You are the pure soul of 5 year old girl
awed by the infinity of the starry sky.
You are the poetry that I humbly try to translate into words.
The scent of your neck intoxicating my senses,
The bad girl tempting one to sin the sweetest sin of all.
The magic number of our passion, old Chinese symbol that finally
reveals its truth.
Sweet flirt and ***** thoughts,
Eyes and eyelashes,
The fear of my fears.
A forest baby doe scared and confused
in the jungle noise of animal screams,
The idol in my dreams
 
 
My thoughts are like butterflies landing on your *******, your neck, your back, fluttering up and settling on the bottom of your tattoo, crawling below…
the texture of your soft skin and the hairs on your legs standing on their end.  
 
You are the Flamenco music that I can’t listen to anymore, the guttural songs linking us to our primal ancestors, drums and clapping like the whole world applauding for you and me.
The love chart that tells it all.
 
 
The day you held my hand, in front of fifteen hundred people,
And the most beautiful scene,
alone in the cinema stall, touching an irresistible image imprinted in your mind.
 
Transparent lies that make me smile,
temptations away, the love that we seek where we can’t find it – sweet irony of life.
 
You are the punishment you beg for being a bad girl,
Your risks, masochistic game that makes you feel alive,
a life feeling like running fingers through hot coals.
 
Your unrestrained dialogue with your sub-conscious,
painful and rich,
open window into your soul for the magician to read it.
 
The power outside me and you that has connected loose threads of our hearts, the Yin and Yang clashing and meshing like two birds becoming one.
You, wild beast unafraid to devour yourself and your pray at the same time, fearless, insane, addictive.
 
The dream of holding hands. 
 
February 2, 2013

I’m headaching the steps of the downward escalator, upward,
Little Sisyphus carrying a bicycle on my back,
Wheels spinning purposelessly in opposite directions,
Sideways hourglass.

I’m an urban cowboy,
Running in a rat wheel,
A test-tube sample
Unknowing of the real purpose of my jog.

Around me I see another wheel,
Man young pushing hard,
And beyond another wheel,
And further three more.
I’m surrounded by infinite number of wheels,
Populated by diligent joggers,
Some quiet, a few trying to slow down,
But all spinning faster,
Like water in a funnel going down the drain,
Inescapable eddy.

My mind is like a chair,
Placed right under my hair,
In the shade,
Wooden legs, paint stained seat,
Back arched in the air, a bit misfit.

I place on it a ragged doll,
Clothes with holes and faded tones,
Somewhat ***** over all.
Pretty face, a broken nose,
Lipstick on the plastic lips
Crimson red with purple lines,
Black mascara shaded eyes.
Neck is tilted to the side
as if she's trying to reproach
All the bad I've done.

Just that very second,
Feelings scream up louder,
Unwanted reaction to casual encounter,
Rude reminder of buried times that I forgot,
And can't for any price recall.

This is a special day,
Doll came out to play,
It normally lays in a box,
Folded and covered in wax,
Behind the dresser in my chest,
Left of the sternum bone,
Another left at second rib,
Number 66, ceramic numbers, brown on green.

Back to my tale. See, that's what I do,
Get lost in details, take detours,
Add sidebars, comment to my comments,
Story in the story,
Emulating Spanish movies,
Or old time Greek play-writes,
Losing readers with non-sense,
When the essence is ripe to reap.

The doll, her name is not essential,
Waits for my action.
See, that's one more weakness
I have in moments of importance:
I lose my courage,
Voice gets soft,
Eyes turn down or to the side,
You know the sort,
Daring, yet too polite.

Let's return to what we're talking.
Hold hour breath and stop the mocking,
I attempt to do some taking,
To the doll I mean, no joking,
But alas, there's  no responding,
To my voice.

The echo of my thoughts returns,
The words are changed,
Answer morphed into a question,
Questions left unanswered.

Perhaps a whisper might be good.
And I approach the chair,
Lean close to her ear.
I push aside a lock of hair,
Blond-gray, but a little coarse, of course
No brush has run it's fingers through it in recent days.

"Comment ca va? Tu est bien?"
I wait a second, and I ask again:
"Comment ca va? Tu est bien?"
Was that a blink? A flinch?
Or is my imagination playing another trick?

Perhaps she's shy, plays hard to get,
Or simply hard of hearing, or asleep,
What else could it be, perhaps
A shade of ...
Oh wait, I see it now,
a letter on blue paper she's holding in her hands,
Addressed to me in cursive letters, using only vowels,
Like musical Morse code, a song unsung, and un-composed.

To comprehend you have to stand,
Recite it loud from end to start,
The only way to find its code,
Revealed as is declaimed.
And only once to understand,
The meaning lost the second try,
As every second happens only once.

It said:
"iuei eo eo, auoia eou euia'a eo."
That was all, oh..one more thing,
Scribbled right below these words,
signature in faded ink,
hard to see, easy to miss,
Only consonant on page,
Just an x,
Lonely symbol for a kiss,
Contemplation of the cross,
Meeting of the souls
At some distant instance in the past.

I was puzzled as I'm sure you are,
But elated by a feeling strange,
strong, but hard to comprehend,
Drawn by her mysterious note,
And emboldened by my heart,
Small thought first then large desire in my heart took hold,
Like a flower made of gold,
Like a bird that wants to fly,
Unrestrained and bold.

And I did it, Quick and nifty,
Leaned to steal the kiss she'd promised, but.... I'm sneaky:
As my lips were almost there,
Inches from her lips,
fraction of last second,
I pretend to hear sound of chimes,
Right outside, on forehead's patio.
So my eyes are turned right leftward,
can't recall or left to rightward,
And instead of lips on smackers......
Land my check on cheek as feathers,
Soft and accidental meeting,
So she takes no harm, that's better.
And that's all.

