old radio on the windowsill,
still playing patriotic songs and military marches.
despite the fact, that it is already scientifically
proven that cornucopia exists,
but only in the mind of the hungry lumpen.
I am ten years old. I am eating piece of bread with homemade jam,
looking at the dawn, through window.
the dawn that turns into the dusk. in country of the never-rising sun.
new empty pedestal is waiting to bear the burden of the next hollow idol,
but meanwhile it enjoys the heat of rotting dregs.
an army marching band is exercising on the plaza
must be preparing to play last march
before a few zinc boxes will be laid into the frozen ground.
a teaspoon in the cup of cold tea
New York, Manhattan, ferry terminal.
a foam cup of coffee.
the hollow idol still alive.
same music and the same zinc boxes.
same smell of Iron.
the pain of amputated memory returns;
you find yourself next to the rusted cage with piece of molded cheese in.
a sadomasochistic dream that glamorously devours your reality within.
the memories the hail of fire
and swarms of lethal wasps of led,
the semi-naked prophet, that having seizure on the sand.
a chaos of his words.
a vortex of debris that rips the flesh apart,
and blood that streams.
the snake of pain that sleeps within,
is finally awake.
the hungry sand, – absorbing blood,
absorbing visions, memories.
the smell of cheese evoking appetite,
it envelopes your mind
it calls you in.
the gate is open.
will you crawl inside?
every morning they all are driven ashore.
who’s by the orange ferry.
who’s by the Noah’s arc.
who’s by the Three Men in the Boat.
people with tired faces hate calendar,
but love to have their morning newspaper with the coffee.
no need to watch the clock,
because the time in the water is always in its liquid state.
the newspaper will be later used as a table map for a roll with eggs and bacon.
(on their knees)
keep your pants clean!
keep your shirt clean too!
crumbs are for doves!
later they will fill the streets like a roe from the cut open fish belly.
I saw this picture yesterday at the terminal.
the picture that she painted with the coffee, sun and some dirty snow.
especially I liked the way she drew the faces.
when the words are loosing their meanings
and the pointers on the clock are forgetting
which way to move.
when the vending machine is refusing to dispense the soda,
but complaining about her therapist.
when the charcoal stars in the evening skies
bluntly looking at you,
and when you’re opening book,
but seeing the general ledger
of the sins that you did along with a few good deeds,
that you left incomplete.
when you find that her palms that were holding your face
were just an old moth eaten scarf,
and the smell of her skin, was perfumed naphthalene.
then you kick open the door,
or the plastic that covers the case you were in
(a fried sardine).
then while squinching your eyes from the painful light,
you’ll be looking for another case to get in,
to begin your next life.
the dormant river was slowly drifting into the dawn.
fragments of ice were floating on the surface
but the waters couldn’t melt them.
see, you said, – same elements, but they can’t merge
the mind can’t erase certain moments,
that were frozen in memory.
same elements, – was echoing in my head.
until the darkling cloudy sky finally subdued to turbid water.