too short

Philistines dream of being charlatans with the feet cut by crushed flowers,
Walking around the holes in gloomy skies, selling the sweet slavery of the omphaloi
To addicted children. Centaurs would have trampled them and then washed their hooves
In the appalled waters of hoary rivers, but we, being two-legged and hoofless,
Have memories too short to remember the exquisite executions of the ancestors.
Only some old shit like Mozart or Magnasco could revive those unholy scenes
On the cellular level. Happiness is a dangerous obsession indeed.


or not

The story begins with a dozen of Aztec poets
walking on a Saturn’s moon, plumage
undisturbed by the cruel gods.
Dice stolen from Enki don’t roll properly
in that kind of atmosphere, a deck of cards
(a gift from Li Bai, by the way) is hard to shuffle.
There is only a slim chance of
meeting the enemy, but it is nice to swear
in a world without censorship. It is a pleasure to breathe
in a world devoid of oxygen.


When you count animals to fall asleep,
they begin to change, grow spare legs, tails,
eyes and other body parts, quite purposeless,
blow silly brass gadgets and cautiously
tap at piano keys with the hooves,
intertwine, merge and scatter away
squeaking, howling, roaring, etc.,
crunching light bulbs and mushrooms,
mocking their own allegorical nature,
and the jovial cosmos eagerly
awaits the whole pageant to go bananas,
heavy layers of the void fill the cages,
kennels, pens, stables, coops, corrals, pastures
and the hungover heads of illiterate deities forever.


A washed-out Conoco receipt
with a car wash code used as a bookmark,
barely legible Pythagorean deities
immersed into the paper slip, shards of the wind
and its outer layers, habits and vestments
of the angels unable to fall, broken computer keyboards
you can still pound at with your fingers,
the only way to disclose
the wisps of insensible matter.


Horses arrange the sky into a checkered pattern;
Wine spots elude the tablecloths they dance on
Spread out on dry grass. The clouds put through a dishwasher
Slowly fold up and fall into the canyons where coyotes
And rabbits laugh at ancient rotting SUVs.

Horses play chess with mice,
Words with twisted etymologies flounder between the ears. Horses
Trample over faded photographs brought from the Old World
Along with their ancestors and outdated bicycle wheels.

Unsound grandiloquence of the horizon is still as thin as horsehair.


The climate here requires losing wings and fins
Walking away free of spaceships mosquitoes
Ping pong balls and the smell of seafood
The inside of a manifested deity’s garment
Does it remind you of the sky you saw once
Being two years old
Are you still keeping it stinking of disappeared stars
In a mason jar

{from the comments on a}

balls and lashes

We lived in a movie theater.
We read books about war and fed the pages to mice,
while geese kept falling on us through the ceiling.
You don’t believe me, I know,
but they had been all alone in the sky.

We threw the dice to decide
who would take a bath first.
Archangels resided in our shoes
and played soccer with our noggins.
It was disgusting to think of sleeping
in a hamster’s pouch, in the belly
of a galloping horse or in a winged eye.
It felt like being a driven nail.
We were ready to burn the tongues
of all the storytellers we had ever met.

Flocks of birds lived with us singing about headaches,
there was always soup in the bowls, always sins in the hearts,
and insects alighted on blankets and pillows in the morning.
We counted the hairs of each other’s heads,
and the numbers were fetid like hondas born by a piebald cow.
Rabbits grew their legs leaving them in the snow for a night.

do you really think it’s thursday?

Laundromat roofs crumple the sky,
distort the voices of birds in the nearby trees.
Little girls wander the streets carrying big buckets of ketchup,
spilling it, splashing it on the sidewalk.
A saxophonist plays for passing UFOs and semis.
The statues in the park
try to explain to each other how leaves can remain red and yellow for months.
Temperance is a card, not a virtue anymore.


A cat is a dog, but you must
Believe your own toes
In times of jackbooted lullabies.
Who owns information?
Flies and spiders, but in winter
In winter fire is waiting
To be delivered to those who are hot
Like a shoal of dying tadpoles.
Our subterranean friends have
Bars of soap and alarm clocks for breakfast:
Addictions of totems are truly
Disastrous for mere mortals.

{from the comments on behind}


It isn’t really possible to see the sky:
celestial beings obstruct the view,
faceless, angry ’cause they are not angry enough
to destroy what they haven’t created.
It isn’t possible to hear it:
raccoons slumber under the mountains,
hugging empty coke bottles,
burning cars pass by, fish repose in the elevators,
windowpanes and singers lie buried in the ground
horses never tread upon.
Some people have escaped from Chairman Mao,
Li Bai and Chuang Tzu, others from Ivan the Terrible,
Dostoevsky and Chekhov. They change with the weather and prices,
they always have something to say. The fear of death
is outdated, they say, like matchboxes. They arrive in America
only to discover that horses are more free than humans here,
and fish sweat and blabber like horses.
They don’t fall into despair. They learn to skate instead.
Can you skate, they ask me. No, I say.
Fish frolic with ice cream, radishes and the infant Jesus,
grasshoppers turn into Martian hieroglyphs on scuffed soles sometimes.