WASHINGTON, D.C.
In a
city,
where crows
fight the pigeons for a crumb,
and both -
ignore sparrows.
Where
monuments are built
not to the
whole pharaohs -
but to their
genitalia;
A city
divided in
half by a gray river
that
eclipses the sky;
Where tears
search in vain for a voice -
in order to
cry;
Where men
- in suits and ties -
at the sight
of a whores prostrated tit,
think of the
Capitol -
its nipple
dimly lit;
trade state
secrets for a touch of flesh,
and with the
next mornings news crash -
I wonder:
What made them hold out that long?
What
force urged them to abstain from
their own
selves?
What
deterred the rare return of their souls
into the
flash of innocence...
into the
revelations of childhood -
when
memories were a fable,
when days
were incandescence
and sobriety,
and when
weight was
as
incomprehensible
as wait!
To what?
-
To whom? -
must one
relegate the cruelty
of finally
knowing all the pain
in an
anonymous hotel room,
atop some
viscous whore,
who - unlike
that witch! -
wont tear
into flight upon a broom,
but will
perform her chore -
under you.
To what?
To whom? -
This city.
Its
architecture -
The
apotheosis of accessibility.
Whose sly
design is meant
to make you
forget to repent.
Whose
stone mumbles of necessity -
mainly your
own.
Like an
ugly, dull mistress,
thankful for
your every call,
repays not
with gratitude -
but on all
fours - with a crawl,
and shivers
under you -
like a dried
out leaf.
You crush it.
And crushed
-
you take
your leave.
Out of
here -
I must
follow the despairing river.
And learn to
hate this sky,
tormented
daily by the man-made crimson fever
of emitted
rays.
For it is
not here that I shall end my days -
this city
where overtake me! - is in every brick.
And every
tongue is ready for a lick.
Out of
here -
this
self-assured, nauseating stone,
of a
deflowering empire - built on sweat.
Out - to
where the eye is met
by flying
lions, gargoyles,dragons -
by all that
is unreal -
not by
limpid limbs -
which
provoke your palms to touch
and crush
whatever is in between your crotch.
Or better
yet-
out-
to the
steppe.
Where every
step
makes you
lesser, less,
out -
to where
lips move
only to
confess.
Out -
to where
vastness makes your vision narrow.
And you lift
up your head -
not to shout
-
but to envy
a sparrow.
THE DISCREET CHARM
OF THE
BOURGEOISIE
Oh, to be
one of those placid souls
who cozy up
with a cup of pale tea
to warm the
palate and wash
their hands
off the day like
resigned
Pilate in an armchair
left by
someones great great great grandmother
With a
hard-back of Proust in the lap
and a
saccharine stare directed at the window
where the
afternoon is as slow as
ones
thoughts of deliverance
Snow as
deliberate in its falling
as sentences
on the page
which rustle
in step
to someones
footsteps
in an
upstairs bedroom
Footsteps
which speak neither
of
resolution nor resignation
neither
hurry towards him nor from him
which betray
neither hate nor desire
Just to sit
there in an armchair
in an
arrested artificial silence
and brood
over that nothing which is life
and which
overall has turned out
To be able
to numb the faraway sting of pain or regret
and imagine
that one has reached salvation.
AMERIKA
To Alexei Sobolev
We lived
in a house
where cliches
drummed to
their march
One by One.
On Belmont
and W.
All that
could be done there
was gone.
And if it
was left -
it was
thought unworthy of theft
or stayed
intact
in order to
stun
the writers
humid eye.
And when it
could no longer stay dry,
when a tear
squeezed out
of a half-
shut lid,
hed mutter:
What a pile of shit!
To the
right of the house
was a park.
With its
on-call pigeons,
the statue
of Aligieri.
The sculptor
by day -
would hark
the blood.
And by night
-
he was
haunted
by the
visions of Dante.
Until -
to the light
of crack-pipes
as his
funeral vigil,
an ambulance
came
disguised as
Virgil
to point him
towards
the Nine
Discs of Hell.
And the
landlord muttered:
Alls well
that ends well...
LONELINESS ON BRIGHTON BEACH
In the
New World
they still
retain their habits.
They isolate
them. A monks habit
isolates him
from the colored
vestment of
the most...
Visibility
is the cost
commonly
paid.
The
inability to fade
into the
common hues and contours
stretches
the hours.
And offers
solitude as a revenge.
So physical
- it makes one cringe.
Throw up
ones hands and hate
everything
that bears weight.
An
accordion gapes its teeth,
stretches
each crease in hands of an emigre.
He sits by
the Brooklyn Marina -
his suit
matching the gray
folds of the
waves.
The waves
expire one after the other.
His drunken
eyes narrowed
focus on a
point that lies farther
than the
horizon -
and beyond
it - again - lies the sky.
That sky is
the same as here.
This sight
doesnt render a wail.
But it does
- a tear,
provided,
of course, you havent
unlearned
how to cry.
And a
solitary bird
looks not
like a speck of dirt
upon the
empty canvass -
but a point
of departure where hurt
makes you
soar
without
questioning whats in store.
From lack of
careful ears makes you turn to your pen.
From
hope-hungry Job - to Zen.
And the
accordion squeezes the primitive melody
about the
end of the war.
