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

on a wild coast of melancholy

and poetic catabolism

wondering in your own shell

when the muse is journeying

to forbidden places

and the secrets hid deep in the clouds

keeping eyelashes like sneaky foxes

out of what has been lost

and out of what has been found

hot sun is freezing your poetry

in lost beams oysters marvel

at their own shines

until pearls are to be found

you keep on wondering

From malleable clay,
with his own hands
the potter made a bowl,

Only one day the bowl broke.

What would you do?
                             if you were the potter?

Would you consider repairing it?

Would you throw it away?

Would you repair it, but also elevate it to a
whole new level of appreciation?

a man wanted to pass through me, and i was sleeping as if i had left the present world, i was carried so deeply away, and i saw his eyes,
he had small black eyes, elongated like two cheetahs,
like a willow that is just beginning to turn green it bent towards me
he left his hand on my left shoulder as if it were water,
he touched me gently as you would touch a drunken man who had fallen into a ditch and for fear of not scaring his death or the ditch, for fear of not disturbing, you would touch him with a kind of respect, you would shake him gently, gently, with love-in-the-eyes you would rock him and rock him as if you were rocking a baby in a cradle of bread like in the old days
with the astonishment of the mortal to whom the stars are not so well arranged, you stop stiffly as if by this pretty treatment, even so dead, you would still want to take something from him,
stiff as a mummy with two coins on the eyes, you look at him, from that moment you are the gambler,
but
as i was telling you, last night a man came to pass through me and i was deeply asleep, after which like a fool i turned to the other side and took him by the hand to do the rolling, like a  roll of fabric we rolled, we kept rolling ...
and now he also has his  night like mine where he sleeps deeply deeply away
like forgetting
until he reaches the other side...

Let love be the  blowing wind,

Let love be the crying rain,
Screaming crow,

Eyes to eyes, lips to lips,
Skin to skin,
Life dreams Life, and Love dreams Love,

God dreams God,

Only flowers siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing,

Leeet looove beee the  blooowing wiiind,
Leeet looove beee the cryyyying raaain,
Leeet looove beee the screeeaming crooowww,


While the sun is shining bright,
Shining only for the night,

Leeet looove beee the  blooowing wiiind,
Leeet looove beee the cryyyying raaain,
Leeet looove beee the screeeaming crooowww,

i felt you'd come back,
there's no other way
I know her, she likes to cool off in the soft white snow,

with the hand on my heart, I swear,
at the new moon, you are my only lover,
i see her in your lips, as sharp as  fantasy swords,
in them, you have me sweet like blood,

why wait for cactus arms to grow,
and the next flowers to bloom,
  cut the juicy, thorny fruit, red pulp,
we won't wait for the pollination,
days are made for farmers, not  lovers,
how bright, you write, that want to kiss my photo,
but what a photo is? my love, what? if not just paper,
let's bloom in less than twenty-four hours,
let's make them all, all saguaro flowers, die from jealousy and envy,
with hate and madness to **** the desert,

i'll come at night, disguised (as a mexicano bat)
let's make the night our heaven
and the new moon, a snowflake that falls in your olive eyes

(although, once i loved a man with wolf eyes)

Letter to my Deer
Thunder Bay, On
13th of June, 2013

My Dear,

I have been thinking for a long time about writing this letter to you. Only, every time I enter the writing room I feel how words abandon me into the hands of past memories. I feel deserted in front of still uncoated paper, and titanium pen waiting and waiting for the battle of my feelings.

I hope you understand and forgive me!
Since I left, much has been changed in my life.

Today,
I sit here in silence and wonder if it will rain.
The sunlight scattered in all directions
and clouds piled up covering the sky with a foggy blanket.

I sit quietly here
and watch how vapours are competing on my pale skin
for the arid spot to get in.

I hope it will start raining soon,
As it has been dry and hot since the new moon.

You know I always delighted in
touching fresh black soil with my eager hands
moving through its richness and leaf blades.

