a meal-is-in-the-life

Like a festive meal:
a juicy piece of meat,
a knife is in the right,
and fork is in the left,
some greens and some appetite.

On your empty stomach,
the past,
the present,
and the future,
and lives,
and deaths,
and Holy Scriptures,
and unholy lies.

a virgin-empty collective mind, —
a peace of mind!

— Fanfares!
— Fanfares and fireflies!
— In sizzling late July!

to chew,
to process,
to digest.

— be careful, don’t rush!
— you know, you’ll better rush and choke!

and die.

— don’t look.
— it is much better be blind nowadays.

Wrapped into napkin,
buried and forgotten.

a maggot in the dirt.
another festive meal
or fest for others.

and plate, —
just a plate
and a few drops of sauce
on it.


the art of war

I was watching my son playing
with his plastic soldiers
the other morning.

I was stuffing my smoking pipe
with some smoking herbal mix
and drinking my tea.

There was a bloody fight,–
with many casualties.

and tea smelled delicious,
so did my pipe.

and floor was covered with
many wounded, dead and dying soldiers.

Yet, after his war was over,–
all the dead soldiers we brought back to life
and all the wounded were healed.
unlike in my war.

a hand-to-hand fighting

she’s a bayonet of the hole
in the chest

of the last scream of the bones
and the hiss of the punctured lung

a bayonet of the frightened words,
bitten lips

a bayonet of a tongue, buried in the tomb
of the mouth

a bayonet of the gushing words
onto indifferent sand of the time

a finger that numb on the trigger

a bayonet, because it is already
too close to shoot.

a bayonet, because it is too far to fear.