Crows and pigeons are tolerant towards
extraterrestrial presence on the web and on the air
while poets swim in each other’s vomit
and iridescent graffiti subverts the buildings.
This is a reason for still being here.
Obsolete animals you don’t believe in
leave tracks on water, pavement and carpet.
Leaves stuck in soiled ice can talk to the sun.


Water comes down to eliminate the pain of dissolution.
I would like to sell barbed wire to the angels
on the corner of Main and 5th, hiding my memories from strangers.
I like the windows I can look into, eternally unopened wine bottles
on the sills, I like to count how many psalms a blood cell could contain
until it develops destructive tendencies. There is always a choir
singing, barely audible, in another universe.


Deer never know where they came from.
They flee from cumbersome light,
shunning ghost gates marked by rough wooden poles.
Trees get lost in the hills. Old age doesn’t bring
wisdom to hawks and stones, old gods are
prone to destroy the context of the world.


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.

beatitudes long forgotten

blessed are wooden triangles broken by escaped spirits
blessed are silent rooms that misinterpret my shoelaces
blessed are chain-link fences hurdled by dismembered trees
blessed are boulders and clouds that imitate mammalian behavior
in order to dupe the skies into cruelty
blessed are reptilian philosophers that can use discarded underwear
as the flags of a bogus army but instead
hide their uncouth mute ubiquity in plain sight
blessed are elaborate pageantries of dying geese and grasshoppers
in search of the meaningless

triangles are no good for keeping trapped spirits in (broken magical triangle)


The guardian of the cosmos treats all the walls and fences
with all their lurid openings, inscriptions and depictions
as her equals. She talks to them like an ordinary creature,
but the manner of speaking is as far from small talk as possible:
it’s a kind of mumbling in front of a crowd,
when the words are placed sloppily in the mouths
of grasshoppers, mice, rabbits, prairie dogs, horses
to make them disgrace or astound their species.
She is a nutcase with an eternally misspelled moniker, loco
’til the inalienable tomorrow.

hoary kingdoms

Their xenophobic
misogynistic gods seem marvelous
like antique furniture: you have
no idea how animals
are using them every night.
But the songs of moths are lost
with the shards of broken windows,
and ascending domains of frogs
and lizards deny imagination.
As to the road signs, they are
inscrutable like the pictograms
on Alpine rugs.


Wing clipped angels listen to
barbed wire trying to memorize
the music too twisted to be performed.
Dead composers and haiku poets
invade the moon. Caterpillars steal
letters from gravestones, toenails
from stray giants. It is going to rain before
they are gone. Through various stages of lunacy
let’s watch broken marble float overhead.

new bubastis

Who can tell how fast air and water digest
everything inside? They call it conservation
of inconvenience
. Every birthplace
is someone’s grave, they say. Look at the
feline deities. They are as tall and shiny
as possible. They always leave
their fingers in the gloves, brains
in the mortarboards. They hate caves,
trapping pits and wombs. Foreign words
bring them pure amusement unspoilt by understanding.
But then again, which of the languages they use
isn’t really foreign? Poems for ancient bacteria to imbibe
are unsound like sequences of pinpoint winds.


Fish talk of the Tower of Babel all the time.
Before you kiss the scales, they look for
Privacy outside the ponds and lakes,
Like people that jump out of the windows
And count the eyes gaping at them
Before they hit the ground and stick to the soles.
Their god is a monster, but even he
Takes pity on them and gives each one
A personal language to hide their thoughts.

{from the comments on behind}


There are brooks in the valley I cannot see.
There are books in the house I cannot open.
I need pills that would help me to hide dying snakes and blackbirds from God.

page of swords

Clouds are one thing, but look at the islands in the sky,
Tons of solid rock with foppish ivy
And hapless squirrels and lizards peering out of grimy windows;
All this should be the works of your Creator,
Glorious works indeed. You can understand why
Inner earth dwellers blow up mountains
Once in a while. Crustaceans bury themselves in sand
As if it were just for fun, nonagenarians whistle
In underpasses melodies I can’t place,
Aged organists collect long scratches on vinyl
To muffle down the music of the spheres,
Hoboes jaywalk on highways picking up the dolls
Thrown out of the windows of passing cars,
The rich use plastic cutlery whenever they can.
Hungry ancestors wait for us in the hereafter
Fondly caressing the frames of mirrors so old
They can’t reflect even a speck of dust anymore.
It is a sad thing, that futile waiting.


Each winter old astronauts sleep in the mountains.
Fingers grow everywhere in the snow like ballpoint pens
after the Deluge. The best always die first,
Noah used to say. Do you by any chance believe that?
Wasn’t he just a misogynist control freak? Don’t good
things last forever? Or is forever too time-consuming
to your taste? The best always die first, but carpenters
escape from the disciples into outer space and cease
clipping the hair and nails and roar with joy. Haven’t you seen
the planes and mallets in museums, those they left behind?

here is

Here is a place where slugs and snails never speak.
An infant cannibal (no, I don’t sleep well, she says)
remains in a baby carriage on scaffolding
after her mother has jumped down and walked into a bakery
where she is trying to sing but her voice
is still buried very close to the center of the Sun.
Here is a place where spiders never move,
burning churches and eyes and bleeding noses of old,
too many days and nights created for ungrateful fish and fowl.
Children sleep on the floor embracing giant orange boots,
the Ancient of Days paints green sausages on the walls one over another.
Here is a place where you can smell nuthouses for nonexistent reptiles.