If aunty Larisa didn’t tell you,
I let you know, I moved inland and planted a garth.
I work hard from morning till night
being fond of every little progress,
at sunrise, I put up my sleeves,
spray the roses, and pull the weeds,
sensing the presence of a lost wind,
and watching how the greenwood
guards as an unnoticed hero.
It is soothing and comforting.

I even had a dream one night,
How the garden was in full bloom
waiting for you to come soon,
You were driven by grace
coming from a forest’s place,
the sun showed its shiny teeth,
and my heart froze when thee
gently leaned and smelled the rose,
as if you didn’t want to steal forest’s piece,
selflessly giving all of your attention
to the invisible fragrance.

Still in my dream,
Next spring I planted some chiefs,

I hope to hear from you soon,
My Deer,

The Gardener

the rain is
nostalgic
romantic, and
pretty
like a sad muze,
the best day for poetry to spring, and
breathe fresh air,
somehow,
we,
people, besides whining and complaining about the ugly weather, still get quieter without noticing
that rain, like a peacemaker, is trying hard to make us stop and surrender to life as everything around us
does
make peace on earth as the sky is crying

I read Zygmunt Bauman, but I think of the Aeneid and
                                                                  the seven years of wandering, and
the Nashua river that keeps flowing beside me, and the storm from last night, and
the tree blown down, which is still on the ground, lying  as if it was tired and went to sleep,
the only difference now is that the roots stand with their mouth opened up speaking with the clouds,
                                waiting for the rain, waiting for the night,
begging

Are
Brutal
Harsh  
And juicy-tender,  like
Punched oranges
Lovers
Are,
The Lambs,
The Warriors, of this world,
Lovers
Are,
The impossible, cruel people,
Because you can't stop them,
You can't help them,

You just can't,

man, man

you search yourself and you search  yourself for life
the same as when macaca is searching for lice:

- with the monkey sister you nibble on your belly
- with the monkey brother you nibble on your back

- the monkey god
after getting tired of stealing (from tourists):
slippers, sunglasses, bags
lipsticks, thong *******
it goes up on your head
to lice you a little bit more
to tickle your scruff

you're looking for her
but she's right there
where else to be
when carried away by the waves
in white snow
discovering
the wind

only you know, humble and hungry dog
the insatiable as you do expect
to lick her legs, and
only you know
that
you promised her round two
(when you already gave it all in round one)

oh, man, man

you are looking, and looking for yourself

macaca shakes its hand: - if you have nothing better to do

look




. |

Eyes lost
in waiting,
Silently
looking in vain,
Despite it,
He kept them
widely opened,
Carefully,
Silently,
He put it away
on the old
wood table.

Carefully,
refolding
his courage
lifting up
ferrous arms
stripping
Carefully,
a tinny piece,
rolling himself
in still noise
a cigarette of
Powerful
low-graded
rustika,
a variety of
great purge
hunger
killing
good reason,
one pack a day
helped.

It helped survive
the cold,
and everyday
toil when
soldiers and ants
starved,
Makhorka,
insecticide
of freedom.

Silently,
looking in vain,
Despite it,
He kept them
widely opened,
Carefully,
Silently.

i will see you, my love
soon
i will see you in a windless country, in a thoughtless world,
with swords, we”ll cut off all roads in the air, from the earth
with our eyes, we”ll dress them up  in feathers of rio abre-alas,
open wings
one day soon, in the valley on the farm
seduced by the dry edge of the grass
crushed under the earth furrow we”ll forget about ourselves,
we”ll fall like a snow belt in the winter, slow, slow,
lazy to get lost in goosebumps, yellow,
create and raw, soon
the sun will call us to a world where love is truly blind
and deaf,
and mute,
and putrefied like an old woman,
older than stone,  birds, air
water
red angels, maybe one day soon
soon
our love will be easy,
so eeeeeeeasy
as easy as blue cheese mold on the tongue,
like a blues that is digging our thirst at night
like a lip gloss broken with a pointed nose,
warm, soft *******, sweet steam resting on the needles of time
caressed by two strands asleep in the stillness of white *******,
milk carved in palm lines,
hungry orphans,
beggars built in the breath of your chest, we will die
we will die, one day soon
and, you”ll come again with your forehead up, your swaying walk,
oh, your swaying walk, no eyes, no air
it will be easy to bite your lips
touch your hard beard
in a distant world where there are no storms
no thoughts
one day soon, one day
maybe

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.

