asphalt, Park Avenue
dry leaves, cigarette butts
under the feet
migraines – outlook
liquidity of light
entrance to the metro
an urge for a drink
metallic voice ‘s piercing the air
and the direction is love
Union Square – pigeons are the same,
maybe too gray
neckties are drifting aside,
sound of many heels
we used to stroll
but this asphalt
doesn’t remember our steps.
On the Seven train platform is quiet.
On the Seven train platform everything remains without change.
On the Seven train platform a homeless man in red jacket
is sleeping on a bench in twisted pose.
On the Seven train platform is empty.
On the Seven train platform time stopped.
On the Seven train platform a robot woman is announcing weather.
On the Seven train platform you don’t feel any pain.
On the Seven train platform you can’t see the sky.
On the Seven train platform is only allowed to wait,
but with your mouth shut.
To the Seven train platform a train never comes.
I’ll rescind myself from further
meandering between right or wrong,
and let my consciousness
to have a tête-à-tête with my eternal
soul, while my intoxicated body will be
occupying an empty couch in the nucleus of
the void of your universal love.
a witchcraft is slowly turning into
a witch-hunt; Rangers won
and Devils lost.
Fighting social demons
by bashing gravestones.
Do you hear, – a cancer growing?
Do you hear how your exuberance is leaking
from the ventricles of days?
Inside – Around:
a self-induced consolation.
an umbilical cord
a needle on top of the syringe
just a few ways to convey
an anti-Truth serum.
an art of creation, – passe
an art of destruction, – a novelty
one good thing, – NASA had discovered planets
that might support life.
another good thing, – we’re not there yet.
I almost failed to remember
my obligation to see myself
withdrawing from my mental exile
in a self induced coma.
a State of the Union
All buses are sponsored
and waiting under the bridge
away from the Eye of the Beholder
away from the Thunderstorm of Hail and Fire.
The path to the dystopian future
is laid out through the parting of mind.
(Sea of Reeds)
Don’t jest and perform miracles
while stuck in limbo
frozen in salto mortale
over abyss of self awareness.
musical condoms and postcards
She likes her neighbor next door, –
his canary likes her pussycat.
fire escape ladders
and bathtub operas.
“Our elevator doesn’t make any stops at the Purgatory”
new revolutions, –
same old regimes.
Same good old dead comrades, –
they fought for peace
and it peacefully disposed’em.
“All they needed was love”.
a cotton candy
a strawberry dish soap.
I love you, – you love me,
I need a new rubber duck,
because the old one has moldy odor,
and hers needs a battery replaced.