i want to run my fingers
along rock carved
thousands of years ago.

i want to feel the same cold
that ancient hands did
under my own.

i want to stand
where history happened.

let it shiver through my body.

feel the ghosts of people
long buried.
long forgotten.

find phantoms
in cobbled streets:
old and hidden.

to listen to tales
lost and buried
beneath city stone.

spectacle society or a faceless society? who could tell. after historical laughter comes a historic dread. when the sky is the limit of power we are doomed to endure the mania of failing floors. nothing is trully free to harm reality, not even poetry, and whose reality is more real. words like disfigured worlds,  they hack the body time. what is beauty and what is truth, this complex breathing creature in an unknowable form, this  hidden vulnerability: we can't bear who we are, we want to sink in a history without memory.

An
c
u
r
StateMent                 H
e       a                 Making
d       r           T    e     s
         Through    a     t
         y        Melancholy
         r            s    s     r
         i            e           You'Re
         z                                i
         e                                s
         d                               k
                                           i       R
                                        Another
                                           g      a
                                                   d
Of.

Culture rich, a heart of flame.
A realm upon seven hills it rose.
Barbarian winds blew strong and cold,
The empire is reborn.
Roma Aeterna!
The spirits reigns, through shifting sands and distant plains.
A world reborn,
all roads lead to Rome.

In the bleak winter
under hurrying clouds,
the wind blowing, bitter
gusts through trees’ barren boughs.

A small house: Its nooks
in new Gothic style
once housed the old books
of a forgotten king for a while.

It had been a library,
a place filled with words;
now all that here tarries
are the winds and the terns.

Its glassless peaked window
looks out on the sky
to waters that flow
by the small palace hard by.

The window is incised
in stone shaded gold —
a warm tone that belies
its touch that is cold.

The red palace is crowned
in gold and white marble.
They shine out, gowned
in hues that spite winter’s pallor.

Now blue waters and birds
add color to the scene
that fills this blank window
with nature’s stained glass serene.

This house has stood waiting,
empty in wintriest times —
now it’s filled by nature’s painting
brushed in hushed hues divine.

The poet cannot talk about what he already knows.
Northrop Frye

light splits the world in seen and unseen
night accelerates some fascination
I contemplate the poverty of words
who is doing the autopsy of freedom or something,
a requiem for a country that torments its name
streets don't smell of winter but of loneliness and oblivion, exhaustion and rage
some have already forgotten the meaning of blood
we like sweating not weeping, cursing not dreaming, finding the stain not the brain of fog
we practice forgetting like the snake charmers

dreams look like second hand stores, like the promise of the apocalypse,  a local version of Munch's scream, like an uninvented wheel or the beginning of the world.
an old lady sells fir wreaths in disbelief
too many drugstores ignore the untethered soul,  
a place of redemption they are, unwittingly

here there are poets, there are beasts, gentle souls and blind alleys,
indifferent smiles and lazy hands
and who can hear/bear the echo of that song... better dead than communists, comrades
province hates the center, the center forgets its north,
the all good sequestred against the all bad, no dialectics in doublespeak
truth to be told, there is  no consent for telling the truth
ersatz emotions exchanged casually, Hell is other people. always.  some play Russian roulette with reality, we are the heirs of a history disorder
if my dreams are full of birds, waters, lonesome deposits of the flow of time, I have to wonder
is history a desire machine searching for some mythical proportions

this country or a ****** mother with indifferent hands
here citizens have no faces, but interrupted gestures, fractured thoughts without containment
I fear those who cannot cry
without the meaning of blood history has no meaning or maybe it does, look at the speed of some digital thoughts,  the attack of ready made ideas. ideology becomes eulogy

no wonder I don't know how to end this poem
we need new words that contain their power
what is freedom? who knows, who cares.
oh, an old adagio, a gangrene of our undiscovered minds

I blinked, but beheld it,
the marching of warships,
the broken caskets
at the feet where bishops
of Brixen worshipped,
and the agonizing steps to the castle
-- a spiritual climb --
gifts and prayers in each one's pocket,
(you've got yours, I've got mine).

And there it was opening in the sky:
a woman, in between cycles,
clothed with the sun;
her groom carries her up those steps,
they ring the bell,
and make a wish
for their love to flow against
the current like sea flowers
in the spring.

I blinked, but beheld it,
there was smoke,
there was wind,
there was nothing
but the warm scent of potica,
and pletna aplenty,
their upright oarsmen rowing
through the bloodstream.

They row for the stillborn
who never see the sun.

But there is freewill, and there is sin.

Our kingdom rise.
Our kingdom fall.

Forgive us first, Father,
(our blood shall feed the earth).

She appears like a quiet flow
of gentle timeless and pure glowing
show from a waterfall of sustenance.

Smooth skin, angelic sweet of a gift
touching my demonic diary memoirs,
frozen in time as the pages flicker
and re-writes like a newly pressed hand.

Her eyes a purity of splashes
of green illustrated
mesmerizes me
with a gaze loving
silk sown teasing dress,
fiery red silky worship
of every flick of hair
rosy painless smile
and cheeks I hesitantly dare
but as this keeper of the fires,
she not even be-wares...

Arrogance smirks as lungs bursts
and I realize a prince's calling,
divine is holy  to steal from apple tree?
But does not the sun need the moon
so the uniting of light merges with dark?

If temptation of two heart shaped
touching fingertips leads to ruin,
then let it **** well be,
ancient crumbling drawings
will be scrawled on every wall in hell
as I'm lost to something never to sell.
Warmth of a Goddess born to heavens
Lips moist like berries I tastily inhale...

Everything is connected.
The old tree lines and the wrinkles that we get.
The ocean and the eyes.
The rain and the tears.
The fog in the forest and our gloomy dreams.
You braid your hair and suddenly you're back in history with your ancestors.
You speak up about your rights and now you see them in pure hopelessness, they fought but no one gave a thought. No one cared enough to give us the rights we deserve.
Go out in nature and listen to the wind dancing as you sing your favorite song.
Somewhere far away in the middle of nowhere you dance in the rain and enjoy life as the love fills your home.
The universe whispers to you. God hears you and loves you, this time enough to save you. You finally found peace.