls,
that you could cheat on me,
or sell me,
or hate me,
or hit me,
or say no to me and everything I am,
but in any case
you wouldn’t hurt me
I totally fell in love with you
the moment I discovered
that both of us walk together on the same stone path,
made from the crumbling marble of the day,
jumping from year to year,
towards our own pre-designed destruction,
that we share the same space,
the same flight in the deep sky,
two travelers through the quiet tempests of space,
on a ship called Earth,
that we felt the same thirst,
the same strong desire
to be protected, lucky, loved,
the same chance to sin or be sinned against,
the same odds to be weak, or sly, or helpless,
the same doubt that there’s life after death,
the same certainty that there’s young and then old,
there’s life and then death
I loved you deeply
when I realized
that you are like me,
so much like me that I can look at you
and see the perfect replica of myself
in a mirror
Forever Young
Someone pulled out my son
from the child he was,
the cute, cherubic boy,
with curled, blond hair,
the eyes of a playful squirrel,
and the laugh
that made the anger sound
like a bad joke
Someone reeled him out ,
stretched him out
into a man,
who smells like a man,
walks like a man,
talks like a man,
laughs like a man,
is boring and strong,
like a man
That someone,
or someone else
forgot about me,
left me the same,
young and frail and vain,
a prisoner of the youth’s
4 “i”-repressibles:
impressible,
irresponsible,
irreconcilable,
irreverent
Looking at people
and seeing no one,
looking at things
and seeing too many,
deaf to the past, blind to the future,
drowned in the present
And here I’m walking the stone path
in the green, lush park
of my paternity,
with my son beside me
his hand in my hand,
not paying attention to his questions,
because they are so many,
so childishly complicated,
“daddy, why is the sky blue then black then blue again?”
“daddy, why are the trees green? I like more yellow trees, or blue!”
“daddy, where do the people go after they die?”
and
wishing I could tell him something else than
“no clue” or “don’t know” or “uh-hmm”
and think something else than
“give me a break, kiddo”
but I am so young,
and so full of my inner voice,
listening to it only,
so full of my own portrait,
looking at it only,
the rest of the world crammed in me,
stashed in the corridors unoccupied by me,
still having enough space
to host
the rest of the universe.
And that’s okay,
it feels good,
to be young, and have a young child,
cut through the young forest
of trees of life
still in bud,
step on its carpet of moss
made of dreams unconsumed,
drink in the morning dew of the lake,
inhale the breathe
of the day ahead,
ignore my son’s questions,
because l have enough time
to answer his serious questions
Which will never come,
because my son has grown too quickly
into a man
and he’s not hanging of my hand,
he’s not even near in sight
Nobody pulled me out from my own self
to reel me out,
to stretch me into the old man
I should be,
okay,
I have wrinkles
and my hair receded
and my belly is flabby and my teeth are yellow,
and my nails are cracked and my ideas are outdated,
my tastes out-fashioned,
and my back hurts,
and my eyes are losing their shine,
and my memory gets fade
while I say that it plays tricks to me
and laugh like of a good joke,
but other than that
there’s nothing else
worth to mention
Hey, you,
whoever you are,
wherever you are,
whatever you do,
be a god or a creator or just a lame saltimbanco,
or all of these
together,
you forgot about me
you left me young
and careless to my child’s needs,
oblivious to his questions,
he’s now a grown-up man
and the way the things move
someday he’s going to be older than I am
and I don’t find that
quite normal
from the child he was,
the cute, cherubic boy,
with curled, blond hair,
the eyes of a playful squirrel,
and the laugh
that made the anger sound
like a bad joke
Someone reeled him out ,
stretched him out
into a man,
who smells like a man,
walks like a man,
talks like a man,
laughs like a man,
is boring and strong,
like a man
That someone,
or someone else
forgot about me,
left me the same,
young and frail and vain,
a prisoner of the youth’s
4 “i”-repressibles:
impressible,
irresponsible,
irreconcilable,
irreverent
Looking at people
and seeing no one,
looking at things
and seeing too many,
deaf to the past, blind to the future,
drowned in the present
And here I’m walking the stone path
in the green, lush park
of my paternity,
with my son beside me
his hand in my hand,
not paying attention to his questions,
because they are so many,
so childishly complicated,
“daddy, why is the sky blue then black then blue again?”
“daddy, why are the trees green? I like more yellow trees, or blue!”
“daddy, where do the people go after they die?”
and
wishing I could tell him something else than
“no clue” or “don’t know” or “uh-hmm”
and think something else than
“give me a break, kiddo”
but I am so young,
and so full of my inner voice,
listening to it only,
so full of my own portrait,
looking at it only,
the rest of the world crammed in me,
stashed in the corridors unoccupied by me,
still having enough space
to host
the rest of the universe.
And that’s okay,
it feels good,
to be young, and have a young child,
cut through the young forest
of trees of life
still in bud,
step on its carpet of moss
made of dreams unconsumed,
drink in the morning dew of the lake,
inhale the breathe
of the day ahead,
ignore my son’s questions,
because l have enough time
to answer his serious questions
Which will never come,
because my son has grown too quickly
into a man
and he’s not hanging of my hand,
he’s not even near in sight
Nobody pulled me out from my own self
to reel me out,
to stretch me into the old man
I should be,
okay,
I have wrinkles
and my hair receded
and my belly is flabby and my teeth are yellow,
and my nails are cracked and my ideas are outdated,
my tastes out-fashioned,
and my back hurts,
and my eyes are losing their shine,
and my memory gets fade
while I say that it plays tricks to me
and laugh like of a good joke,
but other than that
there’s nothing else
worth to mention
Hey, you,
whoever you are,
wherever you are,
whatever you do,
be a god or a creator or just a lame saltimbanco,
or all of these
together,
you forgot about me
you left me young
and careless to my child’s needs,
oblivious to his questions,
he’s now a grown-up man
and the way the things move
someday he’s going to be older than I am
and I don’t find that
quite normal
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Tagadim-Tagadam
Tagadim-tagadam
viața-i un maidan
pe-o autostradă
Conduci ca o moaca’n dimineata asta, o sa pierd trenu’.
Nu din cauza mea il pierzi, ci din cauza ta,
a jumatatii de ora
petrecuta in pat, degeaba,
dupa ce ceasul a sunat desteptarea.
Ba cred ca nu, pe tine te-apuica dusul la wc de fiecare data
cand trebioe sa plecam!
Faci din exceptie regula, madam!
Iar tu trebuie sa ai tot timpul dreptate, nu? Smart ass, that’s who you are!
Fuck it, man!
Did you say fuck you?
No. I said fuck it!
You know something, te-ai invatat sa vorbesti ca un birjar!
Iar tu o tii intr-una, trance-tranca,vorbe fara rost!
Auzi, am ajuns sa ma injuri!
N-auzi ca am zis fuck it, femeie? Ori nu mai auzi?
