Please, do not ask me
if I am okay.
I do not want to
add that lie to all
the reasons I had
to die.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

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

I lay the stem and foot of the wineglass
next to the two Jennies of Morus Muskat
on the windowsill above the sink. One
is empty, the other has a glass left.

I sweep sprinkles of glass onto the blotched
paper towels in the trash, then put the
bin and the dustpan and hand brush away
beneath the sink. I glance out the window,
leaning open-armed against the counter,
and watch the tall grass dance to the breeze.

The setting sun brushes the blades and the
backyard and the dirt path, the porch resting in
a shadow. I leave the sink and grab a glass
from a cabinet and return. I pour the
rest of the Muskat, getting every drop.

I place the bottle on the sill and freeze.

She is standing on the porch in her
Santorini blue dress, the back stained in
crimson from the small crater in the back
of her head. The mush within her skull has
rot, fragments of flesh caught in her dark hair.

I clench my eyes, hoping she disappears,
but when I reopen she is still there.

I take a deep breath, letting the knots
escape my bones. I gulp down the glass and
walk out onto the porch. She doesn’t breathe
or sway, a statue peering into the
blades. Her lips are closed, her green eyes
unblinking and settled, mascara rivers
melted into her cheeks. Her expression feels
like the calm of the broken and numbed, of
those who have surrendered the fight. I say
hello, again. She looks at me, her eyes
unwavering. She glides over and skims
her cold fingertips across my throat and
down my arm as she leaves the porch, down the
dirt path to the edge of the grass. She turns
around and looks to me, and I follow
the path to her. As I stroll through the mist,
blue in the twilight, my heart pounds, though my
mind is clear and set only on her. I
reach her, and my breath has become shallow
as she stares into my eyes. She kisses me,
and it feels the same as it once had, but
I taste metal and am overwhelmed by
the smell of nitrocellulose. She turns
and steps into the field. I get a glimpse
at the hole, and see the decomposition
and the maggots that have burrowed, writhing
in the putrid flesh. She turns around, her
eyes closed, and she reaches her hand towards me.

I reach my hand out, but stop halfway. She
senses my falter and puts her hand down.

She opens her eyes, looking at me in
disappointment that I would not let her
lead me. She disappears, leaving behind
an emptiness only she could fill. I
remain paralyzed, my senses dulling,
my heart slowing. As always, I turn
around and follow the dirt path through the
clear morning air and rays of sunrise.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)

As the pupae churn and shrivel,
And the worm chews on my brain,
I speak to my little devil
And ask him what’s his game

As the robbins tweet and whistle,
And the land’s engulfed in flame,
I speak to my little devil
And ask if we’re insane

As the winner claims her title,
And a horse is named a lame,
I speak to my little devil
And ask why we’re the same

As the forest shakes and rattles,
And the leech is drained in vain,
I speak to my little devil
And I tell him it’s okay


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

I remember you playing your
guitar the day he died, by
the fire in your backyard.

Everyone was through with
crying. Neither of us cried
because that’s just not who
we are. But if he could have
heard you playing your tunes,
I’m sure he would have shed a
tear for you.

Temptation
lured us in with its embrace.

Perhaps the passion we had,
our act of small departs,
was not worth all this
pain. Worth the guilt and
shame we brought on to our
broken hearts. But you will
never love me the way you
loved him. I know you will
never stop loving him.

Everything about you entices
me. Your *******, and your
thighs, your bright eyes in
the moonlight. And in your
voice there’s a sullenness.

We both have that. We both
lost souls on those dark
nights. But we looked past
it all and sat in your
backyard by the fire
as you played your guitar.

Is that danger in the distance?
Or do my eyes deceive?

****.

Like dark clouds
gathering above mountains.
Like how the young see their futures.

(Though it's not like the world hasn't been ending
this entire time.

In billions of years the sun will explode.
In hundreds, our planet will be just dust and stone,
and the bones of industry.
And at my rate
I'll self-destruct by sixty years of age.

But) what is this thing that sticks and stings
and irks
like a mirage?

Not the flavor of fingers dipped in deliciousness.
Not the freshness of a newborn babe.
Not the scent of flowers.
Not feet in a hot bath.
Not fumbling a lovers face,
frolicking through foxglove fields,
flitting a fiery frevo,
finishing first.

