Father.
I'm sorry.
I find it hard
to keep my voice in check.
My mind's a dirty rag.
It splits in seams and pours
like blood spilled in vein
from a deceived,
betrayed,
abandoned vein
that only pulsated for justice.
Evil has a lease upon this world --
its dream.
And hence, this voice
that fluctuates
between a hoarse hiss
and a despaired scream.
Father.
Is there nowhere to go
to feel less like a whore
inside this whoredom?
Injustice is another face
of boredom
upon which
murderous clerks
keep tabs
on our hearts' raptured jerks --
Like mediocre chemists
over experimental
mice in labs,
that run around crazed
from fear and drugs.
Father.
There is no air left
inside my lungs!
Father.
Why do I ramble on?
Why do I harp over
the same note of
rage, despair?
When will I dare
to stare into the eyes
of tenderness?
Acceptance?
When will I un-learn
to get astonished
at this ordinary order?
When will I become
wise, measured, clever?
Father?
Never!
Father.
The heavens long
to be seen through.
Its Blueness yearns
for the touch of the eye.
And the heart burns
and shrivels
from the substraction
into a dried-out leaf--
that either crumbles into
grief,
or, at best, turns stiff
and fakes its stregth.
Its obstinance,
so as not to tear.
Father.
This falsity --
I no longer want to bear.
I discard all pride
like a snake discards old skin.
And humbled,
with a bowed spleen,
I'll watch how dreams
fulfill themselves to death.
Exctracting,
sucking breaths from our lungs.
And leaving -- no! not disappointment! --
but painful gratitude.
And tenderness.
For all that ever was.
And all that is.
Father.
The shore soaked in
the sound of the breeze.
*********************************************************************
Gratitude # 12
Father.
I thank you for
looking at me from above
then,
when you were near.
For your distanced sound
when all that we could hear
was noise.
Such that even an echo
would be disdainful to repeat.
I thank you for
never giving me a choice
because it invariably
entails a limit :
One.
Two.
Three.
Etc.
Father.
I thank you for the pain
of being free.
Like a withered tree,
with roots so deep into the earth
that it no longer cares
to be part of a forest,
but only directs its eye
below --
Into the sky.
It no longer wants to
rhyme with others.
Just:
to be apart from all.
A part of the whole
creation
that started with a bust.
And ended up in ashes --
suicidal dust.
Father.
They can cut me down.
Or they can't.
Still -- it will not make
a dent
upon my core
made of stone.
I thank you now
for not leaving me alone.
Without you,
I would have crumbled.
Like a heap of cards.
Without you,
I would have bent.
Father.
Like you,
I will never repent.
*********************************************************************
Chaos # 13
Father.
Two languages inside me play.
Two tongues.
Their jumbled words
tear through
my smoked out lungs.
Dissolve in blood.
Like oxygen.
Like pure drink.
Father.
They drive me to the limit.
To the brink.
To sanity's abyss
where sounds reign--
Ramshackle.
Meaningless.
Like violet rain
that wastes its color.
Frees its madness through the sky.
Like a heart that's pure --
from an enduring lie --
Bursts into splinters of love and pain,
unable to pulsate
to the complexity of gain.
Becomes a gibberish.
That Fool-the-Gimpel.
And longs and whispers:
Keep it simple...
Simple...
Father.
Simple-hearted and naive.
I'll shuffle through my way:
A tender Eve
who long gave up
on the crass Adam.
Who counts through the
drunken haze:
Had not... or had them.
I've had it!
Father.
Had it!
Almost all!
And it left a gap.
A drift.
A hole.
Impossible to fill,
now that you're absent.
My being , Father,
here without you
lessened.
And chiseled into thinness:
Needle made of steel.
Father.
I have un-learned to feel.
And have become a shell
into which words
drop tired and sad.
Like hollow cords.
**********************************************************************
Vagabond # 14
Father.
I'm becoming a wonderer.
A wonderer through space.
With my mother and our dog.
Blue fog caresses us with mercy
and erases the cruel needle of clarity.
I suppose, that's the only charity
one should expect.
Mother keeps harping on about
justice, respect.
Yet, her eyes betray her and
speak of love.
And above,
above you hover.
Letting me reach the brink ,
stare deep into the abyss.
Only to snatch me by the scruff
at the eye's blink.
And plunge me back into
Time's lazy hiss.
In order to continue...
As if nothing happened...
Father.
My scars -- they've deepened.