After this, I closed the chapter,
as the time had passed unnoticed,
I was getting claustrophobic,
And a little late for supper.
Dear Jane gets grabbed by tresses,
Body folded, nose on tummy presses,
Wooden box is opened
ready to accommodate her body,
much like baby coffin, dark but comfy.
Closed the box and dropped it
Right at said  address,  as you expected,
number 66, to left of sternum.

After that, I made my exit,
Wooden chair right as we found it,
Empty seat but warm imprint,
Sign of personal encounter,
Ephemeral transformation,
Some poetic decoration,
Of subconscious evocation.

May 1, 3, and 7, 2013

This branch, this life, the tongue to taste
the bitter of the pinecones.  Best  
to request permission for my heart to skip a beat,
dare me in February from here to west.

Woodstove fire - ash and flying ambers -
dries the musty grain of cedar essence.
Dancing smoked perfume is rising
Slowly - an inverted lava river.
Its sharp soft teeth the alphabet dismantle
back-taking life to its primordial matter
as history became the final institution.
Why did the idol have to burn, its thorns devoured,
Knotty eyes of wood in mind imprinted -
starry firmament on my sub-conscious?

Goose bumps on your legs, muted thyroid
Dulled emotions to suppress memories of the abuse,
And yet, your spirit explodes!

Under the curtain you are an open book
Red letters wanting to be read, and then…
The fear slams the covers shut.

Tired avatar,
both liberated shell and mirror of inner shadows
covered by a black cloth.

Surreal midnight dinner,
Like high fever hallucination,
Dry food,
Dead couples staring at each other,
And a milkshake.

The plus and minus collide,
Keep spinning out of control
Until the curse stops it….
Your eyes betray your lying lips.

Feline face, furrowed eyebrows
Forehead Blackfoot square,
Pictures of the shaggy hair,
Are you just a face in the deck of cards
brought to life by my imagination?

The dealer makes it real:
First tears, then the joker fear.
Bows bounce in my imagination
There’s no space between art and life creation
From silence we can generate vibration,
Of the heart.

Winter! Make new words from frozen branches,
Needle’s eyes and rusty latches,
Old wood fires, five fiddle scratches.

White stars shiver, clenched teeth chatter,
One lost beat served on a platter.

Say the word “Mehabahigher,”
Pound the riddled universe with fire,
Peel the wisdom of the planets,
Mash them well, wrap them in flowers,
Keep eyes open for five hours,
add some saffron, sprinkle stardust,
Twenty-two acacia petals,
Icy bones, and one desire.

Priests decipher unknown language,
In the attic burn the nonsense,
Then they dance and drink the ritual
Of rebirth of life from nothing.

You have to tell your story,
Turn the page and write it down,
Use blood, ink, chalk,
Smoke signals, Morse code, or sign language,
Telepathy or music,
The touch of skin on skin or poetry,
Or simply water calligraphed on a sidewalk,
letters drying as you write them,
But just write, for you will lose your stories,
forgotten like the collective experience of your parents,
Dulled like stones in an old Jewish cemetery,
Sunken under the weight of today.

That day was painful, more painful than the night before,
but liberating.
I used the smoke, three words, the cross,
to make a ritual used to cleanse the air,
to slide my mind into a trance.
The week that followed brought the numbing, dullness,
A revelation of the other side of truth.

It was ten days before I purged her from my heart,
But only hours before my thoughts came back to her,
Again and one more time.

It helped that we were distanced,
Space forced by the intensity of feelings,
The lull to balance the intensity of all.

Why did she write me back? Is it is game? Or is it what I think it is?
That subtle poem that she wrote,
Brought back emotions that I thought I had renounced.
I sense her transformation, her journey has just started,
The pride I feel for being part of it makes me appreciate it all,
painful and enthralling all in one.

I know it: she tried it too, but she could not avoid
The thoughts of me returning to her dreams again,
She's half strong woman, half a dreamer,
half kitten and the other roaring tigress.
Yet she refuses to acknowledge that that she cannot escape.
It is not me she is afraid to take, it's what's in her.
And she loves me, as I loved her.

I'm  different. It was known,
but yesterday it was understood.
This is why:

On Mondays I ask the questions that have no answer,
and my answers have no question.
Around noon I search for the space between orange and green,
then I listen for the songs between tomorrow and the future.
At 11:11 PM I try to choose between the bittersweet perfume of her sweat
and the scent of the magnolia flower in your hair.

I measure time by counting the blinks of my eyelids,
The wings of my thoughts fluttering without a purpose.
I'm dollar wise and penny foolish.
I give to all and yet I'm selfish.

In my head my poetry sounds like a cracked guitar,
and my music like a breeze rustling through the cherry flowers in May.
I close my eyes to see the world's beauty
and the pain makes me rejoice the eternal truth of life.
I gamble with my feelings and I'm cold to all.  
I see myself in all my friends and hate human condition,
but love the road I'm  given by blind luck.

Crossing a bridge I always pray for safety
but I slalom between my inner dragons,
crashing every once in a while,
scars visible on my dried knees,
tears frozen in time and space.

One rainy day, on the old barge on the wide river,
My left foot slipped on my autistic realm
and I  stomped my right foot on my genius
(if telling the future qualifies as a special gift).
My big toe said:
"you toad, where did you learn to dance, 'cause you are gnarly good."
I ignored the voice,
but that's when I had the first sign of it,
Of my strangeness.