Saturday, April 27, 2013

Eleven (for my Father)

Eleven ( for my father)

Years later, to be precise, eleven,
on the day that butchered your heart into splinters,
the gray steel of water reflects the heaven,
and your features come through in a blurry filter.

I don't imagine that you ever grew neutral,
relentless but hurt you tear through chaos,
shoving off the call of the reason - brutal,
mumbling into my dream some unknown prayers.

Eleven years later and there is no despair,
as if pain had been numbed by a shot of morphine.
On a foreign street your soul stripped bare,
and went home like the others -- a deserted orphan.

The prayers you mumbled were ancient, somber.
Each syllable stole your allotted breath.
In order to wake from life's slumber,
you have to become one with death.

Forty days they wondered through desert's amnesia.
The oasis was empty like a dried-out womb.
Forty years or so in search of unnamed treasure
in a foreign city that resembles a tomb.

But it all comes down to an instant splintered,
to an instant bare, red and hot.
On your homeland's street, in nonexistent winter
I will kneel and gather into one whole -- your heart.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

New Year In New York

New Year in New York

Chinaman plays his flute on the subway
and the New Year starts.
With a melody -- neutral, like a heart
that finds no solace in hope,
prefers things "as they are".
The sound of the flute takes you far

to the yellow laws of Confucius,
his yellow tales.
To the narrow-eyed gaze that ignores the general,
magnifies details:
poison-green seaweed,
silver-blue mother of pearl,
a golden, silk thread on the wrist of a girl.

Chinaman plays his flute in the city of steel.
You slither along after the sound like an eel.
Only to find -- Confucius has vanished.
You are back in the city of stone,
where the heart is drained of the liquid love,
thoughts condense to a bone --
discolored, bland, spelling labor and work.
This city stands one-legged
like a frozen stork.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

Do you remember me? how we used to be?
don't you think we should be closer?
Roger Waters . Final Cut Album

And when i looked up at the sky --
hazy and blind.
With the crescent purple and yellow like an eye
after a fight.
When I opened
my mouth to take a breath,
I could smell your northern hair,
I could see your face.
Pale. White. Almost blue.
Dont ask me how,
but i know it was you.

And when the morning came,
lazy and gray,
with its sun looking tired like a washed out slut.
No! its sun looking worn like a child who's lost,
I looked up at the sky and could feel your heart,
blissful and bare.
I could hear your heart
and i became blissfully torn.
And that's when I heard:
love is within your reach.
Like a golden coin in the temple it is being tossed.
And drowning in this blessed news like a drunkard at the final feast,
I understood that nonexistence is its cost.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

The Eye

He said: "everything is kitsch".
He was wrong.
Pain -- is not.
Neither are dogs.
Life clings on to hope.
Tiresome leach.
We stare at specks.
Ignore logs.
Life will pass.
Hope -- it will die.
It will all be deleted.
The only thing left will be your Eye.


after the russians

What is left to me from that land
but ashes and snow?
Couple of cellphone numbers..
A heart that's ripped...
Questions answered with a viscous "no".
And my step-- uneven -- that often slipped?

What is left to me
but a white-faced street?
A black crow digging into
the night's remains?
You and I will live out this life,
yet we'll never meet.
'Cause we believe in losses
more than in gains.

And on opposite sides of this earth
one night
Both of our hearts will skip a beat
And running barefoot into the snow
in search of a sign,
we will feel its pure and naked heat.

We will see it then -- each other's face
For an instant fleeting -- like a flash-on screen
Now I sit and stare at the empty space,
at this dogged out absence
where You should have been.

Saturday, October 6, 2012


my mother.
she looks good in white.
very few people do.
it becomes her.
isn't that how they say it in english?
very becoming.
my mother
she tells the truth
some hoodlum youth
my mother
she tells me i am a finished bitch
and she is right
she looks good in white

Sunday, September 9, 2012


The sky looks strict.
It says:
Look at me!
I am clear.
My clouds are shaprly white.
And you?
You -- are smeared.