No,
none of that.

It's not a thing,
but a feeling.

Fear
Fear
Fear

And it sticks and stings
and irks,
like a mirage.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

Heard from within the static
An erratic fracture falling flat
Calling all the innocent out
Calling all the innocent out

Found whimpering in dimpled corners
Unearthing a second coming
Calling all the innocent out
Calling all the innocent out

Calling all the innocent out


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

She wraps the presents with cheap paper
on the desk against the wall, lit by dim
Christmas lights. All the unwrapped toys
are in the pink plastic basket at her feet,
and she stacks the finished ones at the
foot of the bed.

I’m propped up on the pillows, touching
myself and stroking my chest as I watch
her work, charmed by how her bones
and muscles move beneath her skin. She
turns around with a finished gift and
sets it down. Her eyes meet mine and she
simpers, biting  her lower lip, then turns
and picks up another toy.

I leave the bed, careful not to knock
anything off, and walk up behind her.
She keeps working on the present as I
pet her shoulders and brush my fingers
along her back. I press my body against
hers, wrapping my arms around her
waist and planting kisses on her neck.

She stops working and places her hands
on mine, tilting her head back and
letting her hair drape my shoulder. I
move my hand down her stomach and
across her hair, and I rub her. She huffs
and brings my other hand to her *******,
beckoning me to caress her. I circle
tighter, faster, harder, and she moans
and reaches her hand back to caress me.

I nibble at her ear, and she lets out a
heavy moan, and I whisper in her ear

“You are a wonderful mother.”

Her breathing slows, and she nudges
my  hand from her. “Don’t say that” she
whispers. We stand there, frozen, before
she continues working on the present.
I stay there behind her, realising my
best intentions were a mistake.

“I’ll just go then.” I put my clothes back
on and remove the trash bag from the
bin to take with me to make sure her
husband doesn’t find my condoms.
“Merry Christmas.” I close the bedroom
door and leave her home, careful not
to wake her kids.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

Seagulls peck away at forgotten remnants.

A knot of women gossip and giggle
as they admire the young man up the shore
performing pullups, sweat rolling down
the lines of his back. Two men walk by
holding hands, sharing a kiss
before the sunset. A woman relaxes with
an ******-mystery-thriller and a
Jennie of Morris Muscat all for herself.

And an old man lies on the sand, ****
and propped on his elbows, his toes tickling
the rising tide as he stares out into the sea.
He always hated his body. Hated being
underneath his skin, his fat, the hair
on his back, his inadequacies. This old man
plans to die here, in this new land, his senior
getaway. But at least he will spend his
final days at this beach, wetting his feet,
taking in the rising moon’s cool breath.
And he’s around people who understand
his need for freedom, who wouldn’t
make him feel ashamed for being him,
for just being born human.

A young man arrives, staying in the backshore.
He strips to his boxers and hesitates,
looking towards the waves for strength.
He then throws them off and plops down,
holding his knees to his chest, a smirk on his face.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)

Old breadcrumbs litter the placemat where
my little one had sat that morning.

That morning I told her she was running too
late to finish the PB&J with fine
pineapple pieces she had made for herself.
She gobbled the thing up in seconds, and with
a mouth still full she walked over and mumbled
bye. I wiped juice leaking out the corner, and
with a snort and a kiss to her forehead I
said see ya’, have fun. And with that she was out
the door, her red backpack one strapped like the
baseball boys did.

All that’s left are these breadcrumbs. I can’t
get myself to clean them up and throw
them away. I see them every day,
every meal, every middle of the
night as I peck on pineapple PB&Js.

As much as I know these crumbs must go, I don’t
regret for a second letting her eat that sandwich
the way she did. It was hell to raise such a rebel,
but she was never going to let anyone stop
her from what she wanted, including me. And she
makes me proud. I’ll clean it up eventually, but
for now, my little one’s breadcrumbs stay.


-
Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

We meet on a
a crowded street
and stand still,
like a pair of boulders
caught in a river
surrounded by salmon
as they swim upriver,
flowing by and
paying us no mind.
Off to the side two men
share a meal al fresco,
laughing into wine glasses.

