There is a myth, long forgotten, of a centaur
Who came from a barren planet to taste
Potato chips, dandelions and whatnot.
Before he lost his conscience in the slums of
A city with the name too banal to remember
The residents didn’t know what to do
With their fingers, toes, tongues and ears.
He told them that history was pure refund,
That animals had the right to forgive,
That dreams belonged to the pool in the middle
Of Saturn, that all the Martians were stark mad,
He told them some other nonsense too.
There are years and centuries inaccessible to the wise.



Archaeology becomes less tactile
Than a language you don’t care about.
Winds belong to the trees and the serpents now,
Dilapidated train stations are nothing but a hoax,
Passengers wait for the ties to rot, tomatoes
Climb to the moon buried in shopping bags.
I am telling you, let’s grow rails in flowerpots.

more or less

Owls bring the earth to daylight
solar coils of barbed wire
worship the difference between
the grave and the flippant
too precious for tongues
shriveled lemons and noisy shrubs
aren’t ready to deal with
mute songs of soiled garments
pocket knives invite
maimed ants onto the fringes of
slick eyes
people are prone to count
crows eagles pigeons or swallows
depending on their place of birth
the most desperate count
discarded shoes
a man in sportswear
keeps walking along a highway
reading a paperback
a couple with bricks in the armpits
sleep on a cockerel’s comb
aliens bury the kinfolk
in air ducts and acoustic guitars
(dust is too precious for lungs)


Years ago I saw chairs silently galloping in the sky
in search of the souls too dirty for a mindfuck,
chairs everywhere looking for a lizard to step on,
priests drinking rotgut, cursing, crawling on all fours,
swallowing popular songs for preschool commies,
wallowing in dust with stray dogs. Stolen music,
the best part of the impersonal and unavoidable,
filled the air, likely to be sent back to the fabulous past
where a scrambled tale of a red pigeon was
the only valuable thing under the moon,
the receptacle of inanity and wet socks.

egg of hooch

How many glasses of water
Can a heron hide in a field of tall grass?
Like a boiled unpeeled egg on a huge
Detrimentally white plate is a piece of fate,
Tables and chairs lost in a crumpled space
Have legs to wander, and a bottle of hooch
Is a photograph of Homer (the very guy who
Hadn’t written the hymns), and centaurs roam
To shed their hooves in front of the imminent nonsense
And impregnate the mares;
The offspring invariably end up with the FBI.


Fluted memories of onion rings
rest within the orbit of Mercury before they
commence to consume the heads of prairie dogs.
The heads of deer float within a story
told by an old codger to God about
the only gift he failed to throw away.
The song we sang in the straw spaceships didn’t
help us evaporate and beatify the travel, and now
I can become one of the two houseflies that
devour a daybreak from the opposite ends.


Black and white photos peel off the sky.
A horse behind a chain link fence neither slumbers nor trots.
It hides its eyes in a walking rain which doesn’t pour.
It thinks of rusty TVs and empty goblets made of tinfoil on faraway planets.
Meanwhile, a guy 128 Thomas Jeffersons tall
hears a mad squaw’s song over the mountain every minute of his life
till he is able to squeeze through any gasp or sigh, imaginary or not,
like a mouse or a raindrop, his bone structure intact. Meanwhile,
an average raindrop can’t open all its mouths at once.


There are plenty of tiny mallets in little stomachs
And manifold voices of soap that cry about
Noble rabbits sleeping on greasy skillets
In the ears of pensive paratroopers, car drivers, bikers, joggers
That can’t locate their graves nor homes
That cry about everything you forgot about.
Those who have never learned to ride a bicycle or skate or swim
Are ready to draw a distinction between vacation and execution.

detrimental alphabets

people looked at computer screens through field glasses
whenever the earth wasn’t hollow
snakes rested on the roofs paying no attention to horseshit
flagstones didn’t even feel the air under the hooves
a misanthropic goddess tiptoed clutching a toy bomb
and a paper flower in her sixty seventh hand
brandishing a third-eye-opener in the twenty fourth
poetry was just a collection of dried tattooed tongues
before and after the invention of whisper
the elders took bath in boiling gold
in the morning they were able to smell ageless ants
and the sand of their erratic paths
everyone knew
tomorrow the birds would be immortalized on the walls
the silence would be sung and the dead branded saints
their real biographies imbedded into sham constellations

no use

No use to gaze at starving fish and
goats in the sky,
decomposing pants and hats.
Light bulbs drown in the celestial pores,
snowflakes grow in creased paper cups.
Windows sing to deaf vultures dancing
poising on flasks of rum.
Pine needles drown in the celestial pores,
interrupted songs for frozen tumbleweeds
bring armfuls of freedom.

We are small like medieval spaceships.


There are countless ways of growing watermelons on the hills,
far off from potholed highways.
There are countless ways to believe in angels swearing into bullhorns,
but trees are too straight to reach heavens,
shadows too long to cover the footprints.
The royal couple lives in a shack made of slide rules,
corkscrews and alarm clocks winded
by the winds, never mind the pun, their bothersome music
and the banality of it all.

{after the comments on behind}


In a weeping clay forest
animals yawn
looking for a weather report
written on the pants of
a suicide. Pieces of wardrobe
have sunk into
the endless battle of
clouds and shopping carts.
Animals dally around
sniffing at the undies, schmundies,
the socks, the schmocks,
the scarves, their happy
eyes on the verge of
a thousand deaths.


air filter mimicry

The existence of eyes in the sky is highly doubted by my sneakers. I don’t wear them in front of cats and dogs, but you won’t say for sure how many gallons of water you can safely place between two stars, especially when they are not too bright. Sore throats of New Mexico implore you to forget your SSN, to lose yourself in the prairie dog labyrinths and coyote intestines for aeons. You don’t listen to them, of course.

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.