a myocardium

the traffic,
is a clogged artery.

a transitional state
between the dreaming
and the awakening.

slow advance,
slow thinking.

driving or dozing.

spilled the coffee all over the hand,
in the car,
in the bus,
a banal refrain.

“the radio just said
the accident ahead.”

“he woke up this morning anew,
and died this morning too.
anew?”

it is already today,
but feels like yesterday.

myocardial morning.

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Good morning, Mr. Sandler

fragments of dreams are stuck to your skin,
crumbles of death on the fingertips.
rain doesn’t wash, a sentimental tosh.

and it reeks, reeks in your memories.
mouse traps, holes of Swiss cheese,
sex scenes, a girl in flipflops.

the reflection of the clouds
flushed to the drain,
pregnant skies are leaking the rain,
one more stop in the crowded train.

baseball, page six, stifled perfume,
a flirt or small-talk, elevator up, elevator down.
“I am sorry, I stepped on your foot.”

Shoot!
cellphone in one hand, the coffee cup in the other.
No Zero Coke, sloth.

dark stairway, dusty carpet, cement walls.
indifferent look, close circuit cam, an eyeball.
security officer is watching porn on the cellphone.

“Good morning, Mr. Sandler, have a nice day.”

the confession of the mirror

waking up in the morning, –
for her is became more of a routine,
rather than a necessity.

she is still in her bed, laying naked.
naked inside,
stripped from yesterday’s ado
by the artificial nightmares.

covered by the shades from the oak tree.

soon she’ll get up.
her feet will touch a hardwood floor,
and the tiles will happily squeak
rejoicing in her steps.

she’ll slip into her t-shirt,
(it wasn’t originally her)
who knows
who cares.

(I do, because I saw)

first she’ll make herself another coffee,
then she’ll make herself another day.


another day,
the t-shirt is on the hardwood floor,
and no more naked feet.

only pain,
left by her high heels on the shiny surface.

the empty coffee cup.
shades of the tree, that on the southern wall,

and me
her mirror on the wall.

people with tired faces

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.

a contemplation

the approaching train
a smell of ozone
a scent of a must

a sleeping on the platform
homeless man
scattered petals around
a comfort

she is reading newspaper
(I had a glimpse)
perpetuating garbage
a sense of belonging

squeezing fingers
holding a paper cup
a morning anemia
plus some caffeine

the screeching wheels
of the leaving train

an indifferent conductor’s face

this is the moment
when then day begins