After what seems a lifetime
you touch my face,
and I touch yours.
And I remember
every minutia.
We've been apart
for so long,
and yet it's like
a garden revealed
when the snow melts.
The freckles,
the spots,
the creases
beside your lips.
And I watch with glee
your goosebumps
rise and can tell
by your smile
you can see mine.

"Get a ******* room!"
One of the men hollers
with a chuckle
as the other guffaws
and nearly chokes
on his bread.

We look to them
and laugh,
a laugh shared
by strangers
knowing love
when they see it;
of a shared humanity.


-
By Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

I miss the trip we took.

We didn’t mind feeling lost while we drove
through the forest, and we sang aloud
the entire way until we arrived at the
site. We pitched the tent, and then spent
the afternoon eating s’mores smothered
in whipped cream, sharing ghost
stories, and watching the lake’s current
come in and out. And when it came time
to hide away, we huddled into my red
sleeping bag, chatting about whatever
came to mind. That’s what I miss the most,
laying with you, discovering how your
mind moves. Or how mentioning we
smelled like s’mores made you go from
a giggle into a hearty laugh.

Then a lengthy gaze turned to a yearning
silence. I miss you running your warm palm
down my chest. Flesh on flesh became our
flesh, breath on breath became our breath.
By the time you fell asleep you had engulfed
me into your small, dying flame, and
embraced me into the furthest depths you
would ever let anyone reach. I remember
wishing it would never end.

But I also remember lying there, still awake,
my body almost shaking from all that was
surging through my nerves and veins,
feeling more nervous than satisfied. And
soon, once the weeks of bliss had gone by,
you realized I was letting you down. You
didn’t seem distraught, or rejected;
you were disappointed.

Now, I will not chastise myself for having
old wounds still healing. I will not be
ashamed for still having armor, for having
to try to surrender, for regarding the body
and heart of the person you fell for with
disgust. But I don’t want to indulge in my
progress or lack thereof, because for you
it’s true, I let you down. You saw me
covered, and you saw me ****, but you
never saw me naked, exposed, vulnerable
and raw. I wouldn’t let you.

And I’m certain for you it was like expecting
a call that won’t come. And when the phone
finally rings you are not there to answer.
You gave up long ago. And I’m still
not even willing to call.

You're sitting at the beach,
The waves tickling your feet
As you cry and tremble and weep.
You've suffered before, but not
Like this, this back and forth
Ripping and pounding at your
Chest, as the rest of the world,
The sea, the seagulls, the fuzzy
White furls of the ships in the
Distance, the wood of the pier
Cracking, the people on the
Pier smiling and laughing,
All of it swims around you
As you struggle to breathe.
Jack came over earlier and
Told you "We've been through
Since last June, we just didn't
Have the guts to admit it
To each other." You wish you
Had a bottle of wine in your hand.
You wish some prince or even
Some homely fella', with a
Star Trek shirt and a slightly
Unkempt beard and a goofy
Chuckle would come across
You and offer to hug you,
With that slight stench of beer a
Welcoming sign that he might
Invite you to have some more.
Anything but another Jack.
Anything but Jack. Jack had been
A prize, a gift, a jewel.
Jack had filled your time
And space, and the history is
Playing over and over in your
Head, and you're trying to erase
The asterisk next to each scene
And clip in this tangled up
And knotted movie. Jack wanted
You. Jack wanted you and you
Still want him, and you wish
You could have felt him when
You had the chance. Felt
His soul when he stood up
For what he believed in,
Felt his tears when he cried
His heart out, felt his trembling
Hands in yours when he
Said his first "I love you,"
Felt his scar from the car
Accident that he said you
Helped him get through, felt
His warm body against you
And inside you and his hot
Breath and kisses on your lips
As your hips wrestled, felt his
Pain that he was ashamed of
But felt brave enough to
Share it with you. All of it.
You wish you could have felt
Him when you had the chance.
But you didn't, because you
Couldn't, and eventually he
Felt that same way about you.
You couldn't feel him when
You were there. You were there,
But you weren't really there.
And now you're waiting for
The tide to kick in, with
Images of being taken in
Slithering in and out of
Your imagination. You want
To shout out loud but you
Don't want anyone to look,
And you try to squeeze
Your ears together so
You don't have to hear,
Though you only end up
Hearing more, and you
Close your eyes tightly so
You don't have to see,
Though you only see more.
In your core you're burning up,
And waves of tears keep
Oscillating from within you.
There's nothing more for you.
This is you and who you
Are. How could you ever love
Someone if you could never
Really feel them? How would
You ever let them love you
If you will never let them
Feel you? Feel your pain
When your steel container
Of a heart cracks and
They can see all the shame that
You've buried and held in there,
Feel your fingernails running
Through their hair and up
And down their back as
They feel you tighten and implode
With them, feel the scars on
Your arms from all the harm
You've put yourself through,
Feel your trembling body
In the cold and hug and kiss
And love you back to health,
Feel when you need to cry but
That old voice screams at
You to hold it in because
You can't let anyone in through
That door, feel you when you
Stand up and say you
Have to go when really
You want to stay but you
Need to go. Need to go
To the beach and sit in
A heap of sand until the
Tide washes you away.
Takes you away from this
Place and all it wants
To take from you. And then
A homely dude with a
Star Wars shirt and
Unkempt hair asks "Hey,
Are you okay over there?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," you
Reply. "You sure?" "Yes,
I'm sure, I'm fine. Just had
A bad day. Thanks, though,
By the way." "Sure, no prob.
Have a goodnight. Hope you
Feel better." "Thanks. Goodnight."
And you get up and leave,
Walking to your car, wiping
Sand off your hands and
Your **** and legs, and
Start the car. You head
For home. You have to pick
Up your clothes from the
Cleaners tomorrow.