The serpent with two eyes,
one yellow, one red,
dragonul nascut pe-autostrada
plina de vii, punctata de morti,
ne fug anii de sub noi pe roti,
in timp ce
eu fug, fug, fug,
tu fugi fugi fugi,
spre nimicul final,
fugind prin nimicul actual.
Fuck it, man!
One eye popping out, arrested,
its yellow venom dripping down,
one eye sunking in, bloody, congested,
the smokey drgaon of the Lord of Drive,
living in his castle of motion,
huge building without walls
Tagadam-tagadim,
Moartea e cucoana mare
Cu fundu’n cinci viteze,
Cu cracii’n patru roti,
Totul e nimic
Gros, adanc, in perpetua miscare,
Soarele e prins pe bolta
In trei pioneze
Tagadim-tagadam,
eu crestin, el musulman
amandoi marcati ca vitele,
la islaz,
identitatile inca sfaraind pe pielea parlita,
marcata de jugul cu carbuni al sistemului
You’re afraid of the system,
he writes to me,
You’re scared of their punch,
They record everything,
They leave you with no hunch,
They are the substitute for god,
They’re the baddest of the bad
Stand up and talk,
Raise your voice,
Curse,
Fight back,
Die!
Islamul si Crestinismmul au aceleasi radacini, el zice,
Fratele meu se duce la Mecca, el zice,
La sarbatoarea profetului Abraham, el zice,
Hold on, this is our guy, the biblic Abraham, I say
The guy with lots of wives, plenty of mojo, I say
You see, he sais,
We’re the same
Aggressive in difference,
Quiet in identity
Tadgadam-tagadim,
Carnivore in cutii de table,
Gonind spre daily unsafe havens,
With our violence justified,
By our needs to move,
To act,
To speed up,
Towards our own nothingness.
Modernism,
Paganism,
Simturi vesnic flamande,
Ochi vesnic deschisi,
Marsave creaturi,
Oameni mici, oameni mari,
criminali,
We are serial killers,
Ferocious carnivores who don’t stop at eating for need,
They need to gorge in for pleasure
Why the fuck they stopped?
Da, ce dracului se-intampla?
They just like to look, man,
They enjoy a brother in distress!
Suntem maimute curioase,
Scarmam prin cenusa mortii dupa palpairi de viata,
We don’t give the life,
We just take it,
Or shorten it
We won’t stop till we make sure
we seeded the destruction,
we won’t stop till we make sure
the death is an ominous shadow
on a sunny patch of grass
Tagadim-tagadam
What? The stupid cats are out? Who the heck let them out?
No, no, cand am plecat erau okay.
You better watch your language, son
No, dad, I didn ‘t mean that
You fucking moron,
I hate you
I wish you dead,
You think that if you’re my boss you can control me,
You can annihilate me?
Ce dracului e cariera decat o vorba goala ca sa tii natafletii
Pe jarul muncii?
Do I make the money?
No
Do you make the money?
No
Does he make the money?
Yes. His wife is cheating on him. E bolnav de cancer. He’s done
Life is fair.
Tagadam-tagadim
Viata e un tobogan
Spre moarte.
It’s been years, or better minutes, or better seconds,
Or better nothing in between,
Since I was young
Si visam
And I was dreaming
The fiery sand of Las Vegas
Arizona in flacari,
Canioanele pline cu apa oceanului antagonizat
De pielea uscata a planetei
A car undulating its body,
Alluring the night ghost,
On the endless, dark road
Transparenta, translucida,
Goala ca promisiunea vietii de apoi,
Un pieton a calcat cu stangul
in balta de lumina a strazii,
Lasata de ploaia zilei
It’s the rain of my undone promises,
Of my shattered dreams,
The puddle of my memories,
Easily evaporated
In the scorch of the forgetfulness
It’s the repeatable identity,
Of my irrepetable life
Traim numai o data,
What’s the hurry,
Ce-I atata graba?
Trage de timp,
Hold off the exit
From the highway
Better moving without purpose,
Than dead, still, stiff,
Aneantizat
Frumos cuvant,
splendida jacheta,
pentru un act brutal
Tagadam-tagadim
Alunec spre vadul adanc
Al vietii mele
Cu moarte,
Al tinereteii mele
Cu batranete
Looking in the back window
To see the car behind me,
Take a good look at
the asshole who keeps honking,
descopar un strain
Uitandu-se la mine cu ochii mari, adanci, obositi
Looks like me,
He is me.
Is that you?
Maybe, I don’t know
Nu stiu exact ce vreau,
Deocamdata ma uit pe cer,
Cool, white clouds,
Albi si creti ca oile,
Din curtea bunicilor
Pe ca nu i-am cunoscut,
Dar i-am avur cu siguranta.
Every single human being
Who breathed the scarce air
Of this stifling planet
Had a pair of parents,
Two pairs of grandparents,
Mayne not breathing the air of the planet,
In the same time with them
Traiesc prezentul
Hurrraaaayyy!
I’m free!
Are you?
Am I?
Tagadam-tagadim
Is that all?
Asta e tot?
Viata neroada
Pe-o autostrada
viața-i un maidan
pe-o autostradă
Conduci ca o moaca’n dimineata asta, o sa pierd trenu’.
Nu din cauza mea il pierzi, ci din cauza ta,
a jumatatii de ora
petrecuta in pat, degeaba,
dupa ce ceasul a sunat desteptarea.
Ba cred ca nu, pe tine te-apuica dusul la wc de fiecare data
cand trebioe sa plecam!
Faci din exceptie regula, madam!
Iar tu trebuie sa ai tot timpul dreptate, nu? Smart ass, that’s who you are!
Fuck it, man!
Did you say fuck you?
No. I said fuck it!
You know something, te-ai invatat sa vorbesti ca un birjar!
Iar tu o tii intr-una, trance-tranca,vorbe fara rost!
Auzi, am ajuns sa ma injuri!
N-auzi ca am zis fuck it, femeie? Ori nu mai auzi?
The serpent with two eyes,
one yellow, one red,
dragonul nascut pe-autostrada
plina de vii, punctata de morti,
ne fug anii de sub noi pe roti,
in timp ce
eu fug, fug, fug,
tu fugi fugi fugi,
spre nimicul final,
fugind prin nimicul actual.
Fuck it, man!
One eye popping out, arrested,
its yellow venom dripping down,
one eye sunking in, bloody, congested,
the smokey drgaon of the Lord of Drive,
living in his castle of motion,
huge building without walls
Tagadam-tagadim,
Moartea e cucoana mare
Cu fundu’n cinci viteze,
Cu cracii’n patru roti,
Totul e nimic
Gros, adanc, in perpetua miscare,
Soarele e prins pe bolta
In trei pioneze
Tagadim-tagadam,
eu crestin, el musulman
amandoi marcati ca vitele,
la islaz,
identitatile inca sfaraind pe pielea parlita,
marcata de jugul cu carbuni al sistemului
You’re afraid of the system,
he writes to me,
You’re scared of their punch,
They record everything,
They leave you with no hunch,
They are the substitute for god,
They’re the baddest of the bad
Stand up and talk,
Raise your voice,
Curse,
Fight back,
Die!
