On the Dilating Pupils of Heroes

I know your titles are passive and distanced from your being,
but I am awake and observe while the rumor spreads

The rumor begins: they cannot sleep at night,
their pupils dilating as they toss and turn,
sheets pulled over contorting bodies
too similar to bloated dead men floating down thick rivers,
history hates them more than death despises their lovers

If I look into your eyes,
what will I see, what should I see-
will you be surprised? if I unwind the spools in your pupils,
lay them face up on your office desk like a deck of cards?
No, I will triumph, you do not wear contacts

Even if you did, I would still see the stratus clouds embedded like-
secret crystals reflected through refracted prisms in your smile
The rumor continues: they dream like they are freefalling,
dragging their tender limbs along the clay packed Earth like-
crooked dandelions wresting free of their seeds

The rumor concludes while I collect your thoughts,
in a paper bag and a star sleeps on cold cement steps
in a city that wishes to entomb its light,
 darkened in the shadow of a new becoming,
a new brilliance to step over its place
Of course, you have scarred eyes, nuanced sight

When the light leaks from your irises I search for a tissue but,
someone tells me to grab a canvas instead

Murderous love

There is no more in the cold walls of the past.
And who is to blame - the former.
Once, long ago, I asked -
Is the cold in the heart really warmer?

Is it easier without a heart? 
Who is to blame for not being together? 
Is love really an art? 
What's the point of sticking together?


And only traces of tears in the eyes.
She is yours murderous love
This is not eternal power - it is a lie
This is your murderous love.


The cold walls of the past are gone.
Has the game of love ended prematurely?
The question is why there was this chase
For the passion that left us prematurely?

The cold walls of the past no longer exist.
And each, of us on different sides.
We have become different, each of us, an egoist -
The former are now brides.

Brown town
Like a needle
Brown town
Like a need

Here people sit around
Clay figure
Here people are sitting inside
Clay figure

(reprint by ZiN Daily)

***
We are like worms we are like worms
We crawl underground
               *
The weather forecast was for
Tears instead of rain
Nobody is resurrected
Dahlias have blossomed
In every petal a breath of air
In every breath of air
God was called by his patronymic
They believed in God according to the national
Calling a patch of unfortunate land a state a country
Ripe apples in the garden
Tomato juice through the veins in spring,
The weather forecast deceived
In spring, bones come down on the grass
And nothing happens
               *
Snow leopard in the snow
Snow and wool glitter in the snow

The white bird turns into snow
And jumps from a height
Onto the black earth
               *
The deaf write their songs in white night
Because the deaf are sighted

In the black night they rise into the sky
And recite loud lines to themselves
To not scare
Those who are happy
(reprint by Quarterly Literary Review Singapore)

***
aluminum birds
even they come back
from warm countries
(reprint by divot)

***
the rebellious spirit in my stomach gurgles and begs for alcohol
dog catching snowflakes with tongue
christmas all year round
easter around the clock

(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)

***
This poem smells blue
| | |
The color of wrinkles in the sky
¶
Black shapes in clear water
∆
This verse will be picked up by crows in the morning
And they will be thrown from heaven
On icy concrete heart rocks
~
All in vain
.

(reprint by Stone Poetry Journal)

***

The naturalization of hatred

Every day the giant boulders of the brain create little sons to atone for guilt

Are sons resurrected?

The magnolia outside the window blooms expressively quietly, as if guessing something

Anger-dictatorship

I pretend to be a god every morning over a cup of coffee

Stars-blindness

Castrated calm screams in the language of stones

Motherland of life

The taste of faith

Wrath service of the gun

Stone-ruin

Time to change clothes and pick up picks

(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)

***

What do you see

the inner kitten will bring the devils slippers in his teeth in the morning in exchange for

living space with Wi-Fi

what do you see being blind

the sexual joy of a mouse pressed to the floor by a cat’s paw

hate pornography with guts out

sun bunnies devoured by air wolves

What do you see

the deceased son comes every night in a dream in tears and asks to be resurrected

(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)

***

Kira Muratova

The film begins after the ending, when a balding virgin takes off her wig, like a fancy dress costume, and

shoves the wig into a face on the other side of the screen.

Hungry rats need to be fed body parts.

Last but not least, feed with the brain, never with the heart.

In the last turn of people today – it is necessary to make your way. No need to push your way into

people. It is better to try to become a butterfly.

