When the winter is over, –
a spring will come, and maybe
summer at once.
You’ll ask me: “Will it always be like that?”
and I’ll answer: “No, there is nothing eternal in the Creation.
Everything once comes to an end, –
sooner or later. ”
“Fool, don’t be a smart ass as always”, – you’ll say, –
“I’m talking about spring, and you’re already buried the summer!”
Take my hand and lead me through these long isles
of human desolation;
over burning bushes and forsaken altars of pride.
Carry me over of Sulfur rivers of guilt,
while thousands of zombified adolescents
bemoaning their implanted memories of glorious past.
I traveled from Providence to Death Valley
in quest of those who knows The Meaning,
but didn’t meet any single soul occupying living bodies.
The resurrection of Lizard King was cancelled by the unions.
Prayers exfoliating in tinfoil scales
while undermined street sweepers cabaret dancing
between piles of dung.
I peeked through the gates of abandoned cities,
whispered wishes through the cracked windows.
I drank with sailors in bars of Portland Maine,
but never met Epione* sitting at the bar.
Listen to the neighbor’s radio playing Lacrimosa
while he’s frying eggs with veggie bacon.
Lay me down into the artificial womb
and feed me with milk and honey.
‘Till the spaceship will brings us all
closer to the event horizon.
- In Greek mythology goddess of soothing
so we lived
and we laughed
and we cried
and our heads were aslant
and our smiles were wry
and our eyes were impudent and dry
and all our limbs, were not our limbs
and all our thoughts were prosthetic
so we lived
and the serpent was naked too
and my baggy pants were the witnesses to the trespass
and all the sand from sand-clocks won’t be enough
to bury our guilt
and the Death has forsaken us
in our castles of dirt
and Joseph became second to the Pharaoh
and the father has found his son
and the Messiah is waiting by the gates of the City
with his lepers
so we lived
Earlier this morning,
on the subway platform in Brooklyn,
Manhattan bound, I was dealing with the hermeneutics
of pouring rain, soaking people
and the subway train,
that was running late.
and I didn’t find anything prophetic
in this morning nuisance.
Till later, —
when the woman entered the train
with her disabled son.
She didn’t say a word, but the eloquence
of her eyes was overwhelming.
She looked at her boy,
I was looking at them.
I saw the light,
but the shell around my soul
was still too thick
then I had to step off.
and as you flood ether
with words of meaningless and bitter discontent, —
I’ll be the one
who is always
and all the angels will go on strike.