asphalt, Park Avenue
dry leaves, cigarette butts
under the feet
migraines – outlook

liquidity of light
entrance to the metro
an urge for a drink
metallic voice ‘s piercing the air
and the direction is love

Union Square – pigeons are the same,
maybe too gray
neckties are drifting aside,
sound of many heels

we used to stroll
here, darling
but this asphalt
doesn’t remember our steps.



it seems that time has stopped
or just got sick to tick and tock
and thereafter you don’t want to
be someone or be for someone else
nor have a smoke
nor have a drink

rather to
become just another face in subway car
or a window in the night of some cheap motel
a long forgotten thought in someone else’s head
or laugh at someone else’s merriment

or a pile of letters cut out from some newspapers that
even God Himself
cannot decipher

a breath

air is entering the body with every inhalation
air is coming out with every exhalation
yet you’re no longer the same before that inhalation
you’re no longer the same before that inspiration
so does she or he
they are also no longer the same as before
and now –
to the next breath-in-and-exhale

and so on an so forth
till the end of the days
breathe in and out

and yet, you can’t stop for a moment
to take a breath


Not a day

Not a day without news and a change of color,
as a cartridge after a cartridge
in the barrel of machine-gun turns
out of the verbal participles.

Inflamed Blitzkrieg
in swollen veins
on the back of  palms.

Outside the window is hanging
electric moon, on the sweaty mirror –
a look – like a forgotten word.

She-said-no, –
he said yes,
and then – like trains on a stretch.

It will hurt and will pass,
although, – sometime it will remind
a Raven’s Eye

pupil to the pupil, –
on the edge
not moving.


what if #3

what if
I’ll become completely hollow inside
and only naked echo
will tease my ego and that other
that messing up my life

and then I’ll have some tea
or wine to refill that
emptiness again
but with the right stuff