Crush

                                                            To Emily Dickinson

 

those being young
who can lift the stone
in less than a second

will be left alone

‘cause nothing indeed

will be gone faster
than this sadness
of the old master

venerating the matter

and finding that truth
is dying to early
for its lack of youth.

Love scheduled perfectly

I will set up a schedule for our love
My love
It will tell us precisely when
To show love
When and why
To argue
My love
It will clear the air
And day by day hour by hour even minute by minute
Like a day’s heartbeat should be:
Divided, cut in tiny pieces, shredded…
We will know what we need to know
My love
Now the only think you have to do for me
My love
Is child play, a simple gesture, really!
Don’t mean to put any pressure
On your busy day,
Your minutes are hungry: they eat your life,
And there is no time left,
Not even enough time to
Make promises…

Will you call me back, my love?

 

like a shadow

to wave with the shadow of your hand

to the shadow from your neighbor’s window

and her, reaching inside the darkness

to knock at your door later on

with a yellow smile, velvet like

with the shadow of your hand then

you will reveal her teeth

a row of white and hot keys

letting the shadow of your forehead

to dream on top of them

and the murky flesh to tremble

the shadow of your body sitting in her shadow

like a cradle

bearing a single shadow…

like a scream.

Kafka, the Conductor

If he would be around today,
And signs are that he lurks everywhere,
Franz Kafka would be a music festival director
For the US Congress, playing only during recess
To atone for the absurdity of the power dance,
Or the high pitch screams during the lobbying incest,
And for all the aborted laws favoring social rape
Knowing that even though the chosen ones
Beg for limited love
When the building feels so far removed from its
Original score
Kafka, the un-elected conductor, would continue
To play, to move his hands up and down
Rearranging the notes to fit the clowning
Around, to appease the audience with
Promises of sanity and harmony
Like any good leader of a mad choir would do.

If you don’t have anything else inc.

we call him the chicken-man

everyday, against the 78^th street’s walls

against many imaginary enemies and memories

mumbling about and demanding

warning the moon to come closer and kiss his forehead

while sipping his free coffee from Burger Factory

his steady audience hardly notices anymore

the absence of his wings, the fakeness of his chicken sounds

and in spite of any noise, threat, smell, push, nip, nudge or call

to civilized citizenry, they come and listen

hey, the chicken-man is here!, come and listen, folks!

and laugh about

write about

shudder about

tell about

worry, wince, curse, berate and

walk away

just walk away

why not

he’s just another crazy street parrot

a Broadway relic, with a hoarse voice and scary smile

or, maybe, he’s a champion of dialogue with strangers

a fine observer of our perverse way of ignoring the moon

who should be closer to our forehead by now

its light, felt like a kiss of cosmic meaning...

could this be the chicken-man’s dialogue

with me

with you

with all the pedestrians

that never stop

never listen

even me

or you

never…

What you are saying and what we are

Any other time I would be surprised by your comments

Not now though, as you look stunned and puzzled by my looks

Youthful you say, despite my mature and somewhat conservative behavior

Additional proof, if ever one was needed, that who we are may be deceptive.

I listen to the rapid fire of your carefully picked words and only

Once in a while I detect hesitation, mostly, it is your mind’s flow

Appraising the untenable details of our magic encounter,

Nourishing, not only on the surface, and tender in so many ways…

Tempting like a rare perfume is your subtle suggestion

Whispered between an invitation and a soundless wish

Only to be heard and understood as miraculous possibility…

We radiate like stones mounted on long lost rings

As dazzling and as unnoticed as the imploding stars of a

Neutral and all important universe known only to a handful of

Dedicated observers…

It is said that what’s good for the fourth century

Elevates our own, yet we haven’t even started to practice beyond

Reluctant and timid gestures… we learn more about power

Intercepting our own weak signals on the way, spells of innocence

Nested in our wandering souls, we learn new strategies of hiding our

Good side and new ways of using our cynical strength…

Sit and tell me stories

Or walk with me to the park

Under warm and gentle wind

Let your words flow

Stay a while. Here. Yes…

The Parable of the Key

There are those who have heard about your key

And there are those who have seen pictures of it

There are those to whom you described your key

In vague terms, offering more illusion and hope

And those who think that they know it in detail

Just from the way your lips make a perfectly round giggle

When you’re generous enough to tell your key story

There are those who had a glimpse of your key

And those who have seen the key in all its splendor

There are those who have used your key only once

Although they now imagine or brag that they actually owned it

And those, perhaps drunk at the time, who can’t remember

How it felt to have your key in their possession

There are also those who have used it a lot

And can’t remember at all how they could live

Before they started using it…

And then, there are those, happy ones, who are still using

Your key, blissfully ignoring your signs of separation,

And those few mad ones who threw it away

When they couldn’t get the meaning of its two blades,

Sharp sentinels to a tumultuous realm of pure pleasure,

And finally there are those who are still dreaming

Of a key just like the one you possess,

Not even knowing that it actually exists…

And you, always dangling your key, proud of it,

Touching and caressing its random forms,

And dreading the day when you’ll be forced

To keep it in your purse, forever…