Islamul si Crestinismmul au aceleasi radacini, el zice,
Fratele meu se duce la Mecca, el zice,
La sarbatoarea profetului Abraham, el zice,
Hold on, this is our guy, the biblic Abraham, I say
The guy with lots of wives, plenty of mojo, I say
You see, he sais,
We’re the same
Aggressive in difference,
Quiet in identity
Tadgadam-tagadim,
Carnivore in cutii de table,
Gonind spre daily unsafe havens,
With our violence justified,
By our needs to move,
To act,
To speed up,
Towards our own nothingness.
Modernism,
Paganism,
Simturi vesnic flamande,
Ochi vesnic deschisi,
Marsave creaturi,
Oameni mici, oameni mari,
criminali,
We are serial killers,
Ferocious carnivores who don’t stop at eating for need,
They need to gorge in for pleasure
Why the fuck they stopped?
Da, ce dracului se-intampla?
They just like to look, man,
They enjoy a brother in distress!
Suntem maimute curioase,
Scarmam prin cenusa mortii dupa palpairi de viata,
We don’t give the life,
We just take it,
Or shorten it
We won’t stop till we make sure
we seeded the destruction,
we won’t stop till we make sure
the death is an ominous shadow
on a sunny patch of grass
Tagadim-tagadam
What? The stupid cats are out? Who the heck let them out?
No, no, cand am plecat erau okay.
You better watch your language, son
No, dad, I didn ‘t mean that
You fucking moron,
I hate you
I wish you dead,
You think that if you’re my boss you can control me,
You can annihilate me?
Ce dracului e cariera decat o vorba goala ca sa tii natafletii
Pe jarul muncii?
Do I make the money?
No
Do you make the money?
No
Does he make the money?
Yes. His wife is cheating on him. E bolnav de cancer. He’s done
Life is fair.
Tagadam-tagadim
Viata e un tobogan
Spre moarte.
It’s been years, or better minutes, or better seconds,
Or better nothing in between,
Since I was young
Si visam
And I was dreaming
The fiery sand of Las Vegas
Arizona in flacari,
Canioanele pline cu apa oceanului antagonizat
De pielea uscata a planetei
A car undulating its body,
Alluring the night ghost,
On the endless, dark road
Transparenta, translucida,
Goala ca promisiunea vietii de apoi,
Un pieton a calcat cu stangul
in balta de lumina a strazii,
Lasata de ploaia zilei
It’s the rain of my undone promises,
Of my shattered dreams,
The puddle of my memories,
Easily evaporated
In the scorch of the forgetfulness
It’s the repeatable identity,
Of my irrepetable life
Traim numai o data,
What’s the hurry,
Ce-I atata graba?
Trage de timp,
Hold off the exit
From the highway
Better moving without purpose,
Than dead, still, stiff,
Aneantizat
Frumos cuvant,
splendida jacheta,
pentru un act brutal
Tagadam-tagadim
Alunec spre vadul adanc
Al vietii mele
Cu moarte,
Al tinereteii mele
Cu batranete
Looking in the back window
To see the car behind me,
Take a good look at
the asshole who keeps honking,
descopar un strain
Uitandu-se la mine cu ochii mari, adanci, obositi
Looks like me,
He is me.
Is that you?
Maybe, I don’t know
Nu stiu exact ce vreau,
Deocamdata ma uit pe cer,
Cool, white clouds,
Albi si creti ca oile,
Din curtea bunicilor
Pe ca nu i-am cunoscut,
Dar i-am avur cu siguranta.
Every single human being
Who breathed the scarce air
Of this stifling planet
Had a pair of parents,
Two pairs of grandparents,
Mayne not breathing the air of the planet,
In the same time with them
Traiesc prezentul
Hurrraaaayyy!
I’m free!
Are you?
Am I?
Tagadam-tagadim
Is that all?
Asta e tot?
Viata neroada
Pe-o autostrada
Saturday, August 24, 2013
You
Anytime you say something
it’s like you’re barking an order
loud and clear,
it was bad weather in my area, hail and high winds,
you say,
and that sounds like an order for me to duck,
to run from the boom of the thunder,
from the path of the lightning,
from the rage of the storm,
and take shelter,
although it’s the next morning
and it’s sunny and serene,
the horizon patched up with puffy white clouds,
cheered up by listless, silly birds
who are darting in all directions,
senselessly, whimsically,
cutting the skin of the blue
with myriads of invisible lines
that God could use
to pack the far up sky in a puzzle for his staff,
bored of too much happiness
in their plain Lab of Eden
When you describe something
and want me to listen to you,
you stretch your long arm
like the stout hoist of a scaffold,
you fan out your palm that grew in a boomerang,
a special one,
like a lai-o-mano with the long teeth of a shark,
with your pointy, long, sharp fingers,
which you twist in a claw
like you want to strangle the air,
force it to comply to your judgment,
or chain down the deep silence suddenly stomped in the air,
clung in the shadowless branches of air,
stretched all over around us,
invisible, imperceptible,
getting even thinner by your simple presence
You harbor a wordless world
that’s so easy for you to rule,
because you’re a natural
at intoxicating with the fear of being
my stomach,
with my appetite accustomed to normal life,
where talking freely is just another way
to say
I am
You are simple you
with this I know it all,
I’ve seen it all,
I am all
You
don’t have a hand to show directions,
You
have a claw to kill dissension
it’s like you’re barking an order
loud and clear,
it was bad weather in my area, hail and high winds,
you say,
and that sounds like an order for me to duck,
to run from the boom of the thunder,
from the path of the lightning,
from the rage of the storm,
and take shelter,
although it’s the next morning
and it’s sunny and serene,
the horizon patched up with puffy white clouds,
cheered up by listless, silly birds
who are darting in all directions,
senselessly, whimsically,
cutting the skin of the blue
with myriads of invisible lines
that God could use
to pack the far up sky in a puzzle for his staff,
bored of too much happiness
in their plain Lab of Eden
When you describe something
and want me to listen to you,
you stretch your long arm
like the stout hoist of a scaffold,
you fan out your palm that grew in a boomerang,
a special one,
like a lai-o-mano with the long teeth of a shark,
with your pointy, long, sharp fingers,
which you twist in a claw
like you want to strangle the air,
force it to comply to your judgment,
or chain down the deep silence suddenly stomped in the air,
clung in the shadowless branches of air,
stretched all over around us,
invisible, imperceptible,
getting even thinner by your simple presence
You harbor a wordless world
that’s so easy for you to rule,
because you’re a natural
at intoxicating with the fear of being
my stomach,
with my appetite accustomed to normal life,
where talking freely is just another way
to say
I am
You are simple you
with this I know it all,
I’ve seen it all,
I am all
You
don’t have a hand to show directions,
You
have a claw to kill dissension
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Bubbles
I have a bubble called me
a spherical cocoon sewn of thoughts,
convictions, prejudices, loves and hatreds,
You have a bubble called you,
I barely see you through your you-bubble,
you barely see me through my me-bubble
Then you try to extend your bubble over mine,
gobble it up
through love, you say,
and I believe that
because I feel that
by avoiding the failed attempt
to know that
And I’m resisting to your bubble,
and try to break it through,
to reach you
to pull you out like a trophy
and look at you
and your transparent heart
a spherical cocoon sewn of thoughts,
convictions, prejudices, loves and hatreds,
You have a bubble called you,
I barely see you through your you-bubble,
you barely see me through my me-bubble
Then you try to extend your bubble over mine,
gobble it up
through love, you say,
and I believe that
because I feel that
by avoiding the failed attempt
to know that
And I’m resisting to your bubble,
and try to break it through,
to reach you
to pull you out like a trophy
and look at you
and your transparent heart
Briefcase of Hell
Each one of us carries
his briefcase of hell
attached to his wrist
like a tracking bracelet for inmates
A Spanish train mechanic
who killed eighty people
because he was careless
has a bigger briefcase
then my father teenager
who permanently damaged
the eye of his brother,
my uncle teenager,
through playful mistake,
showing him how a match set alight
can fly
high up in the sky
When I met you
I laid down
my briefcase of hell
on the table between us
and I said:
This is the piece of private hell
I constantly carry with me.