Within the mighty depths of hell
a hopeful strength emerged.

A chick is hatched, unprepared, gone.

But soon this demon died and fell
for Death fulfilled an urge.

Dust from dried-up reservoirs swamp
the morning. Sweat sticks to thin clothes.

And from her ashes rose a scorn,
a surge of wrath, as they do tell.

Hats and fans wave in cadence on
the porch. Mosquitos and flies on
sunburnt skin are swat from existence.

Hearts were crossed, souls were torn;
flooded by a sea of her love.

An ashen cloud submerges the
forest. The withered, dew-frosted
blood-red leaves drift off, joining the
arrangement on the soil. Clear
water streams by to the high tide.


-
By Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

if there is pain
there is hope
but if you are numb
you'll never know
if you can cry
please do
if you want to cry
please do


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

When we are breathing,
we share in our breath.

People are self-seeking,
and unless we play with
pragmatics, we can’t help it.
Yet we are helpless in
how bounteous we are.

When we are breathing,
we share in our breath,
and when we die,
we share in our death.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

I wish I told you
how beautiful you were,
dancing alone.

And not just pretty,
though that you sure
were too, and I’m kicking
myself for not having
that courage either.

But your beauty was
one of strength,
a resolve within
yourself that you
are all you need.

I don’t mind being alone,
and I’m often more
secure in my
own little den.

But when I’m not
alone I can’t be alone.

May I borrow your strength?

I wish I told you
how beautiful you were,
dancing alone.

But maybe it’s best
I left it.

Left that impression
seared into my skull,
of you swaying in
your own embrace.

I’m glad we shared a smile,
before you carried on
into your own self,
while I lost mine
on a floor of misfits.

are you coming
better days
?
better days
better days
are you coming
better days
are you coming
?

lick the sky
say goodbye
and be proud
of yourself
that you even tried

are you coming
better days
?
better days
better days
are you coming
better days
?
I am waiting

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

Dear daughter of mine
Let’s spend time down by
the lake, and watch the frogs
hop from place to place, and
giggle at the geese as they
make their noisy honks and
eeks. And know that I will
always love you.

Small daughter of mine
Let’s crawl through our fort, and
afterwards eat popcorn. But only
if you have finished your homework.
I know you hate it. But how else
are you going to learn?

Little daughter of mine
Don’t fear my wrath from that C in
math. We’ll figure this out, and
you did your best. I won’t deal
onto you what was dealt onto me.
And please bear with me as I try
to explain why you have begun to
bleed.

Lovely daughter of mine
Coming home drunk and muddy
from prom. Sure, I’m not happy,
but I know the song and dance.
I still love you, but go wash
your ******* pants.

