There was too much metal in my childhood
Empty bullet shells we dug out of the last war’s battlefields
Coins and nails flattened by train wheels
Rusty chains ugly dogs were leashed to in the yards
While their elderly owners were blathering on in the houses
The winds of funeral orchestras always playing out of tune
Hammer heads and hand saw blades
Of the carpenters that didn’t make it to heaven
If I had it now I could erect monuments
To all the idiot writers I had read back then


It’s the smell of a high-rise
where the residents just don’t care.
You watch the trees outside in spring
and don’t believe they’ll let out a couple of leaves together.
The children are nasty; they wallop each other
with ugly sticks; they bleed.
The only bike in the neighborhood
can get you to Eden, the only soccer ball
can easily reach the moon.
What else? Nothing much. I love
cockroaches and flies,
cracks in the walls, broken windows,
enemies of the nation, all dead,
deaf mutes whose saliva can heal any sparrow,
pedophiles eating breadcrumbs with pigeons
on construction sites,
forests, empty beer bottles,
and most of all, unfiltered cigarettes.
I don’t care about my childhood.