I just sit on the stairs
I gave the entrance ticket
to someone, a few more minutes
The show begins, I already know what story
that will be on display, and I'm bored

I just sat on the stairs
Crowds come cheerfully
coupled with wry lies
I know who they are, but
they pretended not to see me

I just sat on the stairs
in front of a performance house
actually, who lives and what is there
in this house? Is only hope that must be
I bought with a very expensive ticket?

Yesterday I read in the rest of the local newspaper
articles that are far from the headlines
someone wrote a review about
the theater is dim, the actors are getting worse,
and bankrupt show management.

I just sat on the stairs
see people pretending to be happy
buy a ticket with the remaining savings
that should be paid
for health insurance.

GOD said,
"There is no god,"
And I believed
in Him.

WHERE are they who want thousand bottles of wine?
Just a bunch of cowards and clowns went away...

Fake cartographer and some roadside circus guys

The restraurant's waitress asked them to get home,
Removing lip globs in the corners of their lips ...

Did not know there was a Dead reaching out to the neck,
Did not stop in the marching room of a bottle of wine,
Just a poet on the edge, hiding in the rhyme line!

Where are they who want thousand bottles of wine?

THE cypress trees there translate
season into color.

A line of boulevards for guests like
me: a hungry one.

I may know what it is
they plan.

Splash and swish. Sweet. Ripples and
breezy. Lyrical.

After the song I used to remembered
and always wanted to hear.

I may know what it is
whispered the water to the wind.

THE WORLD is an office asking for your sweat. Before lunch. Officeboy turns off the aircon. Stuck in line in front of the teller. Number is empty, on bank account.

This world is a city asking for your blood. An old friend who grew into someone who was getting less and less understandable. A monster that feeds on its own body parts.

HE took me
To the dirt road
Along the creek
The flow of time.

We met a child
Who can not swim strongly
But good at fishing.

He took me to the cemetery.
We saw
A child and his father pray
Visiting women
They are very dear

He pulled my hand
To the banana garden
Which bear fruit on long bunches,
And it knows
Will soon be cut down by a machete.

He was lying with me
On a night
And awakened by various things
The scramble wants to be a dream
In a rush sleep.

: Janet E Steele*

And what is the body? And what is a house?

The body is home to pain,
there was a mouth that held back a scream
there are wounds that show the face of blood

The body is home to the spirit of layover,
and there he felt at home, listening to the song
time, clock & heart rippled


And what is a house? And what is the body?

The house is an area where there is none
the shadow of the body, in a corner
gramophone placed & prayer sent to far.

Home is where you come back
from a small meeting, and there you are
happy, because you have time to say love.

YOU may be in the museum about cheese, glass art, bicycle history, or history of wooden bags. Not waiting for anything. And I just have time to steal travel brochures, offer a route around town, at the door of the hotel restaurant, after a lazy breakfast I chewed.

You may be among the crowds at the Arc de Triomphe monument, at the end of the Champs-Élysées. A digital screen is spread out, a row of chairs is laid out, and the big flag is flown. An ordinary man, preparing an unusual speech, that evening.

You may be in the departure room of the Frankfurt Airport, with the Arab Emirates airline tickets, disrupting the chaotic time, saying goodbye to the cold German weather, which I had previously tried to greet.

You must be somewhere, making some sort of experiment with distance and time, testing a hypothesis. And you smile, imagine the witty thing you will later conclude. And I do not stop guessing what's possible.

JUNE hid from me, on a forgotten calendar sheet on the kitchen wall. In vain, I shied away from the dust. Dust did not care about June on that calendar I'd never had.

Me and June, almost did not know each other again. Me and dust still greet each other just as a matter of praise. Dust and June as usual, still deceiving each other, yellowing on the paper.