Superb daughter of mine
I’m letting you go so you
can claim a new place as
your own. But don’t be afraid.
They are all strangers before
they are friends. And please
behave and leave heavy drinking
to be my forte.

Wonderful daughter of mine
You’re all on your own now, yet when
you visit home you tell me of how he
touched you wrong. I hold you tight
and we both cry. Someone touched me
that way too, and I promise together
we’ll make it through. And I still love you.

Terrific daughter of mine
Your career is on the rise.
And that great guy you have
met seems rather nice. I hope
that fate keeps her eyes on
you and gives you good fortune
in all you go through.

Amazing daughter of mine
Thanks for sharing your pain.
I‘ve been just the same, and I
know suicide more than most and
more than you’ll ever realize.
Don’t take your own life. I will
stay on the phone with you
through the night. I love you.

Beautiful daughter of mine
You said yes, didn’t you?
Hold my hands and let us
have this dance. Twirl around
the room as we ought to do.
I know you know I love you.
And I know that *******
blonde-haired ******* loves
you too.

Stupendous daughter of mine
Now you are all grown. We’ve
sown the seeds for you to be
happy and to keep your peace
of mind. Keep doing what you
do well. I am so proud of you,
and I know your mother would
have been proud too.

Daughter of mine
I’m no longer around. My reckless
self-disregard caught up with me
and brought me to the ground, and
you’ve laid me to rest. But you
don’t have to cry. Just keep the
sweet memories of me as your sweet
daddy deep in your brain. And please
keep an open heart. I love you, I
love you, I love you. Tell all your
children the same.

Dear daughter of mine
We spent time down by the lake, and
watched the frogs hop from place
to place, and giggled at the geese
as they made their noisy honks and
eeks. And all I hope is that you
knew that I would always love you.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

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

One can always tell
How the day will go
By whether one can
Look oneself in the
Mirror

---
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

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

Tried drowning in some water
One near where I was raised
Hoping that the bottom
Would take my life

But partway through the mercy
The pain was far too great
And I thought of all
The finer ways to die

Kicked and clawed at the abyss
Desperate for the surface
Begging for the heavens
For air to breathe

At some point all I wanted
Was to ******* end this
Yet after all this time
Death hasn't come for me

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

I light a candle, and
watch as it dances with
its own shadow to the
rhythm of the breeze.

It reminds me of the
night that we danced.

I blow out the candle
and sit in the dark.

-
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

I’ve never felt so tranquil
while so numb.

It’s like leaving while
staying still, a calm
pulse in nothing,
music without a sound,
*** without a body.

It’s an erasure of strides
in snow and slush,
a dissolving act,
the cackle of a
wholesome child.

Pure and imperfect.

Today,
I am drifting downstream,
riding the cherry blossoms.

And I’m not stopping this time,
I’m not checking out,
waking up or falling asleep.

The stars will kiss me and I
will drink their light.

I am no longer afraid.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

clasped hands on snow covered hills

trails of blood down fresh cut legs

pain and love behind the big brown eyes
of a smiling freckled face embraced

flushed from crown to nape


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

A mother sits on the edge
of a hospital bed with her
baby daughter lying on her lap.

The air throughout the hospital
is suffocating, stifling with the
stench of filth and death.

The walls amplify and echo the
anguish of women and children,
and jets fly somewhere overhead.

But she tries to sing a lullaby
through her parched throat
beneath her grubby niqāb. The skin
and bones that make her frame
cannot sway the child for comfort.

She cannot feed her; even if her
******* could provide sustenance,
the child’s sickness would puke it
back up. She craves to cry for God
to spare her little one, but her
bloodshot, sunken eyes no longer
produce tears. All she can offer is
her lullaby, the same one she sang
to all her children. All that remains
of them and their father are fragments,
scattered throughout dirt and debris,
blown to bits a week ago by a blast
in her village. When the only one left
became sick, she started the trek to
the nearest hospital. The journey
greeted her with dust and unbearable
heat, with the agony of an empty
stomach, with a child in misery and
excreting white diarrhea. And when
she finally reached the hospital, the
doctors could not provide treatment.