Can you still love me?
And you said:
Each one of us carries
his briefcase of hell
attached to his wrist
like a tracking bracelet for inmates
Then you showed me
your briefcase
his briefcase of hell
attached to his wrist
like a tracking bracelet for inmates
A Spanish train mechanic
who killed eighty people
because he was careless
has a bigger briefcase
then my father teenager
who permanently damaged
the eye of his brother,
my uncle teenager,
through playful mistake,
showing him how a match set alight
can fly
high up in the sky
When I met you
I laid down
my briefcase of hell
on the table between us
and I said:
This is the piece of private hell
I constantly carry with me.
Can you still love me?
And you said:
Each one of us carries
his briefcase of hell
attached to his wrist
like a tracking bracelet for inmates
Then you showed me
your briefcase
Unnoticed
Most of the day,
throughout the long drudge of the hour,
I live unnoticed,
unremarked,
unaccounted for,
not worth the frail, flickering thought
in somebody’s mind,
including those who love me
or just care about me
I believe this means
being a human being
in the human jungle
of human demeanors
It’s daunting to think
that most part of the day
I’m on my own
on this tiny, vulnerable planet
chained down by the whims
of a star,
a regular, boring celestial object
covered
with the thick, heavy crust
of its inhabitants’ thoughts and feelings
stuck to a hard core
of chemical elements
I walk the street
while the others step on my shadow
and they never feel a thing
and many times
they don’t even notice the shadow
that is me
or if they see it,
they take me for another shadow
the shadow of a tree,
or a venerable building,
or a dying dove
The only way
to fix my invisibility
is to keep thinking about you
the one I love, the one I care about,
my partner into a flimsy boat
we paddle together
on the roughed up sea of time.
That makes me feel less lonely.
and less unnoticed,
and more visible
on this noisy, lonely planet
astray in a corner of this taciturn,
cavernous universe
throughout the long drudge of the hour,
I live unnoticed,
unremarked,
unaccounted for,
not worth the frail, flickering thought
in somebody’s mind,
including those who love me
or just care about me
I believe this means
being a human being
in the human jungle
of human demeanors
It’s daunting to think
that most part of the day
I’m on my own
on this tiny, vulnerable planet
chained down by the whims
of a star,
a regular, boring celestial object
covered
with the thick, heavy crust
of its inhabitants’ thoughts and feelings
stuck to a hard core
of chemical elements
I walk the street
while the others step on my shadow
and they never feel a thing
and many times
they don’t even notice the shadow
that is me
or if they see it,
they take me for another shadow
the shadow of a tree,
or a venerable building,
or a dying dove
The only way
to fix my invisibility
is to keep thinking about you
the one I love, the one I care about,
my partner into a flimsy boat
we paddle together
on the roughed up sea of time.
That makes me feel less lonely.
and less unnoticed,
and more visible
on this noisy, lonely planet
astray in a corner of this taciturn,
cavernous universe
People with Big Mansions
Those people owning big mansions
on the beautiful lake shore,
they cannot stand their power anymore,
as with a thing they got accustomed to and cannot bear,
they reject it because of too much usage,
of too much seeing it around,
of too much wear and tear.
They hate their wives, those obsolete, silly trophies,
they hate their select cars, their select ties, their select clubs,
they hate the dumb obedience of their financial orderlies,
the taste in women of their friends, the nabobs,
they hate the power they hold on other peoples’ lives
those humble, worthless creepy-crawlies
which barely make a living, carried by the welfare trollies
happily swarming around through their anonymous hives.
Now they cannot just trod around in their big rooms,
the unused, heavily adorned study room, the majestic den,
they get strayed through the dark corridors of their private dooms,
they get tired when the reach the end of their twisted, long hallways
and there’s no exit to the Garden of Eden
all they wish is for their children, to always
be there, above everything, above all
that should be the family goal.
They’d like to challenge the almighty God right then, right there,
To see who harbors more strength, who harness more power,
who’s carrying more clout in his existential manger,
who can do what and when and where,
but God’s a coward, he never shows his face up,
and this is something they cannot bear,
don’t teach a satrap how to deal with a satrap,
they raise their clenched fists and yell in anger:
God, show up your face, show up your strength
I want to measure myself with you,
I won’t let you be
till I know who’s mightier,
there’s no competitor worthy of me
in your kingdom!
But God constantly ignores their chime,
and sends instead an accident, a cancer, a deep pain
that’s how God works, that’s how his ways are lain,
the cowardly God, the owner of the time
And what’s left to the people with big mansions
on the beautiful lake shore
is to hate themselves, their lives, the other peoples’ lives,
their easy, happy, fulfilling bonding
so bored of winning it all,
so mad of being the winners of nothing
on the beautiful lake shore,
they cannot stand their power anymore,
as with a thing they got accustomed to and cannot bear,
they reject it because of too much usage,
of too much seeing it around,
of too much wear and tear.
They hate their wives, those obsolete, silly trophies,
they hate their select cars, their select ties, their select clubs,
they hate the dumb obedience of their financial orderlies,
the taste in women of their friends, the nabobs,
they hate the power they hold on other peoples’ lives
those humble, worthless creepy-crawlies
which barely make a living, carried by the welfare trollies
happily swarming around through their anonymous hives.
Now they cannot just trod around in their big rooms,
the unused, heavily adorned study room, the majestic den,
they get strayed through the dark corridors of their private dooms,
they get tired when the reach the end of their twisted, long hallways
and there’s no exit to the Garden of Eden
all they wish is for their children, to always
be there, above everything, above all
that should be the family goal.
