To walk slowly inside the mountain shadows and souls
With an empty cracked cup and a blunt knife in the hands,
Patiently cosplaying an impostor of cosmic proportions,
Bloodless but not entirely pure. Stone mirrors, as usual,
Hide themselves and everything else from a bulging eye,
Stone air hides the smells from a meddling nose,
The laughter of the lakes can’t reach a curious ear.
The fish is just about to decide how many dismemberments
The Shahrazad Gumshoe Agency could investigate in a century.
A polite talk about alien races should go like this:
Martians can beat us at every ball game,
As well as at chess, poker and go,
Saturnians have the best ice cream in the Solar System,
Selenites are just an illusion,
Blah blah blah. But a xenophobe,
No doubt, would tell you that
Martian balls are made of some stinking fluff
And their brains look like purple jelly,
Saturnians get their milk out of liquid minerals,
And Selenites are the meanest bastards outside our atmosphere.
In truth, however, they all just grow mushrooms in their stomachs,
Raise fish in their blood vessels,
Listen to Radio Wonderbug now and then
And tamper with the military and the clergy for relaxation.
I know it’s hard to believe but one of your neighbors
Left 728 handmade books of poetry
Buried in the nearby grove.
One of them is dedicated to her enemies
And begins with the sentence:
We never know who our real enemies are.
She passed away last September being 334 years old,
Although she looked like she was 62.
She believed that somehow she managed to pick up
Long unsound messages from Lemurian monsters,
And she reproduced them as much as she could
In her latest books. Criminals,
Riffraff and popcorn vendors used to love her.
The sound of a broom sweeping
The sky, of eyeglasses
Breaking under sparse raindrops.
Should we protect ourselves?
Should we run away from the highways?
Let’s build a house of the books
Written by idiots. Let the gods throw
Swollen meaningless words at us.
The best creatures choose to live fragmentary lives in novels and dreams
To crawl across pixelated ceilings on an average day
Impossible for a cumbersome ghost on the brink of a greasy fork
Meanwhile all my shoes are afraid of the sky
All my money abhors shopping malls
I believe the scars of the air dissolve
Into trees and torn soccer balls and angel’s wings for breakfast
Antediluvian birds dance around a dying dandelion
Asking each other how many days their stomachs could hold
The songs of warehouse flies
The size of a homemade atomic bomb
Must follow each other seamlessly
Especially of those perched on __________’s nose
(How much, s/he thinks meanwhile,
Would it cost to remove a hair on Saturn)
How much does the manner of singing
Obliterate the soul
How big is the soul of a fly
(The smaller the creature the bigger the soul)
How many of them do you need
To cover the shadow of a vacuum dweller
[The best artists only care about
Pleasing the Great Architect of the Universe
But some are beyond the best and
Beyond the universe]
The real fun begins when you suddenly realize
That Nag Hammadi is just the name of your neighbor’s mutt.
Then you try to read your poems to the prairie dogs
But they only laugh at the sun, and each bus you see
Is ready to give birth to a stinking intelligent puddle of hooch:
Are you nuts enough to drink them all up?
Heavens were pregnant with the flutists of Azathoth devouring a dragon once in a millennium
Later the angels used to urinate on Harappa and Babylon to chew the strings of the harps
The muses especially Calliope loved to play with rats and motel pillows
Good tea was an embittered enemy of Venetian lute music
The musicians threw the instruments into the canals stones at the listeners on the banks
Now let’s celebrate the horrors of the country we happen to live in
The freedoms of not being happy wastebaskets and dumpsters
Brimming with artistic sensibilities and rainbows and holy shit and the moon
And the smells of eternally young horses that can emanate several shadows and souls at once and
A collector of evil faces which she nonchalantly folds
And keeps in one of her thousand closets
Along with dusty tax papers and books in the language
She isn’t going to use anymore, she comes,
She who precedes silence barefoot,
With a simple note or just a sound or a soul
Of a wind lost in that closet, a sound endlessly twisted
Like the tail of an extremely happy dog.
Each ear, she knows, is blocked.
Each verb, she thinks, is a silly joke.
It is time to remember vacated days and towns
With the air of antiquity that has been
Irreparably damaged by passing geese.
We hate the sound of their wings.
We live forgotten by outer darkness,
Transfixed in a few shrunken psyches,
Desultorily divine. Our water is too old to drink.
Leaves squirrels ajar in the
Burning puddles of exploded footprints.
Relentless comfort of stolen identities
Makes fun of pawned nirvanas.
More than anything
It depends on the typeface how fast
A book can imbibe the pungent
Stupidity of the reader.
In the wake of a horror story between the eyes and heels
Of Artemis and Apollo rabbits were savoring the
Souls of the Presocratics. Animals hate squares and circles, you know.
They avoid straight lines either.
When they dance, the Pied Piper dies with all his doubts.
Crows dress like dead fish when they are happy.
When collective memory becomes
A blessing to the soul of a sinner
Chasms of light one by one penetrated
By an anonymous scream
Doorknobs and keyholes are nuisance
Unbearable more than the last
Trace of a cloud to an innocent eye