You be the sea
I’ll be the stone
Waiting and waiting
On your seashore
To eternity and beyond
Miracles happen
Miracles happen

Miracles always Happen!

You be the wave
I’ll be your wind
Caring and caring
Your waves in the sand
To eternity and beyond
Miracles happen
Miracles happen

Miracles always Happen!

You be the splash
I’ll be the waiting
You be the kiss
I’ll be the fading
Miracles happen
Miracles happen

To eternity and beyond
Miracles always Happen!

You be the tears
I’ll be your salt
You be ’seabed
I’ll be your heaven
Miracles happen
Miracles happen

To eternity and beyond
Miracles always Happen!

You be the darkness
I’ll be your ridge
Flying abyss
Meeting sunlight
To eternity and beyond
Miracles happen
Miracles happen

Miracles always Happen!

warm sun  
burning my lips, cheeks, shoulders, *******,
skin
i opened my eyes and saw how we lost one of our lives -
all that remained was thirst until  our lips cracked,  and
we snacked the lives that remained unstolen.

as I go up and down the stairs,
the rain stops abruptly as if struck by lightning,
the breath of spring deflowers my lungs,
I see two eyes bathing in the outpouring of sounds,
the chirping of birds snatches my mind,
pulls it on a string,
- the thought
sits on the lilac leaves,

I cling to everything that gets in my way,
I feel like then
when I was drowning in the pond at the far end of the village
hanging from a willow branch
at the bottom of the water, I hear your voice,
you were whispering:
"breathe, breathe, move your hands
move your legs,
it will come, it will come "

with the tightness of my heart, I take my head out of the water,
expire water,
for the rest of my life, I stay away from thirst,

at times

I prefer to be a sauerkraut
or dilute like a mercaptan
which passes through its own volume of air,
raising its value to an acceptable limit,

I search,
I give myself time,

I end up in a world of smells,
lichen, moss scent the forest
without losing patience
or weight,
lazy molecules (arouse my envy),
- little magicians on stones,
faithful masters of the forest boulders,
a carpet of green moss
I will be,
without blood in the veins,
without flowers,

today I will be
a moss that absorbs all the moisture from the rain
until I get over my own invisibility.

I am thinking to invite you for a cup of tea

      i  imagine how
                            slow
                                    the teapot will boil
                                                              on the stove

the steam will colonize the air in the room ~
                                                          conquer the silent walls

politely
          we’ll sit near the window at the little oak table
will
    support our elbows,
                                    hands ~  the chins,
    face-to-face,
                          like a frozen perfume
                                                            in the air,
reading into each other's eyes
                                                  ~ the dreams

after,
        watching how the leaves are falling
                                                                as if fainting

My love,
it might seem strange our encounter, and
the words that move the air like an earthquake, from north to south,
                                                          ­                              south to north,
bathing the stars,
and the stars aligning the sounds.


I will tell you more about Snow Town, but you tell me about your heart,
                                                          ­                dreaming of going up north,
where saddened icebergs are melting in the eyes of the ignorant:
- can you hear how hungry white bears are screaming for help,
drowning with their babies.

Do not cry, my love, we still have the old mail post box,
monarch butterflies are bringing me letters from you,
the owls are watching every move
and the turtles
                          keep moving for hundreds of years
                                                           ­   and never get tired.

We are so lucky, my love, so fortunate,
what else we can do if we are made for love, like butterflies.

