an ode to the approaching snow storm

I think, I’d get another bottle of booze
before the storm will hit the Northeast
this weekend.

I know, the weathermen are no longer a threat,
but socialism is becoming a trend.

I’ll drink a shot or two to a sinking ruble and Mr. Pu.

To the republicans and democrats, which are struggling
to nominate some worthy candidates.

To Oscar, DiCaprio and the affirmative action plan,
and to the refugee crisis in EU.

To guns, terrorism and the war against terrorism.
To the southern border and to the long burning Middle East.

To the fanatics and atheists, to the human and to the animal rights activists.

but most of all I’ll drink to my kids, who will be playing with snow
in my backyard.

Let it snow.


Weathermen – also known as Weathermen and later the Weather Underground Organization, was an American organization that carried out a series of bombings, jailbreaks, and riots from 1969 through the 1970s.

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New Orleans

NOLA, – drinking my cajun Bloody Mary
from the plastic cup.
the canvas of the paratrooper’s bag in the dusty flea market store, I will paint the still alive of a bench in Jackson’s square on its camouflage.

you’re making me drunk with your beer in the disposable cups,
waking me up with a chicory coffee
served by the stoned waiter with a broken arm.

many dirty windows and the smell of the mold on the walls.
turtle soup and a voodoo doll of yourself.
take a pin, stick into its back, get the best back scratch in the world.

a local girl, serving flaming Dr. Pepper, flames, everything is in flames
her burning eyes still haunts me in the nights.
an old portrait of a dixieland musician
in the Preservation Hall.

her beautiful breasts for a beads made of teeth,
a teethless neighborhood, empty lots.
the hurricane washed’em all away,
her withered breasts,
only stone steps left on the dry land.
I remember her European name.

nocturnal #7

he is a semi drunk office plankton
with the titled tie, on his sweaty neck.
wearing a worn out on the elbows suit
and a faux leather laptop bag on his back.

he was whispering something to the ear
of some tipsy with a percocet dullness in her eyes
woman in the business attire and Midwestern accent.
and the oxytocin moon was peeking into her welcoming cleavage
while vaguely smiling.

they were nervously smoking and giggling,
while standing by the “we saw everything” doors
of the casual Irish pub,
across the Pennsylvania Hotel.

(I never thought, that the angels may look like this)

and there was an illusion of harmony.

a rare tranquility in the mid-town Manhattan
of the late summer evening.

étude #18

naphthalene of the skin
and a formaldehyde of the smile.

etched on image,
that appears every when I close my eyes.

smell of a peppermint mead,
meditating over the airplane traffic.

“I never wanted to be a hunter,
yet I was a soldier”.

“this is not a mantra, – okay, now it is gone”.

you’re holding the dry leaf,
twitching and threshing it between your fingers.

“are you cold?”

“here is my scarf.”

the bees are preparing for the hibernation;
leaving clover fields unattended,
somewhat earlier this year.

“no, these are not the stars,
these are lights of the Big City you see.”

“don’t worry the river won’t carry’em away to the Ocean”

the drunken stupor in the middle of Battery Tunnel

Stuck in a drunken stupor
in the middle of Battery Tunnel,
I lost my way out
into the uterus.
No, I won’t get out.

I am an alternative elephant
on his way from the fairy Dhambhala(1)
to the walls of Troy.
The walls will soon fall
like Palmyra’s second fall;
blood is running again in the ancient streets of the city.

Walking the streets of New York—
two eggs on a roll, a papaya doll,
her satin summer dress—
my mind is a mess.

The karate man, breaking his matchstick house with his forehead.
Crack!

A single man sounds all the voices
of the Eastern bazaar;
A single bearded lady,
a medieval bizarre.

I am the little boy
playing in the dreary hall.
The time is full of nicotine,
the smell of a fling is in the air.
Have you seen my plush voodoo bear?

Thousands of spears of lust
have pierced my flesh
while I was waiting for you
on the Asphodel meadow(2),
yet there is no breeze in the air
to soothe till the first star comes out.


  1. A mythical Buddhist retreat and study center
  2. In Greek mythology, a part of the underworld where the souls of ordinary people go after death