Inebriated evergreens have busted the sky with all its aircraft and inhabitants.
The feeling of turning into serpents makes them queasy,
The idea of sticking to earth makes them laugh.
Language is just a perversion of the bark.



Enchanted by the contents of wastebaskets,
A soul, like an animal, can easily escape words.
But words can disfigure the face of a goddess
That has managed to survive even a summer sky.
Books are the bricks of monstrosity.
Sometimes they are life itself.



The silence between the wine glasses is phoney is
Made of hammers manufactured in profusion to change
The way of a muddy mirror
But horses dance among dirty dishes invisible to the clocks
That cautiously follow the veils of hangover
To the trees oblivious to the clouds


page over

One can say:
I don’t want to be a frog,
A cup of coffee, a windshield wiper, a surgeon.
As usual, stones and animals don’t speak in the fields
Nor do birds in the sky.
Some beast, though, might flaunt its horns and tail
On the outskirts of mercurial pain,
Forced to remember the dates it hates,
Forced to consume jackboots, rainbows, utility poles,
Burning curtains, light bulbs and hens
That hide their spectacles in the foliage,
All the legacy of a silent eye:
The timeless have no embassy to take care of them.



Gregarious songbirds peck at the amorphous
Amorous faces of sleeping gods whenever they please.
Ghosts invent languages and forget them instantly.
It is sick to wait
For an animal to howl into black foliage,
But who could resist the temptation.



Snakes try to take the distance between a rodent and a cloud
With their own bodies, but clouds don’t belong to this landscape.
Blueberries and blackberries delivered from remote villages
With insects swarming in their midst, you should taste them.
Each silence you hear is lost in history.
Musicians grow old, wear armor, throw sounds out of
Their impersonal dross. They begin to swear like medieval cobblers.
Wine gleams in the dark with filthy stars.


The car becomes a cloud in the ravine next to the rutted lane called Dead Ant Street where a dozen of discombobulated septuagenarian hippies used to reside. They kept headless, formless, quadruped animals, each one on a separate ledge cut in the slope, each one possessing long, awkwardly gorgeous hair. The closer you came to the beasts, the more you lost your composure, but they remained calm until you began to count the hairs. It was too silent for a clock face to be seen.


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.



With the passage of time the stars
spread out underground.
Herons destroy bridges and dance on
ice floes, dead dogs and beer cans.
Names and monikers don’t stick to the living.


Tarot fools are doomed to chase fleeting
substances and creased dust jackets.
Names and monikers don’t stick to the living.
Multiplying voices of Moloch salad
shouldn’t disturb untimely dreams.


Crumbling void penetrates cold.
Heat makes lizards unceasingly chant the silence.
With the passage of time the risk
of spontaneous combustion increases.
Divination by stolen books is a perfect disaster.


Pauses between footsteps eliminate the distance.
Pauses between lies make the truth hollow like the earth.
Continual dances of the clouds are dangerous and boring.
Water seeps through silence and sparse feathers of
exotic beasts. Falling planets are edible
like everything else.


Those insects you are complaining about
don’t need the night to hear stones
gingerly open to that clean-shaven dude who
has scattered the snow all over the earth and
is not going to shovel it, son of a bitch.
In fact, it is so silent here
that occasional travelers eat their shoes.