By the
Brooklyn Marina about a girl named Marina
who became a
whore,
the emigre
sings with half-toothless mouth -
all out of
tune.
And the
aborigines stand and listen
like modern
splendors amidst the dunes.
Their gaze -
compassionate, even -
like a
cardiogram of a corpse.
They
whisper: Back home it mustve been worse...
They believe
in the future -
That even
incurable sadness must have a positive glow.
And the
waves of Atlantic like Zen-masters flow.
OBSERVATIONS OF AN ALIEN
In the
summer they grow anxious and fidget
from surplus
of light - of time.
Restless,
like midgets
in the
middle of a town square,
they marvel
at everything in its tiniest detail -
the veins
upon a leaf,
the
consistency of hail,
the anatomy
of daily grief.
Everything
becomes visible
and,
thus, all too unbearable
for their
blunt, yet brittle minds.
In the
evening one finds
them
outside, grilling meat. They discuss
the affairs
of the state, rarely those - of the heart.
While their
wives veil their disgust
with a look
of forced innocence. They try hard
to smile.
Mostly, they sigh.
And you
invariably ask : Why?
But that
is not the question to ask.
In their
domain,
it is wiser
not to ask questions at all.
You must
remember, they fear pain.
Dread being
alone.
So, if you
find yourself among them,
just go
along.
Speak of
something insignificant that you crave.
Mostly, you
see, they are slaves
of their
desires, whims.
At the
height of purity, they sing hymns
to their
country, themselves, their laws.
And the
wisest among them -
among us is
a whore.
Slide
easy and be aware
that they
mock inner struggle.
They are
envious, jealous.
So, if
theres something you care
about, you
must smuggle
it into
their midst.
First
slowly. Then with a blast.
Shock value
is what they react to the best.
Because they
are vulgar. And constantly bored.
A clear
voice doesnt stir them. But a horde
of shrieks
drives them to tears.
They are
sentimental and cruel. One hears
an easy
dichotomy between their word and deed.
And their
poetry is tired, swollen - like a drug-addict's eyelid.
But
youll do well if you smile a lot.
And dont
squirm at their habits.
No matter
how strange,
dont let
them see you cringe.
Appear to be
indifferent, cool.
Most of the
time, act a fool.
Overall,
youll find it a sad place -
which
survives on a needle and a shot.
Theirs - is
not an enviable lot.
They love to
travel through allotted space
in order to
kill time.
So dont
show surprise,
in fact,
dont even blink
at their
habit of saving a dime
to escape
for a few weeks each year -
and, thus,
stuff their lack.
Keep in
mind, they dont hold out too long -
they almost
always come back
after they
feed their lust.
Do you still
want to go? Well if you must,
as I said,
dont stand out like a tree.
Appear to be
a splinter.
And wait for
the summer to pass.
Go in winter.
A PORTRAIT OF A POET AS AN OLD
MAN
(An American Poem)
To Anthony Hecht
A seventy
five year old poet with watery eyes
of
Anglo-Saxon indifference -
eyes that
soak up life rather than react to it, says:
You know,
once I had one Life, I mean
His glance
slithers along the hardcover classics
neatly
stacked upon the shelves.
It halts
momentarily at his own name.
He mumbles
something tedious on fame
and water
drips from his lids. Not tears.
Dear, he
says to his wife, dear,
were going
to be engaging this living room
for just a
bit longer.
And the
designated dear leaves revelling
in the
subdued glory of becoming a poets widow.
He looks
absently at the snow falling outside the window
and grins
half-a-grin.
To ward off
honesty, he offers:
Would you
care for gin? It rhymes with your last name
Not bad for
the old rhymester, is it?
A drop of
bitter liquid settles upon his cracked lips
which, from
neglect of anothers flesh,
have
forgotten how to absorb.
You mustnt
think, he sounds disturbed,
that this
is what Ive always had.
He stretches
his frail hands to envelop his present.
In fact, I
am in recovery from life for many years
You see,
when I was actually alive, I could hardly bear
the order of
things. I felt like a mare
with a
chronic longing for a caress,
but instead,
got the weight of some rich bitchs ass
who would
never shy away from brandishing a whip
when the
barriers got steep.
And, so, I
found myself in an asylum, a loony-bin,
Ward Number
Six.
Daily
awaiting the salvation of a needles fix.
Thats when
I clearly saw what life does to us
and I
decided to retreat, to lose all connection,
to cut the
last thread. I decided to play dead.
Since then,
he laughed, I am very much liked
And all is
well. Ive become used to the predicament.
Hell is
being devoid of passion, being reduced
to an
instrument that can only describe.
As if some
brutish force is shoving you a bribe
to stay
silent, to recoil.
Untill you
finally rot and spoil
inside an
intricate web of words
which,
stripped of soul, resemble warrior-hordes
without a
purpose, without a war.
And turn you
into a bore.
So, he
continued, it is in this light
you should
accept my answers,
though they
do seem banal.
I have lost
the interest to fight.
In fact, you
could compare me to a splinter of glass
floating
along a polluted canal,
with no
desire to be theatrical
after having
the madness to shine
By the way,
you can quote this line
Nothing at
all like your writer
who in his
old age could not stay silent .*
Words
bearing purpose seem violent to me..
Now, I
think, if he happened to live across this yard,
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