the random engagement in the liqueur store

the cowboy boots
over those skinny jeans
(expensive though)
an antique ring
on your aristocratic hand
that exquisite perfume
– miss eloquence, you are!

your eyes two hungry wolves
but I am not Red Riding Hood
I am here for my booze
you are, – for the cheap wine…


rain drops, – sliding down
wet trail on the glass
she is standing
(just a reflection)
her yellow floor lamp too
like the dying sun
that decided to stay
in her small apartment

him, – on the street
soaking, under his broken umbrella
no more phone-booths
to shelter himself from the rain
looking up at that yellow sun
that hides in her lonely window
doesn’t see the reflection
thinking to leave, soon

it is getting darker
rainwater is mixing with soil
and turning into the mud
the building, the street
the lonely street light
everything is submerging
into white-noise on the screen
this old black and white TV

I turned TV off
now I see the reflection
of myself
and the yellow floor lamp too

it is all about the angle

I was maneuvering between the cars riding my bike
trying to outran my mind
but my mind was riding faster than I thought it is
leaving my body behind with that nauseating out-of-body experience

I heard the jarring arpeggios of the chipped and translucent like an old crystal bowl heavenly spheres
and the chirping voices
(I really don’t want to know who’s)

ding-dong, – I rang the bell
ding-ding, – echoed the spheres
and the pizza delivery guy in front of me melded with the store window

and the running girl with the peeling skin on her nose
turned into the red tulip
– tulips?! In early September?!

the limo making a U-turn right in front of me turned into the million fragments of the colorful glass
I saw the invisible smile of the driver
for a fraction of the moment

ding-dong, – echoed the spheres again
and the tow track came for that limo
then I saw myself from the fisheye of a color blind surveillance camera

eternal #4

can You find me between those spikes
the spikes that grow on your golden fields
as you are walking without the sickle in Your hand
barely touching the tips with your palms
all of them are longing for your touch

I also tried to reach
but alas, it wasn’t my day
(maybe another one)
if You’ll pass nearby
The King in the field

the reptile

he is the reptile
sunbathing on the philosopher’s stone
words in, – words out
his mind is projected
onto the surface of the sun
the prominences are slowly emerging
and throwing themselves into the silent interstellar void
in a suicidal jump

he is sunbathing on the philosopher’s stone
the desert around him is just another metaphor
of the future in his parietal eye
the grains of sand, the time
wasted time
funeral orchestra’s
Boy Scouts in their green ties
roller skating girls
words in, – words out
he is the reptile