ètude #23

— Operator, can you please stop the planet from spinning?
This is my station. I must get off.

— Can I just… let me just take my bag… Thank you!
— Excuse me.
— a pardon. I really didn’t see your foot.
— Excuse me!
— Yes, ma’am, I am getting off.

(astonished look)

— I can care less about your opinion, Schmuck!

(finally off)

Just me, superimposed over a banal scene:
of a man,
and his heavy bag,
and an empty street.

No! Not a street, —
rather a vector of indifference.

and the silence will be the room.
and the clock will be a friend, —
caring about any particular moments.

and your eyes will be two windows
to a memory.

some wrong schematics

My intentions and my goings
are on the constant opposite paths.

I thought they’ll schematically look like wings,
but they looked more like cockroach antennas,
arching back.

I thought they’ll annihilate,
when they’ll collide behind, —
lifting me up to the Celestial Spheres.

Yet, they didn’t, —
they are only dangling like a court-jester hat.

Ding-Dong.

a dialectics of violence

Save on your mental shortcuts
in attempt to relive a second
that we just finished living!

That is always a trip:
through my mental roadblocks,
on my mental paternoster.

and I purposely forget the mnemonic,
a conjuration–
an abracadabra
that we just expelled on each other.

Take your perfume and a crossbow
and go hunt alligators in The Miami-Dade sewer system.

and I’ll do the dishes after the dinner.

the art of war

I was watching my son playing
with his plastic soldiers
the other morning.

I was stuffing my smoking pipe
with some smoking herbal mix
and drinking my tea.

There was a bloody fight,–
with many casualties.

and tea smelled delicious,
so did my pipe.

and floor was covered with
many wounded, dead and dying soldiers.

Yet, after his war was over,–
all the dead soldiers we brought back to life
and all the wounded were healed.
unlike in my war.