a spy

Every morning I see this guy
standing at the same bus stop as I am,
waiting for a same bus as I am.

He always wears a perfectly fitted suit,
carries an expensive leather briefcase.

His eyes are always hiding behind the sunglasses,
even when it is raining,
always looking at some undefined spot.


Always on time.

I call him “a spy”.

I am sure nobody cares about him,
but I was always curios about what does he do.

This morning I learned
that he always takes this bus
to the mental clinic
where he receives his treatments every day.

Now I am wandering what people may think of me,
while I am standing at the bus stop
and flapping my wings of silver and bronze
from time to time.


Icarus #2

Icarus fell from the sky
with a noise of the landing B-52 bomber.

his wings were stolen by the unholy panhandler
the moments before he regained back his consciousness.

she found him covered with wax and Albatross feces,
lying down in the puddle whistling Chopin’s Étude in E minor.

she took him home and asked for a child, yet he refused,
but used her body while her soul wasn’t looking.

at the crack of dawn he opened the window of her cozy East Village apartment
spread his arms and stepped down.

I couldn’t finish reading this story,
the lady in the train rolled her Post
and stepped out on West 4th.

don’t call

“don’t call”.

they won’t find a mark
on your skin
left by her merciful lips.

the flying train is
on it’s way to the black hole.

the wishing well
for the irrelevant astronauts.
they bury their wet dreams in its
shallow waters.

“don’t call”.

they probably don’t know
where will be the next stop

an episode when you
finally found her.

standing in meadows
along the Gypsy brass orchestra
playing an obscene blues in
A minor.

“don’t call”.