The disease had progressed too far,
and they did not have the means to
save her daughter. So she sits on a
hospice bed, surrounded by other
sickly and starving bodies, singing a
lullaby. Soon the child closes her eyes
and stops breathing, a thick white
drool leaking down her cheek. Her
mother wipes it away.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

Apple or tangerine?

Apple or tangerine?

What should I eat this morning?

Is it important?

Will the wrong choice destroy my day?

Is there a way to tell the difference?

Is there a wrong choice?

Or am I wasting my precious
time casting doubts?

Or is this the path of purpose,
to see one’s choices as if they
matter in the details that make the
fibres and stitching of the grand scheme?

Have I figured it out?

Or is that my ego craving importance?

What if there’s-


Crap, I have to go.

Guess I’ll have the banana.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

Giggles from the child as water
runs down her back, matching
the swinging wind chimes just outside
the wide-open window. Her mother
smiles, her shirtsleeves rolled up and
yet wet and covered in tiny bubbles.
The white tile around them glistens
in the sunlight pouring in, and I,
the grinning dad who just got home,
stand in the doorway, softened clay.
My wife, my beautiful wife,
looks up at me and says “Hey honey,”
and runs another small jug of bathwater
over my baby’s soft head of hair.
The little one trickles out “Hi Daaaaddy,”
and giggles again, as her mother scrubs
her little back and shoulders. Seeing this
scene in front of me, my eyes water
slightly. I pull it back in; after all
these years it’s still difficult for me to
simply be joyous. Nonetheless, there is
an ache in my heart, the ache one feels
when they first fall in love, and I am standing
here falling all over again. I roll up my sleeves
and drop to my knees, and give my wife
and my sweetie the biggest pecks I can muster,
and clean her delicate little arms. The mother
pours another jug, and once again, this little
darling angel, like wind chimes swinging outside,
giggles.

She looked over the edge,
down towards the water. The
bridge was the gray of steel
and concrete. She saw her
breath through the October
air, shallow yet long and
steady. Her face held no
expression, numb. And she
fixated her eyes on the dark
center of the river below.
The coasts were always so
pretty, tidied up with a thin,
blue line. But right down
the middle lay the deepest
part. And it was darker than
the shoes in her hands. And
it all moved forward, moving
on down the line, ever
changing, as nothing changes.
As if nothing mattered. She
took a deep breath.


-
Aleksander Mielnikow

Her titillating tattoo
tantalizes me deeply,
to the tenth degree. I see
it as I slip her silk dress
slowly down her left shoulder.
A lizard lying on a
boulder, contrasting with her
silky smooth soft snowy skin.

I kiss her shoulder, and she
shudders and sighs a deep sigh.
Goosebumps rise up her body
as a sturdy gust seizes
the moment. The forest we
make love in quakes and shakes
as she shivers and quivers
under the touch of my hands.

My left hand holds her upper
arm, while my right grips her hips.
She closes her eyes, smiling,
giggling in amusement.
I spin her slowly ‘round, and
look into her hazel eyes,
her soft ******* and thighs against
mine for warmth and gentle touch.

I kiss her lips. Strawberry.
And we slide down to the ground.
The scariness we have found
slips away in our grace. We
sinners share our shame, our lust,
and come to a conclusion,
and bust each others doors down,
sweet ****** on this cold ground.

"If it has nothing to do with me
Then why should I even be here?"
That sounded far more narcissistic
Coming out of my mouth. But
I meant exactly what I said, and
I knew exactly what I meant.
I knew exactly what I meant.


-
By Aleksander Mielnikow

I must attest
to just one thing
to help evolve
your muss and health

I just suggest
that you don't need
to love them all
to love yourself


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

You know the words
make little sense.
But they replay
over and over and over
in your head.
And no matter
how much you could just
let it go,
just let it all go,
the pain of what they said
still grows.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