Tell me, that no land can be more ready, dry-cold-hot
                                than the pole-north & chihuahua desert,
two lovers that only can dream of ice shadows, and the fantom of Georgia O'Keeffe, our mother, still, painting roads in the snow for the blind one,
calling them home.

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.

it's sad. but happy.
lonely. but not the only one,
a spark of calmness. but a blister of days.
light waiting for the ****** night.
the joy of. what also grows life. to be meaningless.

~
One sunny afternoon                                        
I set my tent in the jungle,
and broke every rule walking alone to find a sip of fresh water.     
~
I studied everything I could about big creatures that live in the jungle. I was convinced that there are no lions and hyenas, ...
when all of a sadden I could not step on the ground.      
~                              
Paralyzing pain was numbing my right leg.
~
I was bitten by a venomous creature.
~
I immediately knew that I’ll die
suffocating.
~
The fear helped me deepen my breath, with no hope for survival ...
~
Big creatures have been given power, while minuscule one have been gifted with venom and poison to protect themselves.

Never underestimate a minuscule creature, ...

-  it was as if we were dressed in shmattes,
hungry and broken,
sometimes from pain, other times from joy,
so hungry
that we began to must each other's blood
scratching our tongues with tufts of straw,
as if we cleaned our impenetrable
like you would  clean the blackburn from the bottom of a shepherd's cauldron,

- we were also surrounded by fire pits,
the tongues of the flames touched you as if they tasted pink salt,
as sheep do it in the winter,
I could see haystacks burning in your eyes,
people lined up with buckets of water
they handed the buckets from hand to hand to  extinguish the fire,
some white birds were drinking the blood from  your lips,

- then the tongues of fire fled from the waters and harnessed  my eyes
they whipped at them,
shouts, screams, cries, children's laughter,
whinny horses, spreading sounds
until we woke up built-in two shores that were sinking at the bottom of the water.

Put me under the spell of maur night,
Let me sip from the drinks of celestial gods,
Lighten me on a sky-bed of heavenly stars, When receiving  the offerings of nocturnalight.

Cover my body with holy rays, songs of praise, Adoring dreams dressed in golden sheepskin, Happily grazing on faith’s meadow spreading
The noble fragrance of sweet-bitter laurel.

Let me sleep in nocturnal goodness tonight.
Let me sleep in nocturnal goodness ...
Let me sleep ...
Sleep ...
Sip ...
S ...

Only me,
looking at the blue sky,
and the blue looking at me,
No doubts,

Only me,
lying on lavish grass and breathing
the smell of wet earth after rain,  
No doubts,

Only me,
and my sweet pain reflecting
into each other’s eyes,
No doubts,

Only me,
and you kissing the
droplets of hidden desire,
No doubts,

I get stuck too,
because
sometimes
I wonder
what to say
when I
myself have not finished my waiting,
my obsessions, my doubt, ...
and when I finish it,
how will I be able to advise you?

How I can be sure?

When, still, all my obsessions
and commitments
go hand in hand.

I don't know,

Honestly,

Sometimes,

If these words are not superfluous,
Forgive me for announcing you
That you have your own life,
Wait for it!
As she waited for you …

Spreads sun atoms all over the place,
It feels like the planet will soon stop moving.
The wind, like a baby, is playing
                      -  is building staircases from leaves,
It spins them around, then rests.
Trows seeds in the air: oak nuts, mushrooms
and tears,
                and, like fainted lovers in the night,
Waits for a harvest of snowflakes

O,mega love on the spot,
I loved it in school,
and I loved it later        
down on the scholastic path.

When everyone in the class adored alpha
I devoted my time to the latest, called by some the ultimate limit and by others
the resistance sign.

The first on the moon
Watch - ing NASA
And keeping the time of
Royal Forces Flying,
When worn by code
007 in “no time to die”

O, mega
Resistance sign,
Was that a mistake
In the Greek alphabet,

Are you always talking to me in your own language,
the universe always whirred back to me using you?

fixed
dreaming eyes
heading towards long iland.

the sitting lady:- i like your shoes, they must be comfortable.
the standing lady:- they are.
how about yours?
& looks down at the lady with the pink shoes.

