Eagles eat ice overhead, and the sound is not
Scratched on marble like the words of sham gods.
It may be many years before the story begins.
There is no place on earth for the inventor of holidays
To count her hats, her hiccups, her motes of dust.



A spiderweb teasing a boiled egg disappears
In front of an animal too big to gulp it down,
And the mirrors above become the introductions
To the long narratives of sliced lemons.
Just what is a pet, they ask.
It is a bottle of prehistoric placebo
Prescribed to a hanged Queen of Cups.
A history betrayed by crushed grasshoppers
Thoroughly repeats itself in tree bark,
In an afternoon fib embraced by a squirrel.



Never trust a country where the graves of the poets
Have been devoured with the stones and flowers
Never dream of the motherland touching you with her poisoned fingernails
Smokestacks, clouds stabbed with screwdrivers
Missed traffic lights are the beauty of the landscapes
Rats wipe stale words from teeth dictionaries and tinfoil hats as a matter of routine
They can’t hear the screams they eat
After a subway train has passed


and more

They are traveling gifts of the feminine death,
Flippant and indomitable,
Islands in the sky full of books too tiny to read,
Flowers too small to see,
Volatile smells of earthly formidable woods,
Talking animals mocking Egyptian deities.
The important thing is to keep human feet
When you tread on dead air.



A guest takes off the hat,
The wig, the head, almost drops on
The parquet clumsily, takes
A flute (the very kind you can buy
At a toy store) out of a pocket of his
Striped green and yellow pants and
Cockadoodledoos, then gets immersed
In counting his toes. The other guests,
Indifferent to the movements of
The insipid air, regret that
They haven’t washed their hooves
And feathers. Neither wood nor stone
Nor water is being exactly worshipped,
But empty flower pots immensely enjoyed,
Fire and earth consumed from
The cumbersome goblets,
As well as the furniture and
The hired musicians.
Do you, by any chance,
Speak Occitan? – cries someone
Into an open window.
What a charming travesty
Of being a host.


The space between the lake and an intoxicated rodent
Or between two books on the history of clouds hidden in the dormant grass
Devours humongous laughing heads of our ancestors
Heroes of world war minus twenty eight
So please, my friend, join the feast of limping birds in the wasteland
Enjoy the smell of burnt feathers



It’s incredible how thieves can talk to tap water
Or hoodlums thrive on discerning spirits. My classmates
Used to write a long piece of advice to God, hiding
In one of the school restrooms from the teachers.
They thought He didn’t exist and were certain
It was bad not to exist even for Him. They filled the air.
The wicked talked too much back then, just as
They do now. Meanwhile I was reading
Crime and Punishment during the math classes.
Soccer was a religion. A pedophile walked the streets
Impervious to beating and mockery, a prophet,
The glory of his generation broken by the war.


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.


Oceans continue to burn between the eyelashes.
The salt of the spheres proliferates like toenails
in the tiny world of ancient wanderers. They look for
an abandoned church where uncertainty accumulates.
Where shadows make no suicide attempts, try not to
sleep on the ceiling. Where shadows don’t exist sometimes.
They look for music everywhere: Amazon, Discogs, eBay.
They take any pills they want. Drink bottles of water.
Make sounds with the lips. Now they are apparent
nobodies to everyone who happens to see them in the streets.


In the city I have never visited but where I should have spent my childhood women eat their offspring listening to sad fiddle music. The radios are always on, streets empty, a few yellow leaves float down the gutters after the rain. It is too clean everywhere for insects and rodents. A girl is trying to hide dancing behind a gas station like an inept graffiti.


Creatures from interstitial regions,
some of them winged, others just feathered,
yet others flaunting horns and tails,
bastards that inhabit fancy times,
they sell half-baked ideologies to ghosts
or sit on the tops of the mounds and towers
that gather darkness inside, darkness
too humid to burn, waiting
for the forecast snow that won’t fall.

Mannequins float down the creeks,
bumping against the stones.

passing by

Towers and pyramids built for cattle and fowl to sleep and relax
pierce the eyes in the sky. Dogs quarrel behind yesteryear’s rain
and yesterday’s soup, pharmacists paint the puddles.
Your relatives would never bring to the grave
your favorite dish. Junk food is prohibited in the hereafter
unless you are Andy Warhol. An awkward figure
on a creaky bicycle wearing a frayed bathrobe
and carrying a scythe in an inept hand passes by
giant dismantled monuments to the last communists
and stranded submarines on fire. Towers and pyramids
built for cattle and fowl to sleep and relax have been always surrounded
by oddballs in search of another language.


Five old women prone to forget the keys in the locks
sit on a small newly painted bench in the park.
The corners of their eyes are full of empathy.
The smell of extraterrestrial food smothers the blackbirds,
passes through the keyholes, disperses.
The sun rises and the sun goes down,
and dragonflies with broken wings fight against lost spacecraft.


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.