………………………………
As in the Mayan calendar, the years gone by
Add up to zero
Signifying nothing more than an empty shell.
Our existence
Is equally insignificant
Or the same fulfillment –
Depends on how you look at it.
………………………………
I am electrified –
All of the earth’s volts
Penetrate me
Wrap around my neck,
Dot my back
With radiant stitches.
I am electrified –
With neon lights
The sparkle of skyscrapers
Airplanes twinkling
The flutter
From your computer.
I am electrified –
In microschemes I count
Sunsets and sunrises,
Which occur all at once
When the mechanized watches have stopped –
I am electrified.
Grass stairs mute step-echoes
For expectant ears each step is
in
au
dib
le
They will take your picture again
In this kitschy sunset
Among monolithic cliffs and mists of smog
For a pretty Japanese postcard.
They will take your picture again
And will scan the iris of the eye,
There a lonely old man with burned legs
Looks through the window of his hospital room.
They will take your picture again
Colorful Fuji blocks
Immortalized in USB
Perhaps – first like a gay man,
Sad ly sipp ing mojitos.
They will take your picture again
A New Age story
So much blood on the keyboard
Maybe it’s just ironic
That after traveling all night through myspace
You only found a single star
Crumb ling with hardcore
Experimental screams
Of…
a soothing melody
In the jungle never were days barren of touching
panthers, cobras, tigers –
treading licking in golden frames.
A thick nectar pours from the depths of intoxication
with butterflies, dragons from the east it flies
away…
During your childhood you met many fantastic beasts
Lynx rubbed against your legs,
Snakes whispered sweet little words,
Adorned in scorpion beads.
During adolescence you began to shun your acquaintances
And learned to sleep with a loaded weapon under your pillow
All of your beloved having turned into
Monkeys bounding in wilderness.
When you became an adult, when it receded like a shadow
A shadow, having grown still,
You do not see dreams at all and sleep with a weapon
Placed at the end of your bed.
When you stood up wearing skinny jeans
And white converses
Your black hair was falling down
Onto concrete floor of contemporary art center
Maybe it was just a shadow of it
But I already knew you –
You’ve come from disappearing country
You’ve come from disappearing tribe
Constantly witnessing decay.
We were also almost disappearing from each others’ sight
In the dusk of gallery hall,
But then you asked somebody to turn on the light,
Because you won’t see more these faces in front of you, –
That was your explanation.
My face was one among those faces
And maybe I could be almost deleted from your memory files,
But somebody turned on the light
And the table to where I was sitting was illuminated first.
I am placed at your palm, my future lover.
You are reading poetry about hands –
How do the same hands might be Nightingales,
And the same hands can be a gun trigger pushers,
How the same hands born a wish to feed somebody
And the same hands born a wish to kill somebody.
I am also borning from your hands –
From squeezing my handbreadth, wrist and an elbow,
Consolidating your fingers’ knots on my hand
And then touching my red cheek with your fist.
You smiled saying:
You’ve got some sun, darling.
Yes, love, I got burned under your heating up lamp,
That’s what I would like to answer, but it was too early to realize it myself.
As if I was keeping my fire matches for myself in order not to burn them all
At once, in order not to transform the sun into solarium.
It’s just the beginning of our light stretch.
When time becomes flatten and flows in
The horizon of sunset.
The beginning.
When motorways of light years are finally crossing
And allowing us to encounter each other.