- mine sweat, &smell like strawberries.

the lady with the pink crocs takes photos of other people's shoes,
suddenly
jumps like bitten by a snake
screaming
- open the door, open the door,
i go the other way.

penn station

walking out

the crowd
&skyscrapers
&the heat
advertising lights

all hit us straight in the face

everyone seems to be easy-busy
&very nice

exited like rabbits
  enjoying the new new york era:

rickshaw bikers are welcoming us

Rockefeller Centre do you have a garbage can,
do you have an electric charger
Rockefeller Centre do you have water,
Rockefeller Centre do you have a happy life???

How do you know that you take the best way when there are so many ways of being in this world of eternal music, poetry and mystery unveiling the dance of the swans and the hardship of the smith.

How do you know that you wake up for your day and not somebody else’s day and you wear your body, and carry your thoughts on your shoulders, through the mountains and hills, until you wish to reach some destination and rest down the load of the day?

Do you ask what road to walk?
when there are so many forest roads to take, how do you know, when others drive on highways, that promise to reach sooner and faster at any visioned destination.

Do you believe in destination, in a beginning and in an end, and it is not imagination creating the wholeness that already exists and you move to through it at inconceivable speed.

How do you know you do your duty and not somebody else’s duty is taken away by advice, surprise, need or greed,

How do you know that you are writing your own poem, and not somebody else’s poem founds it’s own way of touching your heart, words and mind, despite your mother’s imagery, words come to you as wizards disguised in freedom and intimacy begging your ink waking the spirit of lovers, nations or angels sleeping in sun’s rays?

How do you know that you wear your
own skin and not somebody else's skin, God’s garment for earthy flesh that swims in waters and blood on one side and touched by mountains on the other, that never can be washed and shaped like a river wish, nor tore apart and killed with your own hands as it belongs to its Creator, while you keep believing owning it as a piece of iron armour, God’s trust embodied in skin shining light back. Tell me human of ignorance and disguise, tell me, tell me,
What would you do if you would know that your skin is not your own skin?
Would you be happy, or disappointed?

How do you know your lover is your soulmate and not somebody else's soulmate
when there are so many hungry souls in this world starving and craving for the same soul and for that same love, day and night, salty tears falling on hope’s feathers
dreaming of a reunion.

Do you believe in destination, in a beginning and in an end, and it is not imagination creating the wholeness that already exists and you move through it at inconceivable speed.

How do you know what road to walk
when there are so many forest roads to take when others drive on highways, that promise to take them sooner and faster at any visioned destination.

How do you know that your dream is your own dream and not somebody else's dream at night’s taking shape of bridges, stairs to
rainbows and brides, fairies flying over rivers of kisses at the black sea, embracing lovers sleeping in fields of yellow flowers.

Oh, Life are you the one, or are you the many? How do you know?

In the field of unknown light,
Vibrates your pure breath,
Your will always shines in the hearts,
You, only you fill the earth with dreams,
Tender fire in the care of humility,

Hills, valleys and dew in words
The rain of illusions and desire
You fill us in the emptiness of the night,
You, clear breath, get us drunk
With your unearthly existence,

Forest with flowers full of nectar,
Kneeling poet”s shadow in his dream,
A divine mother who gives us zeal for life,
You are not a single gust of wind,
In your breath, the poet finds the light,

You open our eyes to the grace of life,
Your forehead is a starless sky,
Blue sky planted in meekness,
You, vitreous humor, the falling star
In the dreamy ocean of fresh breath.

