...For attention is a kind of field of rambling mathematical dots;
they ramble all over the body, emotions, feelings, and thoughts;
the dots, having rambled away, come back with a certain catch;
attention is a coveted prize for various centers of force;
robust frontal lobes are required for good attention control;
too rarified an attention will make you a gullible fool,
and overmuch concentration will make you an idiot, too;
the line between folly and idiocy isn't so clear-cut;
Divine assembles the dots into a congruous kaleidoscope;
Divine alone sends them flying into a congruous kaleidoscope;
one humbly offers attention to Him for this very end;
this yields more beatification than slaughtering a buffalo herd;
the sacrifice of attention is better than donating to church;
attention, may have to do with skittish bosons of Higgs;
controlling and refining attention is a primary duty of man;
relaxing attention in Her is by far the greatest of joys.
And now, you can attend to your half-eaten Buffalo wings.

To the one-time maxim "to not hurt"
I added "unfairly" after a short
consideration.
I guess it's a sign of maturation.

So if, incidentally, you've been
hurting irresponsibly – you better think
about precision,
it's time for grown-up decisions

like starting hurting fairly, thoughtfully, gracefully.

While the flight attendant,
having loaded the meal cart,
is monotonously, monotonously pitching,

the Christian God
steers
every
streetcar,
prescribes
every
Christian
(that applies to non-Christians alike),

so that one is pressed down with a mound of hardships,
while another is blessed and basks in prescriptions,
аминь /ah-MEEN/.

Meanwhile, children and all clear of dross,
enter heaven bypassing the thorns,
and Peter, the staunchest of Capricorns,
beckons them in.

While I'm being skeptical
of the attendant's offerings,
other passengers engrossed in the drama,

God, as He is,  
palms off beings to the workings of karma,
albeit also—****!—asymmetrical...

Today—just today—inasmuch as
my whimsical desire is concerned,
accepting gifts and souvenirs such as:
maple leaves, breath of moose (I've learned

it's kind of good for being Canada-sick),
honey crullers or, for that matter,
a double-double. You've got to have a lick
of ice cream at... oh, I don't remember,

I forgot the name, just know that Bloor
is gracefully crossed there by Spadina;
and don't misjudge me as a boor,
but promptly ship it all to China.

Make sure to toss on top of that
iridescent vapor from Niagara;
it's not like I feel sad or mad,
but things will definitely shine gladder.

Breath of moose can go in balloons,
and vapor too can be encapsulated;
and after many Chinese moons
my birthday will get canadated.

It is common knowledge in village Woop-Woop:  
Gnyaneshwar penned "Gnyaneshwari" in one fell swoop,
but later on, after drinking some coconut juice,
he jetted off into mahasamadhi* —whooz!

As a tractor operator from the very place  
equated mahasamadhi to returning—with grace—
one's worn-out ticket to Heavenly Lord,
his face was gilded by last twilight rays.

Mid-supper, the milkmaids from the very hickst  
included "Gnyaneshwari" into Brodsky's List,  
though Brodsky didn't stop his resting in peace,
for he'd grown tired of exhorting lay-deez,

provided that their choice wasn't that bad.
Gnyaneshwar had penned "Gnyaneshwari,"—poor lad!
He had a hard time bringing it home to folks
who had a penchant for not connecting the dots.      

About the said Gnyaneshwar—if only he knew
that in less than a millennium, a random dude
would quote "Gnyaneshwari" in one fell sway—
otherwise, he'd have surely whispered: "I stay."

*mahasamadhi can be viewed as a non-violent suicide

A musician
was playing a piece
and got carried away.

Those listening to his music
were also carried away.

If all got carried away,
who stayed?

If you're a mathematician,
you run the risk
of being carried away

without a solution

There's a gap, oh yeah, there's a gap
between you             and              me.
There's a bridge, oh yeah, there's a bridge
between me and you. Sounds like rap.
So far, in what I've said there's nothing sinuous
'cause I'm using very simple language,
not some future perfect progressive,
nor some future perfect continuous.

This gap, this nasty, nasty gap
between you             and             me,
is just the same that cuts off you
from You and me—from Me. Ah, snap!
But here's the deal: while inhibiting
your reptilian brain, you want to clean
your human brain of all the crap,
and if God wills,
you reach a kind of present infinitive.

~ Daniil Andreev

The predawn breeze caresses eternally sacred stones.
The muezzin raises his hands, ready to chant the adhan
over somber Galilee, where time quietly flows
through Cana's and Bethlehem's ashes. He calls: "Allah-il-Allah".

Like a rose mirage, Damascus groves and temples
will shimmer. Chador-clad women bead gems, never in rush.
The breeze blows now and then, and waves gently bring their favors;
the summoning trumpets of Angel, Lion, and Eagle are hushed.

Yet, fishing nets remain wistful, just as when the Lamb was slain;
the Crusaders' coffins slumber, steeped in cedar and myrrh.
And crowds of motley supplicants time and time again
will scurry to His Sepulcher from different ends of the earth.

This Earth is home
to eight billion visionaries.
Their revelations begin
with a baby's first cry,
and then their missions unfold,
each
their own messiah.

At times, prophecies concur,
forming fleeting alliances:
where no one sows salt,
mushroom colonies strike—
each member with its stem,
a cocked tricorn hat,
and live performances.
"Now my turn—gimme the mike!"

Every oracle's merit
is gauged by impartial Something
beyond face,
beyond sounding.

~ Joseph Brodsky

Stars hadn't gone dark yet.
Stars were where they belonged in,
when roosters were waking up and
shouting throaty songs in
the hennery, perched ceremoniously.
...The silence died out,
just like cathedral's quiet
does with the first choral sound,
echoing gloriously.

Having abandoned warm blankets,
grouchy and half-sleeping,
plowmen harnessed their cattle.
It was in the beginning.
The day broke as though a new egg,
revealing the orange yolk, meaning
the sun was rising; a duet
of skylarks
must have been singing.

Roosters usually fancied
grains of pearls over millet,
with their roostery senses
they searched for them here and there  
dunking into the dung. Yet,
grains were there to reclaim,
grains were there to extract, and,
at sunrise, they would proclaim:    
"We've found them all by ourselves
and husked them with a great artfulness.
So we’re boasting to everyone else          
about this fortune of ours."

In this throaty chime,
performed for eons,
repeatedly,
I see the fabric of time,
discovered by roosters unwittingly.

In a restaurant
he was studying the menu:

~ Raw emotion with blood
~ Medium-rare emotion
~ Stir-fried emotion
~ Deep-fried emotion

Emotions, refined with thought,
had to be preordered
years in advance

in a separate annex.

Thank God,
men are not the sole vessels
of Masculinity.

Thank Goddess,
women are not the sole vases
of Femininity.

Thank Christ,
children are not the sole embassadors
of the Eternal Child.

Thus, creation can be reinstated
by the Trinity.

2021

To my left, old women huddle
by the roadside, thinning lives.
They're upholding one another,
so all will check with lightsome spines

at the cemetery's receiving desk,
then melt away in turquoise bliss.
I wish to think what waits is rest,
not stewing in hot-*** abyss.

To my right, kids comet by,
and through them—life's current raw.
I wish to think the Tree of Life
will tuck each in its midmost core.

How I wish
the innocent
were never wronged...