It guards between unseen and understood,
shaped by pain and pleasure, holding
the instrument of artwood in one hand,
success and failure in another,
its significance is never shaped by
knowledge and fame, and
it never pours us rain, it needs
the sensitivity of an artist and
the hands of a craftsman to enter
it's unforeseeable beauty
it never comes too early and
it never comes too late, and if it comes,
it never comes to solve the puzzle,
it only blends the light and darkness,
it guards between unseen and understood,
receiving the elusive soothe, imagination
twisting its ordinary space midway.

I look into the deep earth,
and I have eyes, and I have depth,
I have speed, as I am earth moving through earth from all perspectives, apparently, I think and I know,
but how do I reach there? at Prospect Mira,
I asked auntie Liudmila,
while she was selling sunflowers at
Lyublinsko station, and I was running to catch up my breath beyond the boundaries in which has been conceived, while the worldly murals violate the norms and  “The Idiot” reaches greatness on the Moscow walls silhouettes wrestling on a mortal terrain; his umbra, my umbra. Whose and which, and when? I simplify it down to the breath and keep running. What a rush?

Lean                                                             ­       
Delicate                                                 ­                                                     
“ne plus ultra”                                      
Cooked slow                              
Gastronomically Intelligent        
Unassuming                                              
Gentle ­                                   
Docile
Fashionable                                  
“ne plus ultra”                                          
Ethical         ­                                         
Ecological ...    
...voices rumbling through refined-dining,

Excuse Moi, Mr.Gluttony

Since when is Meat Ethical?
If meat became so Ethical,
Then,
How Ethical You are?

Sheathing your hypocrisy                
and luck of humanity                                
with pompous words,                      
style and fancy clothes,
while you tingling your gustative papillae
with  “le goût friand”, étiquette,
capris and mannerism.
                                                    
You                                                            ­    

Don’t **** the rabbit! so                                                    
the rabbit can **** you in no time, “pooka”
          
Don’t tell                                                  
No one pre-empt you,                            
when asking for healing.

at the first encounter, i thought, that he stole my mother’s tablecloth,
and called it Great while she turned the flour into bread,

after, i thought, what if they were lovers, and shared the same tablecloth
while my father was sweating in his fields, and she was sipping wine from her grapes
when he wrote songs of despair, as they could not have each other,

i shake away my childish thoughts and doubt even more:
- what if they were traders,

trading the tigers, the bread,
the tyrants, the grim teeth,
the wine fields and hard eyes,
the lamb, the onions,
the hunger and the thirst,
the hours of eating the strawberries
and the blossoms on the great tablecloth.

oh, i am childish,
jealous,
curious, and can not stop the thought of stolen tablecloths:
- what if when sad and lonely he put a spell on my mother?
and used her as a tablecloth for those who never loved, or cried,
and those who never turned the flour into bread.

lifeblood carefully unfurling its branches
in the marrow’s guardian cells
connecting with permeable walls
when pressure is looking for an elastic collision and
the steady stream animats the soul
bursting into a state of internal ataraxia

One little hand could not stop the cup from
dropping like a giant on the country wood floor,

“We need a cup factory in this home” I hear the voice of frowning walls

In a fraction of a second, I am the child that breaks the cup.

I want to hide when mother’s voice flows like a honey river
“Leave the child alone, don’t you see that the cup asks for mother’s love”

O,  broken cup filled with mother's love
on the country wood floor.
You loved the child,

“darling take the broom and clean the floor,
when walking no one gets hurt.
Let me know if you do need help”

Her soft voice makes the broom dance and sing, and
the wood floor clean, shining back love to all children that ever broke
the cup,

all we need for lifelong doves is a broken cup
glued with mother's love

you,
gentle beast
touching my skin like King Midas

me,
excavating your iced eyes and
devouring them raw with tenderness
and overindulgence

fresh crumbles fluffing on a graded road
propelled  by the calcified touch of a heel-flipped flesh
looking through the cracked heel,
thank god, floating vapors calm the thirsty flensed skin

going
childlike
and childish
who cares? as
long as
the golden
sun
still rolls on the ground
chasing
how? steps enter my voice
and heart murmur
follows
in quiet
breathing
childlike
wonder

just wondering,
while gravity takes over
pulling
the earth
strongly
into denser
layers
underneath is
happy
the cooler
the hotter
less dense
air
rises
and takes its
place
on top
a phreatic eruption
brings
the juvenile world
to
the surface
Happy,
just wondering

The underworld movement
makes me feel utterly incapable, and grown
feet condense into droplets of freezing blood, as I wait at Dostoevskaya station, where the intimidating marble has a soul of its own.

I Look
into the deep earth and I have eyes and I have depth, and I have speed, as I am earth moving through earth from all perspectives, apparently, I think and I know, but how do I reach there? at Prospect Mira,
I asked auntie Liudmila, while she was selling sunflowers at the Lyublinsko station, and I was running to catch up my breath beyond the boundaries in which has been conceived, while the worldly murals violate the norms and  “The Idiot” reaches greatness on the Moscow walls silhouettes wrestling on a mortal terrain; his umbra, my umbra. Whose and which, and when? I simplify it down to the breath and keep running.
What a rush?

When the geometry of  sombra
seems to have a life of its own on the underworld walls, above the surface arrogance takes shape believing that it is more intelligent than, I who can see the train coming. Uncertainty won’t bother impotence resting on earth’s shoulders, and Sleeping Giant can wait forever for the lost sailor.
What a blessing!

The blanket hugs Earth's chest, and steps move holding bouquets of sunflowers while gazing like a thief, whose big eyes are
rolling on the ground, “don’t you see how steps flow with Parisian prudence, I am brave and happy on top of Your Eiffel.”  When?  
the eyes become wizards of clouds, and
“I”- Rest in wonder.
How Long?

I feel
the burn in my chest,
as the sunny dream chops its edges.
I run “happy” warming up in “ La vita è bella, ”
while the soles of my feet are burning
into the dark earth. Who cares? only
into the dark earth roots grow,
all lilac is still there at the Moscow Metro, while illusion succumbs to temptation running faster and
Harder,
the underworld has a life of its own,
a life of greater depth and purity, while
my eyes touch the cold striking murals, and
the book falls on the
Whisper

Not again,
I thought you settled the matter of
unattainable, while lilac was waiting, on my way, eating the cherry gem with
the spoon touching Earth's lips, and only
auntie Liudmila is content for selling every
sunflower that day her glowing eyes soothe in hypnotizing beauty at the Moscow Subway,
I let it be!