Us—
the ones without vision.
Not blind, just
uninvited.

We don’t have a point of view—
we orbit around them.
Deja vu is all we know.
It’s our only map,
our only god.

We don’t understand.
We don’t resist.
We just
continue.

Like robots.
Like borrowed thoughts
on borrowed time.

Until the head meets the pillow
like a wall.
And still—no dreams,
just static.

Television is both prayer
and poison.
It flickers,
feeds,
forgets us.

Most people, poor souls,
try to think in reverse—
like it’ll bring back
whatever it was
we lost.

It weighs the heart like wet wool— this ache that won’t be wrung out. We try to outpace death, but what a useless art— to dodge the final breath, to forget the final prayer, to sleep through the silence draped in disguise.

When your parent dies, something in you unravels. A thread pulled loose from the tapestry of self. It’s as if someone spit into the soul’s well— and the echo never stops falling.

A part of you locks away in the hush of unspoken lies. And dragging through the days feels like pulling your own shadow through molasses.

When your parent dies, the world doesn’t end— but it forgets how to begin.

My body turns on me—
slowly, without ceremony.
So I turn onto it,
a truce of skin and ache.

Then I turn into my mother.
Then my father.
I watch my face in the mirror
and see their ruins rising.

I think of leaving the cities—
like the Maya did,
just walk out
and let the jungle eat my name.

I want to be Nefertiti,
but the gods are jealous.
And hungry.
And male.

I betray my body
and it knows.
It bruises back.
It creaks in the silence.

I wanted to be a god,
one of the ones with
eyes like fire and spines like gold.

But I am,
unfortunately,
CHELOVEK.
Meat and memory.
Ash in the mirror.
Dreams that ache like old teeth.

I’m reading the lines of the star-crossed pair,
But the words are tangled, they cry in despair
Their feelings are fog, not fire or flame—
Yet somehow, I know I’ve felt the same.

We’ve all been Romeo once in our lives,
Dreaming of love with wide-open eyes.
We’ve all been Juliet, young and bright,
Leaping for love in the dead of night.

But now the waves have all pulled back,
And I am walking a stormy track.
No compass, no song, no spark, no sun—
The passion is drained, the dreaming done.

I flip through pages of Napoleon’s war,
And Lavoisier’s laws I can’t ignore.
Who cares for a kiss in Verona’s air?
Not me—not now—not anywhere.

Old lovers die in their final scene,
And I die with them in between.
Again and again, I play the part—
A ghost with a silent, broken heart.

my body turns on me
I turn onto my body
I turn into my mother
I turn into my father
I am about to abandon the cities
Like ancient Maya did in ad
I want to become Nefertiti
but the gods are jealous
and greedy.
I am betraying my body
and it betrays me back
I want to be an ancient god
but unfortunately I am CHELOVEK

Easter is around the corner
Everything could be pink and blue.
Or it could be like Van **** painting
Which gives me the blues.
I am gathering eggs and bunnies,
I am screaming from pain.
Easter is never sunny.
It always calls for rain.
Easter gives me a sense of the future,
It fills me with hope, makes me sway.
It dissolves old scars and sutures.
Like a pill it takes pain away.

Hemingway gave me Paris
its streets, odors, and shops.
my despair, do not crush the crops
do not knock on the doors of the parish
we will be cursed by the priest.
You go west while I walk East
There's a harmonica playing somewhere
like a tune of my Homeland's scream,
the same alcoholic is drinking around the corner--
everything resembles a dream
everything brings you closer to me,
yet everything makes you distant
There is no money, which means there is no need
There is no money, there is no ****.
Montmartre has its atmosphere.
Even a tower reminds a sphere
We are alive we are looking for sightseeing
One guy looks French but has a black eye
One guy looks happy but he has been sinning
A warm scarf around a bare neck,
And fedora on a shaky head
who said that it is worse in a foreign country?
Who said Paris is far?
Hemingway, you and I are related--
yet we are a century apart
I buy pictures and books
I catch curses and looks
This holiday is always with me
We belong to each other.
My Paris--I'm yours--you're mine
You are a familiar lover.
You live, you hurt, you are confused...
Hemingway gave me Paris….
But it seems used...