They’d like to challenge the almighty God right then, right there,
To see who harbors more strength, who harness more power,
who’s carrying more clout in his existential manger,
who can do what and when and where,
but God’s a coward, he never shows his face up,
and this is something they cannot bear,
don’t teach a satrap how to deal with a satrap,
they raise their clenched fists and yell in anger:
God, show up your face, show up your strength
I want to measure myself with you,
I won’t let you be
till I know who’s mightier,
there’s no competitor worthy of me
in your kingdom!
But God constantly ignores their chime,
and sends instead an accident, a cancer, a deep pain
that’s how God works, that’s how his ways are lain,
the cowardly God, the owner of the time
And what’s left to the people with big mansions
on the beautiful lake shore
is to hate themselves, their lives, the other peoples’ lives,
their easy, happy, fulfilling bonding
so bored of winning it all,
so mad of being the winners of nothing
A Time for Women and Cars (ver 2)
I like the older women
with their bodies dented
by the wear and tear
of the lovehatred’s chores and the slow aging pruning,
and still attractive,
still highly functional,
efficient, sleek,
resilient to the bumps of the life roads,
that nobody will ever fix for driving smooth
or safe,
like reliable likeable old cars
that still have lots of good rides
left in them
The men boys love to watch
the cool, sleek vintage cars
on display
on the fractured pavement of the dull parking lots,
unhealthy, cracked skin of gloomy superstores,
the cars like rainbow jawbreakers,
and puffy cotton candies,
like the fur of pink panther toys made out of dotted plush,
like they’ve not been built for the road
but for the eye’s pleasure,
by children engineers,
cars contaminating with the longing for the better past,
in the improvised candy stores
with counters made of asphalt
where the men boys dream
of eating ice cream in red-goldish parlors
while Elvis sings songs
that nobody pays attention to
because he’s going to sing forever
and be there for everybody
forever
To fit in the décor of the outdoor candy stores,
these older women
will put on their Saturday night dresses,
will wear again their cotton candy sixties wardrobes,
their glitzy jewels made out of rain dreams,
the flashy robes of the careless times
when the sky was close and you could touch with your hand
the hems of the stars,
while the night was cool
but not as cool as their scandalous cutout dresses
or their stringy sandals
the color of fresh donuts
served with roast coffee
and blueberry pancakes,
and strut alluring,
maddeningly young and fresh,
on the improvised promenades
in the dull yards
of the depressing gray superstores
coughed out by a depressing dwarf time,
full of no name merchandise,
anonymous labels stuck on our dozing off,
numbed out spirit of the sixties,
a time for women and cars
with their bodies dented
by the wear and tear
of the lovehatred’s chores and the slow aging pruning,
and still attractive,
still highly functional,
efficient, sleek,
resilient to the bumps of the life roads,
that nobody will ever fix for driving smooth
or safe,
like reliable likeable old cars
that still have lots of good rides
left in them
The men boys love to watch
the cool, sleek vintage cars
on display
on the fractured pavement of the dull parking lots,
unhealthy, cracked skin of gloomy superstores,
the cars like rainbow jawbreakers,
and puffy cotton candies,
like the fur of pink panther toys made out of dotted plush,
like they’ve not been built for the road
but for the eye’s pleasure,
by children engineers,
cars contaminating with the longing for the better past,
in the improvised candy stores
with counters made of asphalt
where the men boys dream
of eating ice cream in red-goldish parlors
while Elvis sings songs
that nobody pays attention to
because he’s going to sing forever
and be there for everybody
forever
To fit in the décor of the outdoor candy stores,
these older women
will put on their Saturday night dresses,
will wear again their cotton candy sixties wardrobes,
their glitzy jewels made out of rain dreams,
the flashy robes of the careless times
when the sky was close and you could touch with your hand
the hems of the stars,
while the night was cool
but not as cool as their scandalous cutout dresses
or their stringy sandals
the color of fresh donuts
served with roast coffee
and blueberry pancakes,
and strut alluring,
maddeningly young and fresh,
on the improvised promenades
in the dull yards
of the depressing gray superstores
coughed out by a depressing dwarf time,
full of no name merchandise,
anonymous labels stuck on our dozing off,
numbed out spirit of the sixties,
a time for women and cars
A Time for Women and Cars (ver 1)
I like older women
with their slightly appealing , barely noticeable curves,
sturdy bodies covered in the deceiving veil of fragility,
marked
by the wear and tear of the life bumpy roads,
by the abandoned trips’ hazards,
by the snowy days’ crystal teeth,
by the hot sweat of the sidewalk,
with meat of asphalt and a black, slimy heart,
by the wiry, rigid lines reeled down on their age spool,
sawn in tight corsets for body and mind,
but still attractive in their kinky bodies these old women,
still highly functional,
like reliable old cars
that you trust more and more
and they lift your spirits,
like you are a smart banker
who made a good investment,
the higher the mileage gets, the more enjoyable the drive,
and you know
for a fact
that they still have lots of good, cheap, fun rides
left in them
I love to browse
the vintage cars on display
in the lifeless parking lots of the gloomy supermarkets
on Sundays afternoons,
when the crowds thin out like receding tides,
going back to their ocean of Monday’s anonymity,
oversized parking lots
suddenly brought back to life by patches of color,
showing their bare, cracked skins punctuated
by dots of pink and red and blue,
covered by the satiny fabric made out of metal,
the smooth skins of cars
built by engineers who liked Barbie dolls,
and maybe played with them
when they had a break from work
I love
the sugary look of the old, curvy cars,
the shiny hard candies covered by droplets of rain carrying the tears of the day passed,
and never coming back,
lost
the ensconced love affairs burning with desire
the soft leather of chairs,
lost
the engine raging like a bull trapped in a tight cage of steel,
eating the road like a caramel to easy to chew,
lost
the memories of the cars made out of cotton candies,
swishing through the liquidly air of a beach road,
lost
the soft embrace of the snuggly chairs to sleep in and dream on
your youth vain dreams,
lost
the pink heart of that Chevy
the color of the fading jealousy,
lost
the youth time spent too quickly
on the highroads of living fast,
living high,
living intense
And why
those older women
shouldn’t wear their colored wardrobes of the sixties,
dress in their flashy robes,
wrap on their puffy shawls,
put on their dancing shoes,