(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)

***
Religion is a hobby club for those who have never died

(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)

***
The secret of the soul
Secretion of guilt
Who will kiss my neck and turn me into a vampire?

The dream of a soldier who will turn a gun into a sex shop toy

Who will kiss me?
Nobody

(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)

***
Mosquitoes fly to the scent of blood
So are military pilots

(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)

***
There are as many explosions as there are stars in the sky
Every night to underground storage and bunkers
An alarm siren sounds

Life is wonderful as if it started from an egg and not from a dead chicken

(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)

***
Copper night knocks
On the back of the head, asks:
“What street is this?”
And this is not a street,
This is the whole life.

Here at the age
Of 4 I drank sleeping pills,
At 14 I lost my virginity,
At 24 I lost my family,
At 34 my father died (thank God, my father died).

Now I’m free like the cry of a newborn.
I’m single, like when I was born.
A lonely body without everything
Meaningful, invented, composed.
The body, by its movement forward,
Has reached the very beginning.
Ashes close to dust.

And suddenly the night opens its
Lunar hood, and now death looks
At me with its bony eyes.

“Come on, friend,” I said to death,
“I hope you don’t turn me into a zombie.”
The door of cast iron milk opened.
And I started drinking.
My teeth turned black and fell out.
Birds pecked out my eyes.
My body fell off me. Copper night,
Pig-iron milk, golden memory.
And suddenly: emptiness.
(reprint by Crank)


***
We were stolen at birth and brought into this world. This world has robbed us. Cats will never again sing under the window about their nine lives in the nine circles of hell. We are no longer cats. We are no longer dogs. Only occasionally does one of us like to sit on a leash in puppy latex. We are heavy, sir. We are light, Lord, like fluff. We are airy, Lord, like chitin. We are homeless, Lord, like heaven. We are rich, Lord, like the poorest poor man. We are your angels, Lord. Wash our feet, Lord, we can’t stand you. We love you, Lord, like dogs do. We are on your leash, tied to you, Lord. We are the gods of death in your realm, Lord. Ash. The last candle for your rest in our hearts, Lord.
(reprint by Crank)

***
I take a deep  
breath of spring air  
after paying for it
*
And when I left,
There were still stars in the sky,
But there was no more Earth.
*
the worm in my body  
pretends  
I’m not there

(reprint by dyst)

Starting Out

To begin, begin, beginning, beginnings

A nice word, a nice concept

Something we all have experienced

Something we all know.

We start out, we can even start again

Begin, begin again.

It’s the first step, the first mile

First move, first chapter

It’s sunrise, the beginning bell.

We step into it, things are fresh, new

Untested, untried

And yet

We know what comes next

Have lived it in so many forms.

There’s the middle where beginnings

Get to play out, drag on

Can go a number of ways, not just well

As the beginnings might have suggested

Maybe not badly.

Life has taught us that both can happen

And eventually

The sequence fills in, unravels.

There’s that beginning

Then the middle

And, of course, there is inevitably

Like right now

The end.




       And Then Some

“Some” is an indefinite word

That is a pleasure to use. Say

I want some of that, and no one

Really knows how much, a sip,

A cup, a pint. They say, take

Some with you and run the risk

Of you taking more that they

Meant. “Some” also works well

In its compound forms. Say, I’ll

Be there sometime, and they will/

Might be waiting, sometime after

Five, sometime after that. It gives

Us such leeway. When I say, I left

It somewhere or someplace, they

Get to know how easily things get

Lost, the somewhere where things

Collect and remain caught in that

Indefinite world that our words can

Create. Somewhere over the rainbow,

The great somewhere, the greater

Somewhen where and when we will

Gather our indefinite, vague selves

And become something more than

The nebulous words we so often use

To cover the ambiguous lives we lead.




                   Forgettable

To forget, he forgets, I forget the forgotten.

It’s a matter of where it all goes.

The name of the star of that movie. It was

My favorite, but then it’s gone – a name

A whole frame of mind. My watch, my

Wallet – somewhere, distant, close up.

The forgotten are like that, away, gone to

Me. Now that you ask. You ask the author

The king, the kid who carried the story we

All loved, but I don’t remember who or even



When or where. The world we know now is

On its way into that other place, the land of

The forgotten, just slipped my mind. It’s a shuffle

Of the deck, a distraction, a slippery slope, a skip

A drop, a fumble on the five-yard line, a miss,

A mile, a search, an empty minute. Who was it?

Where did they go? When did I do that? What

Was that – the one that should have played out

So easily? Hell, they all/it is the infinitive of that

Guilty party – to forget. The he – who exactly –

Forgets, stumbles a bit, then asks. But, of course

I forget, I forgot. Then there they are, out there

Waiting there for us – all our forgotten.

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