you don't need to be with someone at that moment

it's  intimate

too intimate

maybe

a little breeze will be all you”ll need

like a kiss on your chin

or forehead

I  would prefer calm rain

as if

someone still will want to cry for me like in the old days

like when people were dressing up in black
caring neatly folded handkerchiefs

a dream

lost in thought
chin dropped to chest
clumsily will take it out
to shed a tear

then
bent like a willow

will leave


but

if the sunrise

the sunrise will come down with me
when the birds pour forth their song
and the thick grass breathes the sleep of first lovers

or

maybe

late rains will come on their own
in the winged world will come
for the thirsty  one

bodies - fisher nests
- let the cutch go

the reality
of papet figurines
has collapsed
at the most invisible touch

her skin, cast ointment:
prepare me for death, woman,
my darling, you fall
slowly
as a flake fall in my white hands,
do not rush,
come with the torch  and let's light the fountains,
release your aroma slowly,
soothing kindles, fire in the silky miter,
darkness is your cure, sweetness,
i will stay with you from the beginning to the end,
pour yourself into the rings of the hungry belly,
and when the fight between the angels happens,
i will give you  the mana from heaven,
only in her skin do angels speak,
only she knows the language of angels.

Burned by the sun,
Waiting,
In the middle of the day,
Waiting,
Nowhere to go,
It has been dry for a while
and I pray “Rainy rain
fall on me, and fall on him,
fall, fall, fall ... if not
I’ll be the rain,
and he'll be the earth,
falling into each other secrets”

I’ll be his fresh rainfall,
His clime and his
Every season to come,
when burned by the sun,
earthy earth,
sip me all
when runoff on
sharp-bright
crispy skin.

Drink me,
deeper, and deeper
into his colourful roots
where dryness cheers
humusy kisses,
shower his face with
tender driblets of
sweet promises and
roses will never fade away
on his chest, 
in the midday,

Burn the rain down where the secrets are,
where the trees and large bushes survive,
and high winds have only one way.

I’ll take rainy droplets away
and fall over again when his
Burned by the sun,
Waiting in the middle of the day,
Nowhere to go,
But hiding in the rain when
Burned by the sun.

Rain is washing its tears
from your longing promises
with the spray of the sea
vanishing on ***** winds.

Rain is washing its tears
from your salty kisses
with cuddly shadowy trees
and thirsty green leaves.

Rain is washing its tears
from your sweet words
with poetic unvoiced verses
drunken by unknown love.

Rain is washing its tears
from your burning pain
with the rays of the sun
drops’smile in flowers beds.

the blanket hugs Earth's chest, and
steps move holding a bouquet 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?

as you want

non-existence,
yours,
beautiful/old/beautiful/ugly/young/ death woman/
madam -
it does not make any difference,
It doesn”t

tell me what you want, how you want,
- if it makes you feel good
make me the 13th day of the month, year, century,
i know, this year you weren't unlucky enough
tell me how you want: - morbid, bone marrow disease,
cold-lipped monastery,
the wanderer of wandering poems,
the beloved from the workshop, - considered
unsatisfactory,

steal everything you want: questions, thoughts,
eyes, lips, sleep,
- you can be speechless,
consider yourself the last man on earth,
pretend that you do not exist, -

you will not succeed,


for me you are

you

are

the sonnet of a sublime dream,

by the way, - beautifully sublime,

i feel at ease

i will shout many times

i will scream

Sublime! (until i get tired)

you

anyway,

tell me how you want, what you want,

you will not succeed

you will not push me away like you are used to

april,
full pink moon,
it snowed yesterday, and still today
many
many clouds of light, like a

statue

i wonder if the light remembers itself,
if the moon knows when it's called  (by nasa) the supermoon  or the pale moon,
when it brings frost, rain,
*******,
ovulation
if it takes any credits,

last week at the corner of my house the storm ripped apart half a tree,
does it remember where?
does it remember the putrefied roots, dry branches blown by the wind,
does it remember the one that still fights,

i look out the window,

the cat jumps from branch to branch, plays with the blue jays,
who memorizes who? initially, it seems, that the cat is provoking the birds,
squatting on a thicker branch awaits the next move,
i have my moments too,
i understand, the truth never barks,
and does not caress you like a kind mother
it also doesn't  kiss you where you want to be kissed