And instead of the heart --
there is only a corpse --
a wounded horse that heaves,
longs for the end.
Like pale fire --
waits to expire.
Father.
I err.
I build and
destroy it all
in one big crash.
Turn it all into
a tower of ashes.
My sense of must
reaches me first.
It is my curse.
You taught me well.
I punish,
send myself to hell.
For touch's sake.
For a kiss
that's never fake.
If anything -- it's fleeting.
Like happiness.
Like dread.
There's nothing, Father
that I regret!
A dream...
You ask me:
What is left of you now?
Father.
Despair.
It's bare.
Like winter.
Not a splinter
of illusion is left.
Father.
It is accomplished!
The final theft.
The last trace of life is gone.
The very last bait.
Father.
It's done!
From now on --
just fate!
That is why --
no more anger.
No longer -- any rage.
You have unlocked the cage
where I used to pile hope.
Its cheap lie.
And let it escape.
Empty words lightly scrape
the gray mounds of my brain
but do not reach the heart.
Like the tyranny of architecture
does not touch the clouds in the sky.
And there is no more pain.
Or -- indifference.
Just the eye that observes.
And stays dry.
Out of tenderness.
Gratitude.
I thank the fate for every man
and every dog I meet.
So snow is thankful to the sun
even though it turns it into sleet.
I go.
I run in haste.
I turn to waste.
I cruise.
I loose.
I become a bruise.
Like no one can.
But like you could.
Erasing doubt.
I asked you once:
Father,
why do clouds look everywhere the same?
You said:
It's the remnant of shame,
of guilt,
of IS
before the
NEVER-WILL-BE.
The waves -- they hiss,
unable to find another sound.
My heart -- like roots
is buried deep inside the ground.
But my soul --
it sprouts high.
Towards the most innocent cry.
Towards the Blue.
Where you
have turned into a PLUS.
Why do we think that
it's a CROSS?
I know,
there is no LOSS.
There is no death.
It's just that people
lose their breath.
Their faith.
Belief.
Say no to fate.
And cling to life.
Say no to all.
And yes to brief.
They turn to grief
as the only consolation
to their lack of will
to climb the hill.
Over and over.
Without any sense.
And crush the fence
that separates them
from
gratitude,
from
mercy.
Father.
You know:
the rest is hearsay.
Like hope --
a pile of horseshit.
Like dope --
that's lit
and smoked
at the weakest hour,
thus equaling waste.
An empty heap.
I'm tired, Father.
I just want to sleep.
No other is any longer near.
And no one here
could really hear
these words.
Except...
Oh well...
You know too well...
There's nothing left of me to give.
There's nothing left in life -- but
live.
*********************************************************************
Conversation # 15
(conversation between Father and Daughter with interruptions from the
Chorus)
D. Father.
What do these sounds tell me?
This noise...?
With its abundance,
its cruelty...
Your voice --
its sharp, its measured prase,
cuts through the air.
Jolts me from the daze.
F. What have you
done?
D. Father.
Where are you?
Where have you gone?
F. What have you
done again?
D. Oh... that...
it's nothing...
Just let in temporary pain...
F. Did you forget the color of the rain?
D. No, Father.
It's violet. I know.
Why are you mad?
F. Wrong word.
It is called dead.
Dead to all that's temporary,
selfish, cheap.
D. Please,
Father, louder!
This creep beside me
polutes the ear.
F. Mute him out!
Learn to hear only words
that cause a lasting tear.
D. You mean a
tear that doesn't dry?
F. I mean -- a
tear that IS dry.
That pours slowly,
drop by drop
into the eye.
And hides within yourself
from shame.
D. Shame?
Ashamed of whom?
F:Your question's
lame.
D: Father. I'm
lost.
Chorus: Hey,
bartender!
What is the cost?
F. Here,
the cosmic frost,
my daughter,
is composed of pure tears,
pure love --
exalted pain
which never faulters
into the grimace of self-pity.
The brain evaporats into the heart.
Yet no one holds a dart.
No one is here to seduce, beguile.
Remember, pain transforms
into a sinless smile.
D. Father.
I'm tired of falsity.
Of lies.
F. And I was tired of truth.
It hides a compromise.
That's why I chose to flee.
Like an old flea
from a stray dog
that lost its way.
D. Father.
I turned into a needle in the hay.
Chorus: Don't leave me, please!
Please, stay!
Without you, I will not last a day!
D. Father.
Did you hear
that pile of horseshit
that fills the ear?!