rock-and-roll-ing their way through the day,
or their sandals the color of the ruffled dunes of sand,
smoking long, white cigarettes
at the wheels of the cakey cars of their youth,
cars gone and stuffed for display
like hunting trophies,
with the light in their eyes gone,
spent on the highroads
of lives lived
without the illusory gain
of immortality
with their slightly appealing , barely noticeable curves,
sturdy bodies covered in the deceiving veil of fragility,
marked
by the wear and tear of the life bumpy roads,
by the abandoned trips’ hazards,
by the snowy days’ crystal teeth,
by the hot sweat of the sidewalk,
with meat of asphalt and a black, slimy heart,
by the wiry, rigid lines reeled down on their age spool,
sawn in tight corsets for body and mind,
but still attractive in their kinky bodies these old women,
still highly functional,
like reliable old cars
that you trust more and more
and they lift your spirits,
like you are a smart banker
who made a good investment,
the higher the mileage gets, the more enjoyable the drive,
and you know
for a fact
that they still have lots of good, cheap, fun rides
left in them
I love to browse
the vintage cars on display
in the lifeless parking lots of the gloomy supermarkets
on Sundays afternoons,
when the crowds thin out like receding tides,
going back to their ocean of Monday’s anonymity,
oversized parking lots
suddenly brought back to life by patches of color,
showing their bare, cracked skins punctuated
by dots of pink and red and blue,
covered by the satiny fabric made out of metal,
the smooth skins of cars
built by engineers who liked Barbie dolls,
and maybe played with them
when they had a break from work
I love
the sugary look of the old, curvy cars,
the shiny hard candies covered by droplets of rain carrying the tears of the day passed,
and never coming back,
lost
the ensconced love affairs burning with desire
the soft leather of chairs,
lost
the engine raging like a bull trapped in a tight cage of steel,
eating the road like a caramel to easy to chew,
lost
the memories of the cars made out of cotton candies,
swishing through the liquidly air of a beach road,
lost
the soft embrace of the snuggly chairs to sleep in and dream on
your youth vain dreams,
lost
the pink heart of that Chevy
the color of the fading jealousy,
lost
the youth time spent too quickly
on the highroads of living fast,
living high,
living intense
And why
those older women
shouldn’t wear their colored wardrobes of the sixties,
dress in their flashy robes,
wrap on their puffy shawls,
put on their dancing shoes,
rock-and-roll-ing their way through the day,
or their sandals the color of the ruffled dunes of sand,
smoking long, white cigarettes
at the wheels of the cakey cars of their youth,
cars gone and stuffed for display
like hunting trophies,
with the light in their eyes gone,
spent on the highroads
of lives lived
without the illusory gain
of immortality
Sat Calieni, coordonate 45 cu 27
Sat Călieni,
paralela 45, meridianul 27
după amiază glorioasă de primăvară nouă,
timpul când muştele încep să-nţepe,
sa enerveze
cu insistenţa lor gălăgioasă, ascuţită,
excitate de lumina tânără a soarelui copil.
Cerul e albastru azuriu,
respiraţia pământului e boare caldă în aer,
copacii plini de flori arata ca niște domnișoare timide
ieșite la strada mare,
ca să-şi arate rochiile noi,
colorate viu, subţiate în dantele,
nimicul zilei e pace, jubilaţie, echilibru.
Ulița e punctată de balegi proaspete
lăsate de vietățile satului,
roboti organici procesând fără răgaz
carnea nutritivă a planetei,
doar ca să se mişte de-aici şi până-acolo,
câteva clipe scurte şi doar o dată
pe drumeagul îngust al vieţii.
Lui Dumnezeu ii lipsește simțul olfactiv.
Nea Pufulete păzește fântâna de apa din faţa casei lui
şi stă la pândă
să nu intre timpul în sat,
să-şi facă de cap,
pe timp nu îl pândeşti cu ochii deschişi
sau foindu-te pe scaun,sau vorbind, sau respirând,
ne-semnele de viață ale lui Nea Pufulete
sunt semne de ne-viaţă,
semne că va muri curând
sau e deja mort,
vajnic grănicer la graniţa cu timpul.
Dar timpul i-a scăpat
şi a intrat in sat
ca istorie scăpată din hăţ.
Schimbarea a distrus multe case,
mai multe ca schimbările vântului şi ale focului şi ale apei,
case ce zac ca stârvuri aruncate la marginea drumului,
rupte pe dinafară, mâncate pe dinăuntru,
cu carcasele pereților dezvelind nimicul existenţelor
şi umbrele oamenilor care au plecat
din sat, din ţară, din lumea asta.
Schimbarea nu omoară oamenii,
omoară doar lucrurile pe care le fac oamenii
ca să ţină schimbarea în frâu.
Câinii sunt ființe agresive de decor, rupți de realitatea
pe care sunt puşi să o păzească
cu colți de prisos.
În satul Călieni câinii sunt toţi instrumente inutile
de păzit sărăcia.
Ulițele satului sclipesc in soarele viu de început de lume
prin pielea argintie a mașinilor aduse din Italia,
frumuseţi trecute care zac cu cauciucurile îngropate în praful galben, gros, lucios,
glitzy diamonds in the rough.
Un cal trage de un Fiat stricat
coborând metafora din cărţi, la drumul mare:
Orientul ajuta occidentul.
Gheorghe ester singurul om real rămas in sat,
bolnav incurabil de ideal,
Gheorghe vrea sa viziteze Alpii şi cere bani de pâine,
oameni autentici, ca el
vor sa se caţere pe piscul cel mai mare al planetei Marte,
dar au nevoie de rachete şi trupuri să îi ducă-acolo,
şi trebuie să le inventeze pe-amândouă
şi cer prima silabă a cuvântului
din care Creatorul a făcut lumea.
Cocoşul se crede stăpânul absolut al ogrăzii,
Gheorghe se crede stăpânul absolut al visului,
oamenii se cred stăpânii absoluţi ai planetei,
Dumnezeu se crede stăpânul absolut al universului,
timpul le rânduieşte pe toate,
dar nu spune nimănui, e modest,
îi simţi doar gheara,
respiraţia grea în tot ceea ce faci:
I’m counting the hours!
Cometa Halley se învârte prin spațiu cu exactitate de ceasornic
dar numai cei bolnavi se uita la cer,
cu premoniţia călătoriei ce va sa vie,
ei pot zări cometa,
restul din noi prea preocupaţi
să ne irosim visele in puţinătăţi cotidiene,
aruncându-le in praful gros, galben, lucios
de pe uliţele iluzorii ale existenţelor noastre,
purtate de vântul capricios al schimbării
sus, sus, deasupra acoperişului lumii,
ca niște zmeie de hârtie scăpate din sfoară,
lunecând fără control
pe toboganul cosmic al cometelor
captive în spaţiul fără frontier.
paralela 45, meridianul 27
după amiază glorioasă de primăvară nouă,
timpul când muştele încep să-nţepe,
sa enerveze
cu insistenţa lor gălăgioasă, ascuţită,
excitate de lumina tânără a soarelui copil.
Cerul e albastru azuriu,
respiraţia pământului e boare caldă în aer,
copacii plini de flori arata ca niște domnișoare timide
ieșite la strada mare,
ca să-şi arate rochiile noi,
colorate viu, subţiate în dantele,
nimicul zilei e pace, jubilaţie, echilibru.
Ulița e punctată de balegi proaspete
lăsate de vietățile satului,
roboti organici procesând fără răgaz
carnea nutritivă a planetei,
doar ca să se mişte de-aici şi până-acolo,
câteva clipe scurte şi doar o dată
pe drumeagul îngust al vieţii.
Lui Dumnezeu ii lipsește simțul olfactiv.
