If I would be a closet
with many drawers
to put my thoughts away,
lock them,
the thoughts then would
scratch the closet's insides,
whisper loudly, eat their way out.
Acidic tongues would lick away the wood
and the clean shirts.
Wounded with thoughts crawling all over
like ants on a half-dead beetle,
the closet would stumble away
run from itself with
no legs to hold the ground,
crying,
falling apart.
11.13.00
My windows are patterns
of cracked glass, like
blood vessels in a man's body.
Patterns are in the darkness
of thoughts
arranged like a troop
of thousand soldiers,
armed,
eager to go to war.
A design, a simple one
with black's forever
red's power
and some empty-white.
These are my patterns' colors.
Patterns.
My soldiers are ready
to fight my heart
to crack my bones.
All will shatter in a pattern:
10 million cracks
on a broken window's glass.
11.13.00.
The ice had turned into water
stone had become sand
days had melted away
like butterfly's wings
on fire.
Every branch of a tree,
old and young,
is now coal-black.
No more steps,
no sound of breathing
the cry is silence, now,
when the end comes.
11.13.00.
No more
no less
it's the sun again.
It wakes the birds
A mirror shows
a morning me.
I can still smell sleep
I should hurry
mirrors stay behind
I only take my face.
I should hurry
in clock's ticking
the minutes die
they won't be there for me
when I come home.
2000.
Each arm of mine was half the sky,
the sky where the angels lived;
the sky from which they fell, like
drops of blood
or maybe like tired stars.
The angels were to heavy,
their wings - too weak.
When the rainforest died
they couldn't fall into the
woods - no more
Their pink bodies
crusted brown;
now, without the woods to hide their fall
they had to rot on the bare ground.
Their smiles like wounds,
their razor-carved teeth grinning
because angels
angels should
always smile.
Their eyes
are something you should see:
if you ever look at this sky
(those arms)
you will find the angels still
staring at something
with their rotting eyes,
but not forgetting to grin.
For angels
angels should
always smile.
01.05.01.
Here
there is no logic to seek
just circuits
of electric thought.
God
He knows.
What?
Nothing to know here
or to question.
The circuits break
He will have no power
when lights turn off.
Looking for the crown
He knows He is nothing
but the naked thinker.
Here there is no logic to seek.
2.4.01.
Blue and orange
it is going to be
my war,
my own.
The canvas cries
when the brush strikes.
Blue and orange
are going to fight today.
When they crash
in a loud pulsation of energy
color
suddenly
gets a voice.
It speaks about freedom
and the joy of aggression.
Today,
on the white battlefield
they are going to break free
from the dark soundlessness.
They both are going to hurt
unbearably
and yet-
they are going to make it.
They are both going to win.
1.6.01.
In her words
the fire crackled.
In her silence
the coals hissed.
Had I not been a dry weed
I would never have known
how a burn can hurt.
01.22.01.
Down the halls they float.
cloud minded.
bare hearted.
Down the halls.
Inside, time.
seems to.
stop.
when they float
foglike.
Head and wheels
move like br-
oken
toys.
Time is
drip
ping
through
narrow tubes
clouds dissolve into rain
their shapes are
never remembered
down there
down the hall.
01.23.01.
Gold always brings
nothing but destruction,
evoking the darkest side
of man's soul and gun.
For those who craved it,
chasing its charming sound through
feverish nights
and day's sweat-
gold was what crowns were made of.
From all kinds of gold,
the black one was the one
that really screamed,
taking the shape of a dying bird
going up and down on the waves of death.
The blackness of fluid gold
rushed through giant pumps
of human ambition,
with its thick sinful streams teasing,
sometimes spilling through wounded ships.
Through its promising richness,
men could see only mountains of wealth,
feeling giant
above the little world.
Men saw safety in what was fatal
and life glowed for them where the end laid.
What they missed,
as though it had nor color,
nor voice,
was the seas of choking fish,
the layers of birds on the sand,
birds that wouldn't fly.
And the blood that was spilled.
But knowing the human nature
and the limits of humanism,
shouldn't we know
that the music of fresh blood
and cold bird's wings
could never be loud enough
to want to stop?
1.12.01.
Have you ever seen us,
loving you whole-heartily;
covered with layers of shame,
eating our blossoms away
as though we were afraid of bees?
What have you done
the day we were the accused witches
or the shiny toys in the smoke-filled bars?
You shielded the guilty bareness,
cried softly with our souls.
But haven't you also [been] in these same bars,
drinking slowly with satisfaction,
with your eyes licking every curve
of our little shameful truths?
Haven't you been
spilling your white poison
into one of my kind,
covering her with kissed rose petals
on that very night when the moon alone
lit her eyes' agony?
You wanted us caged -
pretty birds.
You patted lovingly the bodies
that hated themselves so much...
Haven't you?
1.18.01.
Into the darkness,
where the dreams dance,
where dense unreality
mixes with clouds of fog.
Into the deepest
of sinful seas,
where the frozen waves
take shapes that were never named.
Dive into the purple eyes of sleep...
Breaking free
takes my breath away.