F. Again, you listen to the wrong voice.
And after all that you've been through...
You forget the true,
the only destiny
designed for you.
Stand up now!
And go into the field
that spreads under the shield
of a starless sky.
Pierce the space
with a primal scream...
D. Father.
Is this a dream?
F. ...And wash yourself
inside the stream
that strips of memories.
Now, you must start anew.
D. Where is the division between
me and you?
Did you feel my shock?
Did you feel locked,
caught,
sold out,
bought?
F. Understand!
Here -- there is no end,
and no beginning,
and no place
to all that happens
within the space
in which you roam.
The color of the chrome...
Chorus: What country are you from?
D. Hey!
Disappear! Scram!
Oh, Father, if only with a flick,
with a flick of a finger
I could make these fuckers vanish!
Instead -- they linger.
If I could only banish
them or hurl a stone!
Father!
Take me a home!
F. I said:
The color of the chrome hides gold
which you must learn to see.
Recall the rays of sun under the sea.
Forget the rest.
Their selfish fears pierced a hole
inside your soul.
Left you empty -- with a choice.
Ignore their voice.
Listen to your own.
There -- lies your home.
D. Father.
It's time for deeds --
Sudden and abrupt.
Like scattered beads
that defy all logic
trapped in common sense.
Their eyes...
Their eyes resemble houses
that have been fenced.
Not out of fear.
But out of sheer disregard
for what or who
lies near.
Father.
I have entrailed after you left.
With a shattered core.
My days -- predictable.
My nights -- they store
anxiety for a
quick
end.
Father.
Extend your hand!
Chorus:
A day-old butterfly
-- so old! --
fluttered,
shivered -
unable to find a place.
Its wings spotted red
from grief --
It disappeared,
melt into the space.
D. My God!
They don't make any sense!
F. Nothing does.
No one ever did.
D.
...Limp like seaweed
I become
and watch my solitude
without former greed
for someone other.
Father.
A dusty dog
came up to me
without trust,
but with a spark of hope
that I will extend my hand
and take her home.
Give her shelter.
That together we will
forget the word alone.
But like the human that I am,
alas,
I threw a bone.
She refused.
As if to say,
I'd rather starve and die
then continue to train my eye
upon indifference.
Upon this equal sign.
And her stare --
was pure and holy
like the earth before creation.
When it was bare, barren.
Without us -- God's loud harem.
F.
Birds will sing
after men disappear.
After they wipe each other out.
Their song--
it will be naked,
tender, like doubt --
that never entered anybody's mind.
Sinless -- like the eyes of the blind.
D.
Father.
That dog opted for suicide.
And turned into a heap
of blood and meat.
It splashed against and lit
the road.
Like an unusual star --
purple-red ---
froze still in endless dread.
Chorus:
Why do you bother
with such nonsense?
Do you like to suffer, grieve?
Well, your sorrow
ain't worth a fallen leaf.
Who are you calling?
Don't you get it?
What a laugh!
You don’t have a father!
You no longer have a father!
F.
Pure like the ears of the deaf,
the lips -- of the mute.
Like the sniper who doesn't
know to shoot.
Like...
D.
Father.
I want to kill them.
For repeating the same old tune.
The same cheap song.
Like a fat priest who fears to pray,
but likes to christen.
F.
I know. But again,
you listen
to them.
Instead of -- to the hiss
of the sea,
the sky,
the air.
Peel the language,
and find the layer
where there is only silence.
Then,
all violence within you
will erupt.
And make your deeds --
Sudden,
Abrupt.
D.
The thoughts are trapped
and beg to be let loose.
Like a neck of a destined man
begs to rip the noose.
My life got tired --
begs to cruise
without aim, or goal.
So that the heart stops being
a pumping vessel --
turns into a soul.
So the eyes see nothing.
Ears hear no cries.
The moon above slips as if on ice.
Exhausted, Father,
It falls into the skies.
F.
If pain repeats --
it no longer pains.
So loss upon a loss --
no longer drains
the heart.
Keep still.
Keep simple.
We will meet,
my daughter.
When blue becomes impossible
upon the water.
**********************************************************************
Burn # 16
for thinking is
opposite of living
Nodar Djin
Father
Under the blind moon of
Istanbul
I stood.
And gazed at the water
with the eyes of a bull
before slaughter --
serene and lost.
The dust of this city
which you so wanted to see
filled my larynx.
And like a sphynx --
astonished --
I froze into silence.
