The birds are too big to alight on the mountains.
Nonchalance of a step amplifies the weight of the wings,
but the voices are buried in the snow forever.
Dormant snakes bless the alphabets of the horizons and seething billboards.
Winters here are known for itchy tails, earbleeding and superfluous light.


A woman sleeps in a plaza wrapped in a book twice her size.
Shadows return to the sky smeared with her native language.
Passersby wear masks to scare the planets off,
to steal contaminated gasps and hangovers.
Weather isn’t the medium of the beasts covered by stinking stars,
whose voices are too weak for the giant letters and cold air.
The skins of decrepit goddesses, forgotten on the clotheslines,
shrink indefinitely. Geese practice applied scatology and eschatology
a long while before achieving the transparency of a cry.


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Along with their ancestors and outdated bicycle wheels.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.


I remember skiffs covered with cobwebs
drifting downstream, oar blades underwater,
spiders dancing above, their vast burning shadows
chilling trash on the banks, gulping vodka;
long feathered tongues of the earthlings
were unable to lick the chains of the puddles
off the streets with a cracked skyline.

The nights were cold for ancestor worship.
Planets and stars didn’t exist, nor did typos,
cigarettes didn’t light.
I was grateful to everything that could be silent:
currant bushes, outhouses, buckets of water.
Neighbors were looking for doormats and newspapers
to wrap themselves up. No one was going to die.

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.

bright blue

They kiss leaning towers of prosperous lands,
bright blue creatures of obscure grimoires, they kiss
rotten pineapples and
melting ice cream.
Mosquitoes swarm around them recollecting
days of yore with pleasure, but neither crows
nor tortoises remember human sacrifices. Yes,
I believe paper napkins can destroy universities.


soviet factories produced plenty of attire
to be worn by the whole planet but in fact
even their own population had to wear hungarian sneakers
bulgarian raincoats and mongolian hats
because all soviet industry and agriculture
worked exclusively for totalitarian regimes
of the past and the future and for
extraterrestrial dictatorships
that’s why the aztecs incas and babylonians
let alone the troglodytes knew the hammer
and sickle symbol so well

{from the comments on tourists vs. travelers}


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}


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?