Downtown’s sodium orange
penetrates the snow fog around us,
and the xenon sign outside this club
stains your teeth an electric blue.

There are bloodshot eyes behind puffs
of smoke as you **** on a cigarette.

Our feet ***** the salt and butts
under the slush as snow coats our
coats and your short, curly hair.

Your lips lap the tip for mere seconds
at a time, never leaving your lungs
full for long. I watch your chest rise
and fall with each burning breath
and imagine that coat curling away
and falling like ash. But I don’t smoke
and loathe the smell that lingers
betwixt my fingers.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

We finish digging our graves, dug
to what we consider three feet, but
we don’t worry about measurements.

These deaths are negligible.

Coated in dirt and sweat and heaving,
we gaze at each other. We both nod,
toss our shovels aside and walk over
to our bodies. He grabs his by the wrist
and drags it across the grass. I hoist
mine into my arms and shuffle over.

They’re both dumped into the graves,
and we fill both the holes. He walks to
his car without hesitation. I pause a
moment to glare at my grave, but I don’t
offer a eulogy or prayer, only standing
there in silence. I catch up to him, throw
my shovel in the trunk, and we drive off.

He drops me at my home, and I go inside
to find my wife watching TV. My wife? I
blink, trying to focus. Yes, she is my wife.
She says “Hey honey”, and I respond with
a low “Hey”, but she doesn’t look over,
does not notice the mess. I ***** up the
stairs, counting the steps, and start a shower.

As the water warms, the mirror reveals
someone familiar. No, not familiar, this is
me. I get under the warm stream, letting it
clean away what is left of me.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

My palms in my pockets jingle
the keys to my cave as I make
my way to wherever I’m going.
My legs propel me, and my feet
dodge cast-off gum and dog dung.

And on my head rests a fishbowl.

An extra load on my skull,
but I don’t mind. I rather
like this bowl. It gives me
a barrier, and though thin,
the glass has yet to crack.

I hear my voice resound,
bouncing around the tiny
space, and I smell my breath,
minty fresh and foggy, and
through the fog the world and
its creatures are phantoms.

When I’m addressed, it’s like
floating in frigid freshwater
as they call for me from
the sheet of ice above.
They suspect I’ve lost
my soul in the fishbowl,
yet as year after year
goes by, I feel just fine.

I am an astronaut taking
a space walk, drifting around
and watching the universe
unfold under a sheet of glass.

And when I close my eyes,
I am in a womb, or a coffin,
and I often can’t tell the
difference, nor find much
of a reason to tell.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

He has sensitive teeth, yet 
he sips frigid liquids for 
the same reason he goes out 
of his way to stamp on ants.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

It can be amusing
to lose one’s mind.

You don’t catch at first
how it slipped out the backdoor.
But you notice something
is missing, and after a minute
you realize it’s at it again.

You go to the backdoor, chuckling,
and out the screen,
just before you see it
dash around the corner,
you call out,
“Hey *******!
I’ve found you before
and I’ll find you again!”

But then it’s gone,
and for at least awhile
it hides, with you left to seek.

Left with too many empty bottles.
Too many memories.
Too many guilty thoughts.
Too many fantasies.
And far too many sleeping pills,
with not enough sleep.

---
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

It pretends to be one of us, but it’s not quite human.

It masquerades as a person, wearing skin that
mimics our flesh, with joints designed to rotate and
glide like ours. It listens to the changing cadences
and tones of our voices, measures our temperatures
and respiration and blinking rates, and then reacts.
And when it behaves, it does so on accumulated
data, learned and converted into best practices.

But it does not have fantasies. It fills its shoes
with synthetic muscle and steel but never wears
another’s. It does not look at birds and wishes
to fly, nor looks to the moon in hopes of someday
making the lengthy trek to wander the gray crust.

It pretends to be one of us, but it’s not quite human.

Not yet.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

When you take the soil,
do you grab a handful,
or just a bit?

Is your nose sluggish,
or has it been days since
you’ve cried and you
smell the petrichor?

Do you listen to the priest
offering prayers? Or do you
turn hollow and hear only
your heartbeat?

Do you mutter a message,
grant your final send-off?
When you let go, do you
unfurl your hand and let it
drop like a heavy weight
leaving your open palm?
Does it seep between your
fingers and out of your hand?

Or are you swift, silent, eager
to advance the procession?
Do you toss it, as if sending
a ship off to sea?

Do you believe the carcass
beneath that pine lid cherishes
your gesture? Or do you do this
for yourself, for solidarity with
those with you? Do you think
there’s a difference?

When you take the soil,
do you grab a handful,
or just a bit?


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet