no feelings

an introverted morning
a lukewarm coffee
I’m on the bus
you’re waiting

an airport
just quickly passing
meet me at the terminal
we’ll watch departing airplanes together
our minds
are also departing
in opposite directions
no hard feelings
no hard feelings

a therapy for losers
a monotonic skyline
of the City

a maculated night
a barren morning
I’m aimlessly fumbling in my pockets
you’re looking at the oversized baby
on the poster

no hard feelings
no hard feelings

no feelings

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​Tres Hermanicas Eran *

Three sisters lived in town, —
two got married;
one had another plans.

I knew her,
she was weaving dandelion circlets
at the dawn
and playing with the orphans in the narrow streets of our town.

She ended up locked inside
in the high tower in the middle of sea,
by her beloved father.

Many tried to had her flesh
or her heart…

They all dead now, but who counts.

Fish food, fish food…

A fish doesn’t discriminate by the bloodline.

Tres hermanicas eran.
a premonition of a war.

a woman is sitting next to me,
she’s preaching about the upcoming Apocalypse.

She turns to the river,
to the clouds to the dormant in this summer heat Brooklyn with her presentment;

I am drinking my beer, —
watching gliding seagulls.

Tres hermanicas eran.

I know their blood is running in my veins,
so as the salt of the sea
and sweat on their skin
under the Mediterranean sun.

They all dead by now,
by a sword or by fire,
by a firing squad
or by the gas.

I know, because I saw
the dandelion crown washed to the beach.

Tres hermanicas eran.


  • A medieval sephardic love song.

a cyber punk age Prophet Jonah

I am a digital fish
an eternal outsider

random voices
are making up
a volatile matrix.

(life)

these voices,
are constantly murmuring
behind the telephone lines.
“do you hear’em?”

some’re telling the future
some don’t tell the past.

lost sense of time,
while looking
for an artificial prophet
to assimilate.

(a death?)

planned rebirth
on the shores of the city.

yet apparently
doomed.

(regardless).

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

the song of the mating butterflies #2

listen to the patterns
of the highway traffic.

(fluctuating patterns)

the traffic flows
against the current
of the magnetic field
of the Northern hemisphere.

(East coast to the West).

doesn’t this music remind you a song
of the mating butterflies
in the fields of North Dakota?

doesn’t?!

you’re opening a rib cage
(it is just a cage)
and let all butterflies fly.

away.

the rib cage wasn’t designed
to keep the butterflies

away.

from the fields of North Dakota.