Nea Pufulete păzește fântâna de apa din faţa casei lui
şi stă la pândă
să nu intre timpul în sat,
să-şi facă de cap,
pe timp nu îl pândeşti cu ochii deschişi
sau foindu-te pe scaun,sau vorbind, sau respirând,
ne-semnele de viață ale lui Nea Pufulete
sunt semne de ne-viaţă,
semne că va muri curând
sau e deja mort,
vajnic grănicer la graniţa cu timpul.
Dar timpul i-a scăpat
şi a intrat in sat
ca istorie scăpată din hăţ.
Schimbarea a distrus multe case,
mai multe ca schimbările vântului şi ale focului şi ale apei,
case ce zac ca stârvuri aruncate la marginea drumului,
rupte pe dinafară, mâncate pe dinăuntru,
cu carcasele pereților dezvelind nimicul existenţelor
şi umbrele oamenilor care au plecat
din sat, din ţară, din lumea asta.
Schimbarea nu omoară oamenii,
omoară doar lucrurile pe care le fac oamenii
ca să ţină schimbarea în frâu.
Câinii sunt ființe agresive de decor, rupți de realitatea
pe care sunt puşi să o păzească
cu colți de prisos.
În satul Călieni câinii sunt toţi instrumente inutile
de păzit sărăcia.
Ulițele satului sclipesc in soarele viu de început de lume
prin pielea argintie a mașinilor aduse din Italia,
frumuseţi trecute care zac cu cauciucurile îngropate în praful galben, gros, lucios,
glitzy diamonds in the rough.
Un cal trage de un Fiat stricat
coborând metafora din cărţi, la drumul mare:
Orientul ajuta occidentul.
Gheorghe ester singurul om real rămas in sat,
bolnav incurabil de ideal,
Gheorghe vrea sa viziteze Alpii şi cere bani de pâine,
oameni autentici, ca el
vor sa se caţere pe piscul cel mai mare al planetei Marte,
dar au nevoie de rachete şi trupuri să îi ducă-acolo,
şi trebuie să le inventeze pe-amândouă
şi cer prima silabă a cuvântului
din care Creatorul a făcut lumea.
Cocoşul se crede stăpânul absolut al ogrăzii,
Gheorghe se crede stăpânul absolut al visului,
oamenii se cred stăpânii absoluţi ai planetei,
Dumnezeu se crede stăpânul absolut al universului,
timpul le rânduieşte pe toate,
dar nu spune nimănui, e modest,
îi simţi doar gheara,
respiraţia grea în tot ceea ce faci:
I’m counting the hours!
Cometa Halley se învârte prin spațiu cu exactitate de ceasornic
dar numai cei bolnavi se uita la cer,
cu premoniţia călătoriei ce va sa vie,
ei pot zări cometa,
restul din noi prea preocupaţi
să ne irosim visele in puţinătăţi cotidiene,
aruncându-le in praful gros, galben, lucios
de pe uliţele iluzorii ale existenţelor noastre,
purtate de vântul capricios al schimbării
sus, sus, deasupra acoperişului lumii,
ca niște zmeie de hârtie scăpate din sfoară,
lunecând fără control
pe toboganul cosmic al cometelor
captive în spaţiul fără frontier.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Saint
She loves me,
but maybe not enough,
her love is conditional,
she wants me to be a saint,
while I fucking hate
being a saint
but maybe not enough,
her love is conditional,
she wants me to be a saint,
while I fucking hate
being a saint
Intelligent Design
We are designed to live together
and not being able to survive without each other
and not being able to agree with each other
and enforced to like each other
in a divine project which is over budget
and the status of work
is still incomplete
and not being able to survive without each other
and not being able to agree with each other
and enforced to like each other
in a divine project which is over budget
and the status of work
is still incomplete
Accomplished Couple
Our love needs now
a king sized bed
to lay down,
to take a break
when the sun is down and the night is out,
to rest its tired limbs
and enjoy the peace
of less passionate days
Years before, when our love was young,
and underdeveloped,
a teenage body, frail, gaining strength by day,
or by night,
all it needed was a dingy sofa
with a broken leg
almost crushing under its own weight
of intense, dense feelings,
supported from underneath
by a badly dented tennis balls can
which had been
the best declaration of love
we had made
to each other
Our mature relation needs comfort now,
to feel good,
to get vigor,
it detests the freezing cold
which steals the heat from our fingers
when we throw snow balls at each other
and we’re not laughing anymore
and we’re not lying in the cold white powder anymore
to leave angels marks
in the angels territory
We are comfortably wrapped
in the deep, and fuzzy, and warm folds
of our poor, irrelevant, meaningless
television impregnated evenings
We are an accomplished couple
a king sized bed
to lay down,
to take a break
when the sun is down and the night is out,
to rest its tired limbs
and enjoy the peace
of less passionate days
Years before, when our love was young,
and underdeveloped,
a teenage body, frail, gaining strength by day,
or by night,
all it needed was a dingy sofa
with a broken leg
almost crushing under its own weight
of intense, dense feelings,
supported from underneath
by a badly dented tennis balls can
which had been
the best declaration of love
we had made
to each other
Our mature relation needs comfort now,
to feel good,
to get vigor,
it detests the freezing cold
which steals the heat from our fingers
when we throw snow balls at each other
and we’re not laughing anymore
and we’re not lying in the cold white powder anymore
to leave angels marks
in the angels territory
We are comfortably wrapped
in the deep, and fuzzy, and warm folds
of our poor, irrelevant, meaningless
television impregnated evenings
We are an accomplished couple
The Clothing Store
Those young people
who barged in the clothing store
Roxanne, Haut Couture,
close to Parliament Hill,
and local attractions,
this is Cynthia,
hey Ray,
were only incidentally dressed,
and looked out of place
Their godly bodies,
not yet affected
by too many happy returns
of their own selves
in different packages
the cycle is of nine months,
they say,
during which all our cells get replaced
we all should look anew,
they say,
but we look a bit shabbier,
actually,
a bit crooked, a bit cracked,
like old furniture that's been refurbished,
the work of apprentices,
for sure,
who were not in charge with making Cynthia and Roy,
hurrraaayyy!
