closed door waiting for the cold
pending pending frosts pending
huge waiting behind and ahead waiting
waiting for cold and light of light
from somewhere from earth from
somewhere from the sky and lightning
to be around and heavy rain
so that the sun finally disappeared from
the shoulders and disappeared

every day behind a closed window behind closed doors
knocking knocking me a frosty frosty man
man he tells me about frost and snow everywhere
he already has everything and only we have it all and no
here we sit in the hot hot sun which is not no temperature
absolute nothing too much sun and it's autumn

I know there are ships somewhere and there are islands lost
and I know there is ice there they swim all swim but let's
where are you all from where are the penguins from
where is ice cream where does all this
all this all this bright circle
you walk on the asphalt feet offended you look at the sky
and all already flowing I broke up we are cold we are cold people
we have cold but not often in the eyes but love kills

05.10.18

Robert Frost once talked of taking the ‘road less travelled’.
Well, I didn’t.
When the time came, I blindly went and took the safest road.
A very long path where the pitfalls were plenty.
I stumbled in the bracken. Stymied by the darkness that fell quickly as I ambled along.
The soul bruised, battered and exhausted at every infrequent stop.
It was not apparent then that in this venture there was a bleak dead end ahead.
I plowed on even though something inside was telling me again and again to turn back.
But, slowly, a gleaming light of hope crossed my vista beckoning me home.
I crawled. My strength regained as the light intensified.
Then the end was in sight - the portal was within grasp.
And so, yes, I now take that road less travelled.
Standing tall and proud as I gleefully stride down its glowing thoroughfare.  
Smiling at the diverse and playful changes that cross my pathway.
All told, it’s never too late to trust your instincts and make a difference.
Just ask me.
And Robert Frost.

Quote that black bird for me,
Cause I don’t have the time.
I’m too busy deciding
Whether great snowfalls will end it all
Or ***** of fire this time.

a white coat of frost
covered the spindly grass
near our town's river

Once I thought to myself
that Frost was right,
that free verse was like
playing tennis without a net.

But sometimes reading Bukowski
is like looking into Chapman's Homer
for the first time
and I think of writing
as an organic process
like ***-stained thank you notes
and Spanish bones.

I think I enjoy poetry the most
when I'm not thinking about it at all,
the way the deep sea makes a sound
that can't be heard
but we all see the rain
and feel the cold on our skin.

It's just something that happens
like an ******
or a suicide
or a ******
like weeping in a pillow
when no one is looking.

Where have all the writers gone?
Where are all the poets?
Where is our Sandberg with his easy lines,
our Jeffers with his discontent,
our Frost playing tennis without a net
or with a net it doesn't matter?
Where is the greatness that defines us?
Where is our crying Ginsberg
our Bukowski with his rough blackbirds
and our Cohen of the Modern Miracle
(we're still waiting)?
Where is the voice of the internet age?
It'd better come soon.
Because it's lonely here with no one to read,
no modern sage to turn to
and I wonder how many people today
turn away from their windows
to their keyboards,
like me,
and type this in.

I walk every day like in the desert
I do not know what for
for whom and for what purpose
my existence

I walk every day like in the desert
in search of some answer
in search of some kind of truth
which in fact is not present

I walk every day like in the desert
bright sun beats me
cold of Russian frosts ****
but I'm going and I don't know why


02.04.18