I’ve seen too many faces,
been to too many places.
And now, I wonder what I really know.
But I embraced it. I faced it.
But it’s getting real old,
and I don’t like how cold it’s getting.
The shadows are cast on everything and
the cold breeze is turning into a wind.
Dirt in my eyes, can’t see ****.
Where have you been?
Where did you go? I got lonely
here all on my own.
Fits of rage drove you away
but I’m becoming more silent,
my violence now just a slight whisper,
tickling the back of my throat just a bit.
Can I kiss you?
Can I hug you again?
Do you trust me?
Can you trust me again?
I wouldn’t, and you shouldn’t.
I’m never going to be the innocent,
the lovely, the pure,
one of the beautiful people.
Though you know what they say,
“Can’t see the forest for the trees.”
So please, don’t leave me so soon.
Get a coffee, get a drink,
let’s think together for a second.
And maybe you’ll need a better
boy who holds your hand
in the roller rink, and chuckles and
helps you up when you trip,
and has a grip on himself when
all of this turns to ****.
That’s not me.
I’m not one of those.
One of those you can believe in,
or that I think you deserve,
you lovely, beautiful being.
I’m the ugly and rotten,
Though not easily forgotten,
And though oddly forgiving, I’m forgiving
because I know what it is to be guilty,
wilting people’s leaves before
they’ve even had a chance to breathe.
Left behind a trail of mud,
and in my blood there’s dirt and rust
and lumps the size of walnuts
from all the drugs I have to eat
to get and stay asleep.
But I’m weeping less and less,
and my remorse and shame might be a blessing.
I’ve learned the best thing to do
is open up and live through what
someone like me can do
and change my ways from what I’ve done,
before I can inject more and more pain.
And though I’ve got a long way to go,
and I’m still a coward about it,
at some point I’ll apologize, say sorry for it.
For all the lies and bearing
and lack of caring that was
apparent in almost everything.
But ALMOST everything, because there was a genuine,
generous and loving person somewhere
beneath all of it, who wasn’t
going to try to hurt you,
or destroy you. I didn’t try to.
And I know you remember that loving one,
and you wonder why
he couldn’t stick around long enough
before wandering off into the desert or something,
and getting lost. So,
tell me your soul.
I’ll listen, and you know me,
I’ll make fun of it, but I won’t judge it.
You think you’re toxic? I’m full of it.
I’ve been and seen
all of it. Lived it, felt it, gave it.
Your shadows? I can see past them.
Your coldness? I’ve got a built-in blanket.
And I want to feel you
when the dirt blinds me,
when I can’t see **** and you reach out
and your warmth keeps me grounded.
At least for just a little bit.

I hate realizing I forgot to take my
meds. I don’t mind taking them. I need
them to pretend I can function. And
forgetting until the next morning can
be brutal, but I get right up and start
again. But when I realize they didn’t
slide down my throat and enter my
bloodstream in the middle of the day,
or halfway through the time of night
when magic unfolds and destruction
happens, I’m reminded of something.

I’m reminded that these small, white
discs with an indent down the middle
are the only thing keeping me from
climbing the tallest building and
taking a deep breath. I’m reminded
that I’m not in control. I’m reminded
that I wouldn’t want it if I had it.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

He proclaims this room as if it’s his throne
Igniting his body with his cologne

He presses the top like a wheel to a stone
Then leaves me behind all cold and alone


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

She adorns her face with platinum
piercings, and her azure hair peeks
out of her indigo hoodie. Her
ragged, cinereous jeans reveal
scabbed and bruised knees, and
they’re tucked into jet black
biker boots strapped to her feet.

Without hesitation, she crosses the street.

Tires screech and car horns beep and drivers
scream obscenities that ornament the air
with scorn. Yet like a red belonging in folklore,
she slights their violent contempt.

She tipples from the burn of
self-destruction, and savors the
flavor of rebellion, a savor so
sweet it overwhelms her senses
and compels her to behave reckless.

And as I pass, I throw up my best fist
of anarchy. I wish I was free like this.

Though it takes a tinge of toughness
to stare into the nihilistic abyss,
it takes courage to have fun in it.


-
Aleksander Mielnikow

The echo of a hollow space
strained against my head
An empty cry of deception
and pain inside my mind

Of words not said
Of tears not cried

My fears ****** inside
my broken heart
Strong winds eroded my will
with no mercy

There was no clear path
There was no way out

But when all seemed lost
when all the roads had closed
and my eyes could no longer cry
I heard a sound in the distance

Like thunder

It mended a bleeding soul
healed a broken heart
awoke a dormant warrior

The tender noise
this gracious voice
told me
I am me



-
Written by CZ
Edited and Revised by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

You drink milk
when all that’s served
is water and wine.

