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...

My dad writes about villages, hamlets, and hay
What else can he write about? The light of the day?
My father wears linen suits
my father pursues
his poetry style.
His stye in the eye
his pie in the sky
but why, father, why?
No one is looking for questions
and answers are blind
I keep reading my Hamlet
And I fall behind.

Us--those
Who don't have their vision
who do not possess the point of view
it's all we do have-- de ja vu
We do not comprehend
we do not walk away
we just keep on like robots
till head hits the hay
television is a blessing
yet it's a curse
though most people, alas
try to think in reverse

Everything is an illusion
The baby birds live on my balcony
I sleep there too--my confusion
I read Julio Cortazar
I shop at local Bazar
I dress at the second hand store I drink
in the park
Nothing can be more pretentious
but I fully embark
my emptiness, my fullness and my despair
I sleep on the coach, and I sleep on the chair.
I read many books and I know many words
nothing can be more sinful than serving two gods
Yes, I am so unusual but I am boring too
The Immortalist is in my purse
He is my king Tutahkhamun for the night
he is my curse
my interplanet flight
I drink *****. I am turning hands,
and I am burning my gods.
I am burning my guts.
I am making fans
Nothing can be more pretentious than
to die alone
Sunday Minsk, and despair
and I sleep alone...in the chair...

She arched her eyebrow,
bit her lip
and got that open skirt slit
she loved that lens. it loved her back
But fame like life. It fades to black.
And maybe fame finds its demise
but real talent never dies.

I am writing you,
Whoever it may concern,
My traitor, my murderer, go on…
Write those words of Lethe
Dead rivers are cruel but do not last
I am dying slowly without you
But with you I am dying fast.
Some people buy tickets to Rica
Some people climb Everest
Some people burn sage and do Wicca
Some people put feelings to rest.

People were scared of udagan
she talked to the birds they talked back
people cannot see and despise those who can
she cooked plantains and drank brack
She was a modern shaman
Her lips were catching morning dew
she lived on river Nyoman
she talked to the animals
drank birch tree brew
walked the trails
didn't trim nails
her spirit animal was a grey fox
and some people said she was a hoax
Some called her old but oh udagan
she did not care her life just began.
She was just fasting and was thin and pale
she knew  her age was nothing on the Universe scale.