четверг, 21 февраля 2013 г.


The woman smokes
Blue eyes and smile
They say: she’s easy
And think: she’s free
Rustic simplicity in
The darkest of all blues
First they delight in her
And take her in their arms
Then beseech to keep the smile
And never ask why
She did not sleep the other night

Don’t pour her wine
Enough
Do not tug her into bed
Cold
Where in the tangled sheets
She won’t say yes
She won’t say no

Take human by the shoulders
And cry
Clench and stare into human’s eyes
Let the human smile
Stare
Don’t ease the grasp
Hold tight those saggy shoulders
Tighter, tighter -
See?
The darkest blue is turning lighter
Smile abandons her face
And
You fall to the floor wearied. 



пятница, 4 января 2013 г.



Trying to depict the sunset
That lasts minutes is ages old
Yet never the same
Vulnerable
On a mountain top
Hundreds meters above the sea level
Still bound to earth
Above the clouds
Yet never in the air
Vulnerable
Leaning against your shoulder
Yet looking away
Into the pink of the sky
Vulnerable
Mingling the moon with a flashlight
Vulnerable
On the bus on the road on the seat
That is paid for
Vulnerable
When I smile and say “hello”
Vulnerable.




пятница, 14 декабря 2012 г.


Everyone is a poet
It is my firm belief
    At lest as of today, December eleventh two thousand twelve
    The number is frightening for where we are as of today
But who are you who calls himself a poet?
An orphan is still an orphan
Stripped off parenting wounds
Yet  fully clothed in circumstances

An orphan is a poet too
But my question is you,
Poet.
My problem is you,
Artist.
BFAs and self-proclaimed.
You dwell in galleries and journals.
Especially those in the galleries and journals.
Let’s face it,
The guy who is sweeping the street right now
        5 am – the sweeper’s time
Is no less a poet than you are
No matter how great you are
      I could bet here
Will never read your poem
Will never see your artwork
When is your time exactly?

When a poet realizes the inanity of words
When everyone realizes he is a poet
There will be no more poets
There will be peace
Of mind aware of it’s own feebleness




Picture taken by my friend's 7 year old son, Klim, on a mountain top in Carpahians, Romania. When I asked him to take a picture of me, first he got surprised and excited but then quickly he turned hesitant and said he probably could not do it because he did not know how. A truly beautiful moment shared together.

среда, 14 ноября 2012 г.


People mending people
People harming people
People judging people
Worshiping, despising, avoiding,
Reading, blaming, electing,
Competing, teaching, uniting.
Hearts ache for love,
Choir conducted by loneliness.

Scientists argue,
Anthropologists argue,
Psychoanalysts argue,
Husbands and wives argue.
I say, “I do not know”.
Don’t give me your facts,
Toss away your hypothesis.

I invite Bukowski for dinner and feel sorry for the bitter man.
I drink coffee with Fromm and think the man is clever.
I comfort Plath with a hug and shed a woman’s tear on her shoulder.
I light a cigarette whenever Nietzsche comes around and grow impatient.
I call Dostoevsky granddaddy and hold his senile hands.
But when I sit by the riverbank and watch the sunset,
I fade away into nothingness and rest.


понедельник, 17 сентября 2012 г.

3 nights



video

…was walking in the park, mumbling:
“Induct me into beatniks, communists, evangelists. I don’t’ have any preferences. However, I don’t have a self…Yes, I am not ready for a new subway line. They say it will begin to function in 2020… Why would not anyone just admit that he doesn’t know a thing about a thing… Aspirations outside generation, culture, gender and education… Less, yet why so difficult?”

понедельник, 10 сентября 2012 г.

Papa



It felt awkward sitting next to him on a bus here. Someone who I owed my physical existence to. We were not distant or anything. He was there my whole life but on a very personal almost not perceptible level. I could never tell but always knew it, well at least I was supposed to feel that way and I really used to feel that way. Mom was always there to negotiate feelings. He never did. We were on the bus and quiet. In between “Hello, do you know what time it is by chance?” talk seconds seem to drag for ages. Our relationship has not been always like that. We used to travel islands and universes together. It somehow got easier as we got off the bus. Busy finding a perfect saucepan at a flea market we got as excited as he used to get me excited with all those travelling stories when I was a small kid. He himself has never travelled much though. But he sure did enjoy a good deal of adventure books in his time.
At a supermarket he asked me:
- Do you want a soda? Let’s get some soda!
I turned around. This was the moment I finally realized who he was and what he felt towards me and said softly:
- Dad, it’s been awhile. I am twenty three.

понедельник, 30 июля 2012 г.

vice versa



We rode in a taxi through the streets lit by thousands of neon stars. She sat very close to me and looked at the window with feigned indifference. My heart was beating with excitement anticipating our goodbye kiss. Everything here was new to me and becoming enchanted with her seemed to be a fair consequence in the summer heat, noontime swimming and complete geographical confusion. I tried to maintain composure staring ahead intently. Suddenly she leaned towards the driver:
- You took the wrong turn! We need the next street, not this one, - she said quickly.
- I w-w-w-w-was g-g-g-g-going t-t-t-to t-t-t-t-t-t-t –the driver was stuttering terribly. He was going to turn. We both understood what he was trying to say and she leaned back in her sit again to pursue that indifferent stare at the cab window. Familiar streets didn’t enrapture her, she did not feel that carefree helplessness I felt in this city.  She was merely going home. My own self, as a matter of fact, was not a novelty for her as well. We have met before and she was the first to admit her sympathy. Did we switch places? Back then she was where I was now: in a new city, surrounded by new people, smiling with satisfaction.
When we got off the cab and silently walked towards her house, she suddenly turned to me, her eyes wide open and shining:
- Poor, poor driver! Did you hear his stuttering? It’s terrible. So terribly sad.
- Why? – Her glance was so sudden I could not figure what to say, but then added – You feel sorry for him?
She nodded timidly and immediately forgot the driver, his stuttering and our quick conversation. We kept on walking. She in her confidence and I, absolutely confused, scared and tired.

***
First literary etude I've initially written in Russian. Hello there, mother tongue.