No sound.
Father.
I feel bound
by chains that connect
my desires to yours.
The force of love is --
metamorphosis
of thoughts,
needs,
dreams,
deeds.
Into an incarnation
hitherto unseen,
unfelt,
unheard,
undone.
Love into nowhere --
can stun,
erase,
and plunge
into a blur.
Into nonexistence.
For love -- is the
opposite of being.
Father.
Of course, you know,
that days like whores
prostrate before me their price
which I still choose to pay.
I still pave the way
towards illusions.
Towards lies.
Although my eyes --
like vessels --
can now bear
only images of you
dissolved in Blue.
And for the rest --
its face insults
and rapes
and breaks
into the space.
Father.
Under this moon I stand.
Delirious.
Drunk.
Numb.
The ancient city
Istanbul
is real.
Thus -- also cruel.
Like any other.
And from here on, Father,
there is no farther.
There is no return.
From here on,
I choose to burn.
*********************************************************************
Transformation # 17
Father.
You
knew.
What’s
needed is –
a
different heart.
A
different core.
The
shore
where
I parted with you last
swept
up and molded me
from
specks of dust
into
a statue.
Still.
Frozen
in Blueness.
In
order to atone
for
no one’s sin.
Father.
My
heart is ripped.
My
core has crumbled.
My
gullet burns from drink.
At
every blink,
good
Samaritans offer advice.
All
I do – is avert my eyes.
Freeze.
Pretend
that I don’t hear.
Father.
I
turned into that very dog
that
needs no help (nobody’s tear)in living out –
just
oblivion.
I
scrammed.
This
is a different shore.
Hieroglyphs
of nature
are
easier to decipher.
The
language of water
makes
your tongue stutter
and
you think twice
before
letting out hot air.
Instead:
there’s
a cat’s meow,
a
dog’s bark.
And
the stare
of
the pigeon’s purple eye
lets
you know :
he
doesn’t buy
your
self-pity.
Your
false regret.
that’s
how you learn to forget.
Oblivion,
Father.
Oblivion
– is the word
I’ve
been looking to nail all along.
Oblivion
was what I knew
When
you merged with water.
Oblivion
– light Blue.
That’s
when I became
no
one’s daughter.
That’s
when you
let
loose your grip
at
the scruff of my neck.
And
there ended Lack…
Since
then, Father,
I
am calm…
for
ever…
nothing
makes me shiver…
one
needs slowness
and
death.
For
what you tell the sea
you
can’t tell the river.
*********************************************************************
Recognition # 18
Father.
I
see your face.
I
know it.
Live
it –
day
by day.
Hour by hour.
Your eyes –
tired and kind –
are before me now as ever.
This blind…
This blind pain like a lever
numbs and throws me into stupor.
Nothing and no one exists.
This inaction – is the peace
after your
loss.
And it’s not that I
can’t bear the cross
of being hollow,
half-alive.
I know how to dive
into emptiness –
call it Buddha,
emerge drunk with rage –
like your Judas,
thirsty for blood, redemption, law,
then blow up –
-- the shrapnel Allah,
cry for revenge, justice, power,
look around myself
notice the lone camel
walking softly across the desert
sniffing the channel
leading quietly to the water,
whispering:
Follow me,
follow me,
daughter.
I will take you there
where you’ll see your Father
Who became One with Blueness
Who dissolved into Farther
Whose features meandered,
melt into space
Father
I know where to read your Face.
**********************************************************************
Immortality #
19
Father.
No
loss
No
cross
No
burden.
It’s
just that
life
has hardened
and
burned
its
bridges
I’m
on the edge
and
all
that I can hear
is
silence
now
that
you are not here
the
rage
the
hate
has
vanished
so
has the bliss.
now
it’s
just a measured
reliving
of
what is…
And
what it is…?
What
is …?
Father.
The
waves –
they
hiss
of
endlessness,
of
immortality,
of
repetition,
of
nothingness,
of
hands outstretched,
of
the returning punishment
of
lashes
until
the bloody flesh
has
met its ashes
and
rests
subsides
forever
in
the water
oblivion
piece
indifference…
….like
color in the hue
dissolves..
the
waves, the waves
they
hiss of you…
Father.
No
loss.
But
life has hardened.
Condensed
into a stone.
I
am alone.
This
is a cry for you:
Father,
where
are you,
Father?!
Where
are you?
Dissolved
there
somewhere
in
the
Blue?