"No more struggle"-
whisper my numbing thoughts.
Letting it go,
I'm blinded with beautiful lies.
1.11.01.
In the mental hospital
They're playing scrabble
Letters old like dust
like her hands on the table
Lying in the room numbered nine
somebody screams a hole in her dream
wakes up with dead tears
and mild side effects
of antidepressants
Do you have a meaning?
Insanity comes closer every time he hits
Meaningless words of mysterious emptiness
through your peeled lips
The doctor's pen
thoughtfully splits the paper into words
labels and definitions
His giant microscopes
point to the gaps in your words
Do you have a meaning?
Really, insanity comes closer
closer every day
closer every time he hits.
02.14.01.
When wild black mustangs
roam in the valley of quiet dawns,
when their feet tramp down the choking grass,
tearing apart the rivers -
then the sun sets over the woods,
mourning.
When the beasts' muscles
swell with bubbling blood,
when pearls of sweat
roll down their shiny spines -
then the valley
is not a valley of quiet dawns anymore:
It's ripped earth is seedlessly silent.
And on no other day I know better
the wild power of you
and your kind.
1.18.01.
The ice had turned into water
stone had become sand
days had melted away
like butterfly's wings
on fire.
Every branch of a tree,
old and young,
is now coal-black.
No more steps,
no sound of breathing
the cry is silence, now
when the end comes.
11.13.00.
I could smell the rain of love
mixed with rose petals,
teasing.
Its scents
have sank heavily on my soul's bottom
for I never could touch that smell.
And I've never wanted
to hear love's singing,
it's charming,
charmed melodies sounding
like distant waves of blue.
Never have drunk
love's venom with crazy thirst,
never have touched its gentle razor blades.
But I was poisoned; then,
chased by the night
I tried to walk away.
01.10.01
Now snow falls.
Now it is on the porch.
It's old on the ground.
It's dirty with your eyes.
Don't you ever dare
To touch my ugly snow.
01.21.01.
Jesus in the mental hospital
New methods of crucifixion
Eyes as black as doors
(opening) -
black eyes.
Here
halos disappear
as you rape our minds.
Here shadows
are heavy with flesh.
And we believe
that although the skies
don't burst open
like a ripe watermelon
don't crack with juicy thunder
still He comes humbly;
He is here.
You don't believe,
scared,
sticking to your
white-gowned shadows
What do you want to see?
New methods of crucifixion
eyes
as black
as two sore holes
black eyes.
02.05.01.
Short of tears,
I'd rather wander around the house;
feelings, like chewing gum,
tend to loose their taste.
The announcer
is laughing on the radio
and America is sometimes
a too-sweet candy
especially when he laughs
on the radio.
My fish have been in this
aquarium
since it was a week old,
maybe less.
Maybe it feels the same:
maybe it is, too,
tired of swimming in circles?
1.12.01.
In the backyard the snow
is dizzy,
DNA strands of flakes
collapse.
The air is black between
the hard crystals,
on the ground.
Flashbacks of flesh, sliced
into CAT-scan images,
in my body the snowballs
grow brave.
Yesterday
clouds came closer.
"It's only winter"- all said.
But I knew better,
remembering the snowballs
grow;
remembering them smile
to the little one:
"Spring..."
She died; calm, with
snowballs
melting through her pores.
02.24.01.
Underneath the coolly-staring
Underneath the coolly-staring stars
two daffodils were fading slowly,
closely watched by a white-gowned moon
its pointed edges - a ready needle of steel.
The next day,
the sun had come to shine
slowly
on fresh graves of dried soil.
On the day after the next,
the sun was still
shining hard.
1.18.01.
In the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia,
Oncology unit.
i used to have a name.
a pretty one.
immm it was.
i used to have a friend.
she knew my name.
i knew hers.
To-ony.
when Tony was gone.
they said.
Name?
what for.
nobody knows it now.
so. they took my name away.
the pre-e-etty one.
immm.
they took it away.
then. i had an anger.
it was mine.
they. were kind to it.
they. let me have it.
not for too long.
not anymore.
they took. my. anger away.
my name too.
i'm not immm.
not anymore.
now i have a Room.
my room.
they gave it to me.
instead of what they took.
i can sit. in. it.
i can cry. in. it.
i. can. try. to. think about Tony.
about angers.
about name.
Now. i have my room.
01.21.01.
With the stream of one phrase
spilled from your lips
my sea
steers with bleeding whirlpools.
Knowing that -
would you steel be
talking
now?
2.7.01.
Lucky Lindy
he knew how stars feel tired
with the dawn
navigating through seas of fog
Lucky Lindy you did it for us all
Now we know what it takes
to keep it high
keeping it up
hours made of gum
impossible fight...
January 2001.
She would sit in the flower
day and night
in the flower inside
Light would come through the wrinkles
Of the petals of doom
It was always half dark
in the flower room
Rain would come through the wrinkles
aside drops of exhaust
She would drink the pollution
She would see the ghost
Of the flower’s death-day
She’ll dye with it, too
She’ll never corn out...
And what about you?
2001 (?)