A list of the factors responsible for my psychological unrest
Nightlights such as this one may be used to counteract fear of the dark.
wandering uterus -
roving winding jaunting -
roaming travelling wayfaring -
fickle thoughtless vagrant -
which burns like an insult
and the floating world
of the cherry tree outside my window
snowing flushed froth
over the untroubled stones
This cardboard car catapults us from one nebula to another:
through village after village after village after charred sunflower fields
after charred sunflower fields after ardour and simplicity
Motel Jezebel not of the best repute,
an in-between-hemisphere, electric-shocked one-night-stand-stop
among the already-vestiges of the last century’s factories price-inflated gas stations along the highway’s spine stretched unknowable as God
and baby-bedroom-blue as any tomorrow,
as any horizon: this is where things become too clear, the hypothalamus, the brain’s peacock,
here is where the entire world wiggles, it threatens to topple over,
a threat graver than any reality
We pave our path to the city’s centre (cobblestones suffer the advantage of singularity:
recognize that particular stone that we tread every day, perhaps,
as simple luck,
or perhaps as so many sights and frights nutritious to the obsessive mind)
and arrive at the inn we always stay at. (Isn’t absolutely miraculous that we don’t remember every atom of our lives?
On the street with a heartless keeper on the street with the UrsulineConvent
a place of exemplary education for young ladies, and descend know cobblestones steep to medieval dimensions,
no difficulty to sled,
arrive at the train station
with your exemplary education,
your ghoulish guide rubbed out of a genie lamp points left: on your right there’s a hotel
that bears the name Continental, once Boulevard like streets that bore the name King Ferdinand and that metamorphosed to Stalin
and back to Ferdinand again
Pay your respects
at the cemetery where a little boy with a woman’s voice sings braiding himself among the graves, among the graves
Andreea in three minutes, or Iulia,
or Miss Scridon, or nobody at all
just any phantomette who might ascend that yellow cab
to the great Metropolitan Street where Tagore tread some time ago
and the Cathedral, of course, with its trippable front-step and kissable holy-relics it’s July the sky is an oven and we’re cracking of thirst
under the apostolic cataract in the sky
and the radio already speaks with the voice of the dead. Already the universe has interrupted its signal with sense, Already your head has been cut in two.
You don’t like to be a hypocrite, But this is what you’d do for love!
The Engulfed Cathedral
They have hung the moon
from the ceiling of the engulfed cathedral
in unexpected snowstorms, they pull off their mittens, pull back their hoods,
pull back the wrought iron door handle,
breathe relief in the sweet
warm crypt-stomach of the engulfed cathedral
It was the 27th of November that they hung the moon
from the ceiling of the cathedral.
My prayers today, on the 28th of November,
take the following form:
My little star, grant me one wish and bring me three:
send me a lamp with a genie inside
the lamp genie is enigmatic and evasive,
for this reason I admire
the lamp genie
when I grow up,
I’d like to be a lamp genie
my angel, bring me back just one object that I’ve misplaced
Oh, how I’d tremble before the things I’ve lost!
a baby doll,
a coral ring,
a bracelet from the monasteries,
two email accounts and only seven passwords in total
penance for all –
your sweet wax face frightens me
and I see it in all places
they have hung the moon in the crypt-stomach of the engulfed cathedral –
a warm, eclectic Christianity
How they smile beyond the thunder,
how they wear their molars like pearl chokers
as they tilt their heads in wonder!
Never in the past five centuries
has the engulfed cathedral been so full of believers
Footprints in the Snow
I took Schulz and Hrabal out of the library,
and walked out into the gingerbread.
It leaked into the toe of my boot.
I bought cheese from the deli shop
and wore the clouds’ stars in the cape of my hair.
Alone at home,
I made myself hot chocolate.
As I drank it,
I watched the little blue-white wheels
stick themselves to my old pane.
This was before the moths ate me.