Their eyes were playing catch up
with the hungry eyes of those strangers
who were fumbling through the items on display,
who didn't ask for permission
to caress with hungry looks
their smooth thigs and arms and legs and skin
in shameless, furtive, sneaky cover-ups
dipped in polite, sparkly smiles
They were chatting about clothes
with the overrated taste of their ages,
craving to talk to their own,
eager to be talked to by their own,
to be listened by their own,
to be loved by their own,
when we all strangers around them
were thinking the opposite of clothing,
were thinking Adam and Eve,
the primordial alley with a tree and a snake,
while their painfully tempting bodies
were shaking lose our feeble chains of morality,
were blindfolding the watchdogs of our decency,
were digging out the beauty hunters
in each of us
The goddess was tending to a bar,
must be exciting Cynthia,
not quite, Ray,
she was handing out abused glasses
filling them with the daily intakes of alcohol,
the necessary poison for dying with hope,
in survival mode,
to all those overweight old males,
with dirty looks,
and crumpled overalls,
and broken teeth,
and stinky mouths,
and an insatiate appetite for soliling the beauty,
for painting the intimacy of lovemaking
in the strong colors of rape,
she was tending the clients at the bar
with the same elongated, marmorean arms
she used to caress the naked torso
of her young lover,
Ray, cool Ray,
Cynthia, goddess of love,
two children of the night,
but she was talking strictly clothing
and didn’t seem to think about anything else,
while I did
who barged in the clothing store
Roxanne, Haut Couture,
close to Parliament Hill,
and local attractions,
this is Cynthia,
hey Ray,
were only incidentally dressed,
and looked out of place
Their godly bodies,
not yet affected
by too many happy returns
of their own selves
in different packages
the cycle is of nine months,
they say,
during which all our cells get replaced
we all should look anew,
they say,
but we look a bit shabbier,
actually,
a bit crooked, a bit cracked,
like old furniture that's been refurbished,
the work of apprentices,
for sure,
who were not in charge with making Cynthia and Roy,
hurrraaayyy!
Their eyes were playing catch up
with the hungry eyes of those strangers
who were fumbling through the items on display,
who didn't ask for permission
to caress with hungry looks
their smooth thigs and arms and legs and skin
in shameless, furtive, sneaky cover-ups
dipped in polite, sparkly smiles
They were chatting about clothes
with the overrated taste of their ages,
craving to talk to their own,
eager to be talked to by their own,
to be listened by their own,
to be loved by their own,
when we all strangers around them
were thinking the opposite of clothing,
were thinking Adam and Eve,
the primordial alley with a tree and a snake,
while their painfully tempting bodies
were shaking lose our feeble chains of morality,
were blindfolding the watchdogs of our decency,
were digging out the beauty hunters
in each of us
The goddess was tending to a bar,
must be exciting Cynthia,
not quite, Ray,
she was handing out abused glasses
filling them with the daily intakes of alcohol,
the necessary poison for dying with hope,
in survival mode,
to all those overweight old males,
with dirty looks,
and crumpled overalls,
and broken teeth,
and stinky mouths,
and an insatiate appetite for soliling the beauty,
for painting the intimacy of lovemaking
in the strong colors of rape,
she was tending the clients at the bar
with the same elongated, marmorean arms
she used to caress the naked torso
of her young lover,
Ray, cool Ray,
Cynthia, goddess of love,
two children of the night,
but she was talking strictly clothing
and didn’t seem to think about anything else,
while I did
Poetry
All I am trying to do
is take a deep, deep breath,
fill my lungs with the pure air of the heights
in my mind,
then exhale
and build with my freed up breath
a flower with translucent petals,
drawn by a delicate pen onto the watery, sparkly skin
of a puddle,
leftover from last midnight storm,
a piece of the ephemeral flesh
of the last night rain,
soon to be sucked up
by the healing breath
of the scorching sun
is take a deep, deep breath,
fill my lungs with the pure air of the heights
in my mind,
then exhale
and build with my freed up breath
a flower with translucent petals,
drawn by a delicate pen onto the watery, sparkly skin
of a puddle,
leftover from last midnight storm,
a piece of the ephemeral flesh
of the last night rain,
soon to be sucked up
by the healing breath
of the scorching sun
Tree Dream
I am a tree
with my roots deeply grounded
in the musty soil
of the forest
I am chained
even when the heavy storm bites with its sharp watery teeth
deep into my skin of leaves,
I cannot move an inch
to meet and greet the other trees
to shake branches with them,
although I can grow up tall,
tall enough to take a peek
at the far away thin line of the horizon,
with its skin ripped off,
by the forest jagged back,
while my canopy whispers
words of joy, and words of pain
under the manly caress
of the free wind
All I want
is to reach out
to my fellow trees,
to touch their rough skins
with my knotted, vigorous branches
My dreams are real:
I have birds with colorful feathers
and sleek bodies,
playing in my tangled hair of leaves,
and I wish them to fly high up,
to pierce the stretched canvas of the sky,
look behind it,
where the earth cannot pull them down
anymore,
and the stars are not strong enough to pull them in
yet,
where the gravity becomes just a disease
in the past,
or in the future,
and the present
is being happy and free of any gravitational constraint
But all these birds do
is finding rest
into the comfortable, motherly arms
of another canopy
and none of my dreams are going through the door
of the colorless sky,
and none of my dreams are coming back,
to rest on my shoulders
tired of so much waiting
with my roots deeply grounded
in the musty soil
of the forest
I am chained
even when the heavy storm bites with its sharp watery teeth
deep into my skin of leaves,
I cannot move an inch
to meet and greet the other trees
to shake branches with them,
although I can grow up tall,
tall enough to take a peek
at the far away thin line of the horizon,
with its skin ripped off,
by the forest jagged back,
while my canopy whispers
words of joy, and words of pain
under the manly caress
of the free wind
All I want
is to reach out
to my fellow trees,
to touch their rough skins
with my knotted, vigorous branches
My dreams are real:
I have birds with colorful feathers
and sleek bodies,
playing in my tangled hair of leaves,
and I wish them to fly high up,
to pierce the stretched canvas of the sky,
look behind it,
where the earth cannot pull them down
anymore,
and the stars are not strong enough to pull them in
yet,
where the gravity becomes just a disease
in the past,
or in the future,
and the present
is being happy and free of any gravitational constraint
But all these birds do
is finding rest
into the comfortable, motherly arms
of another canopy
and none of my dreams are going through the door
of the colorless sky,
and none of my dreams are coming back,
to rest on my shoulders
tired of so much waiting
Moving Out
Sitting with my son
on the empty floor,
in the middle of a bare, white painted apartment
starting up his life,
chatting about furniture and curtains and cable tv,
sharing with him wisdom I don’t have
giving him courage he doesn’t need
to cover the naked insolence
of his younghood emptiness
Where’s my father?
Where’s my mother?
I was just chatting with them
about furniture and curtains and cable tv
in my bare, white painted apartment
where I started my life
I remember they went out
to take a stroll
into the eternity around the corner,
as I myself am going to walk out
through that white painted door
of my son’s empty apartment,
and not yet furnished life,
to take a stroll
into the windy corridors of his memory
on the empty floor,
in the middle of a bare, white painted apartment
starting up his life,
chatting about furniture and curtains and cable tv,
sharing with him wisdom I don’t have
giving him courage he doesn’t need
to cover the naked insolence
of his younghood emptiness
Where’s my father?
Where’s my mother?
I was just chatting with them
about furniture and curtains and cable tv
in my bare, white painted apartment
where I started my life
I remember they went out
to take a stroll
into the eternity around the corner,
as I myself am going to walk out
through that white painted door
of my son’s empty apartment,
and not yet furnished life,
to take a stroll
into the windy corridors of his memory
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