for thousands of years,

it is rumored that many know it, but
the raw reality is that truth is autistic,
the gifted child
genuinely likes the same food, the same road, the same coat,  color,
stops at the red pass when is green, it simply knows what is right,
like a donkey clings to the same people,
roars at the same gate,

it is the only one equipped with the kick under the belt,
it  hits the careless on the scruff,
the rest on the forehead, in the belly,
it hits with a  fist,  feet,  or sledgehammer, like a rumble of  thunder,  a bomb,
it bites by the ear, by the nose,
it's mike tyson,  the greatest puncher of all time,

despite it all

net theater, all kinds of reinvented creatures, weird characters talking about the belt,
they want to abort it and  flutter it on the (right) cheek of jeofrrey de peyrac,
more than likely, to cover the cracks in the palace of culture (the experts
explaining: it is an adaptation response to fresh rehabilitation),

no joke

the truth has nothing to do with adaptation, those in  trend, the saviors of the world,
a boomerang doesn't know about smart people, bullies, or others…

a boomerang is a boomerang

try to make a bow from a boomerang, or a parachute
and you'll have princess diana's headache on her  wedding day; migraine sweet migraine
cancer, brain tumors,
titmouse constipation, broken teeth on TV,
viol in viol, - in,

i don't want to write about what I have  in mind,
i know nothing (tell yourself: big deal), and
i don't want to wash my brain with your memorized truth

*
reality is much harsher than a halloween decorated pumpkin,
when memory mocks you
every morning you wake up smaller and smaller
a shrimp,
stretching back and forth like tasteless chewing gum
promising
hailstones solidified between tangible and inaccessible
free play up and down the column
abandoned (does not mean we are free from mistakes, and responsibilities)
whether we happen or not, all that is not only ours
here or there we are bubble-to-bubble
missing
the freedom with respect to destiny
...
but how about the parrot?
when the truth happens like the full moon, live
în pink flesh
once a month
ones a year,
per century,
once in the millennium
...

to dig and dig,  to trace  endless chains of causes and effects,
to dig and dig seems as foolish as trying to build a castle from sand and hope that will touch the sky,

Do not stumble or hesitate on your way,
I know you are busy with daily errands,
Hurry from gate to gate,  and from heart to heart,

Hurry and take Sendo-Mairi:
One walking and praying a thousand times,

Thousands walking and praying one time,

Hurry

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

Is not interested in observing
She is doesn’t want to be liked,
She's too young to play ”your way my way”
She doesn't care, she is cool
She sleeps at six o'clock
She dreams when you talk to her
She makes love only at night
She carries the time in her hair
She's great, she's Brilliant! she's out there,
Do you want to see her?
Find her if you can, if not
Love another, if you can

She doesn't have time to close her eyes on you,
Or touch your froggy skin,
She walks alone with the wolves
She kisses with the devils
She swims with the sharks

She is a Night Cat,
Xena, Nichita, Joan Darc,
Swiss Cheese on a white tablecloth
breathing through her own holes
next to a glass of wine
and a hand full of white grapes

She
Doesn’t care

in a world of glitter and tinsel
we are two visions of mori butterflies,
whose larvae eat the darkness of the night
like a white mulberry tree, leaving holes of light
on the forgotten silky roads.

leaving the cotton sky,  
flying and falling at the same time,
and, after, waiting, în silence, waiting,
in your dreams,
melting

the universe
it is
a superb creation
perfect
elegance
majestic

while
in its random reality
one thing is certain:
- it is the worst construction
constructed
ever, who believes
doesn't know-
many constants
of arbitrary coupling
mass ratios
families
and families, and families of useless particles
& dark matter, - chewing gum on a stick

gross fact

the universe exists

pregnant abyss
established chain
a fire that breathes equations
while the truth is looking for its head and tail

certainly

by wandering the mind
hallucinating
it cannot be canceled

- the crime of thoughts
it is not its death