You ****** the throbbing
pulse of the night
with your contriving lips.

You dip into the
honey and you
bedizen your seat.

You leave a trail of blood
to lead you back to
where you are from.

You wink and
the world relents.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

I walked alone that night,
Uphill through the snow.
And when I arrived at the place
Not a single face did I recognize.
I got a beer and sat around,
Looking down so it wouldn't seem
Like I was staring.
The ice in my frozen nerves
Became blacker than the roads
Outside that I drove here on.
And this is why I wish I
Was truly dangerous. No one
Would ignore me, yet nobody
Would venture too close. I'd
Be an animal in a zoo.
But instead I'm a scared,
Lost puppy stuck in a
Land of lions and snakes.
But I poker-faced it so when you
Finally arrived, the little
Loud part of me crying for a
Place and body and mind
I could love instead of
Loathe withered away. Or
So I thought. I ought
To know better by now.
All it took was another
Chance not taken, and
I lost all the chips again.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

Little spiders crawl on me as I try to
sleep. But I pay them no mind. They’ve
wandered around here for years,
claiming their deserved space, though
I’m sure they’ve been around long
before I moved in. I used to freak out
as their tiny legs made the trek across
one shoulder to the next and down my
arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. It
was like a muzzle ****** to the back
of my head, or the first time soft,
caring fingers made their way across
my undressed skin. But now I could not
care less. These little ******* are
now my friendly acquaintances, and
they crawl around all they want.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

My heart stopped once.
It happened the first time
I tried to **** myself.
Dying felt like passing out.
...
Well, that was awkward.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

I need you to call my name.

I want to hear it escape your throat.

You know my name. It is the one
that sounds like the stabbing of
steel shovels into sodden soil.

It is the one you addressed
on all those notes and letters.

Say it. Say it now.
Cry my name.

You will say it, even if
it spills from your teeth
and stains your ******* skin.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

Don’t you dare tell me
I cannot love him.
He’ll love me back and
he will be mine.

Fingers at ready
on my old bookshelf,
waiting for the right
words to appear.
Waiting forever,
dust has now settled.
Maybe I should just
write my own tale.

It is not easy
when you’ve been lonely.
It is not simple
when there’s a loss.

Imprint on my ring
finger is still there.
I rub it often
so it will fade.
It has been too long
and I must move on.
This new passion is
warm to the touch.

Don’t you dare tell me
I cannot love him.
He’ll walk away and
I will stay true.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

TRIGGER WARNING: CONTENT PERTAINS TO DEPRESSION AND SUICIDE

Little demons bounce around in
your skull, screaming obscenities
and those same old revelations.
All the while, the strange sounds of
"you're fine," "you're nice," "you're not that bad,"
"you’re not evil,” gets replayed out
of their mouths again. As if they
know your sins. That never-ending
winter you are freezing in. If
only they knew, but you’ll never
tell them. You'd die first. And more and
more that looks like the optimal
choice. Your demise a voice for this
injustice, finally putting
down that mad dog robbing all of
them of a peaceful existence.
Why should such a savage exist?
So you can spread your disgusting
penitence with warm and oh so
bold and colorful poetics?
Why not just end it? Instead you
feed it like the coward you are,
the typical evil piece of
**** that rips up hearts and leaves them
to the wolves. And no one knows, and
no one will care, if you are not
the same as you were back then. This
redemption is an illusion
you fool around with to cool your
intemperance, as useless as
your pathetic attempts at some
rehabilitation, and if
you were honest you'd accept that
your suffering is warranted.
So go meet your end, you *******
sick depressing ****, before you
get selfish again and ruin
another beautiful person.

I wander through the city,
skipping every crack.


It never feels as real,
hearing it from your lips.

When you write it,
I’m elated.
It’s warm honey daubing
crusty sourdough
as I sip a cup of joe
and gaze out the window
at the ocean mist
under a toasty sunset.

Yet, when I listen to you speak,
hear your tone
as I gaze into your eyes,
the glow just isn’t there.

I want to believe
you have just lost it,
but I really can’t remember.


I stop to scrape gum off my sole.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet