• A KIND OF BLUES

    Why were you knocking at night on the floor
    up above with your all-seeing cane Almighty?
    The proper thing was for you to come and help.
    Didn't you see me? I was collecting discarded mankind
    from a documentary's dustcart - stifling
    the hunger emitted your black race's grief.
    Didn't you see how gravely the dark circles
    were closing one by one round its eyes?

    Well, where are the loaves? Was the Holy
    baker who kneaded their multiplication
    so that all ate and were filled
    a racist perhaps?

    Little girls - a familiar soft plaything
    a suitable gift for dolls not too old -
    lying on the sun's stretchers.
    Their figure raped, before long
    they'll acquire black bastard earth
    You being the Father most likely.

    Infants hanging from wailing's teats
    mothers all skin who squeeze and squeeze
    to get milk from the scene.

    On transparent membrane leanness draws
    swift skeletons that knit together boys.
    About ten years' old - compare;
    at their age twelve years' old He
    proclaimed a provisioner church; the world over.

    You won't believe it, these creatures here
    Christ too when he was still a little cross
    a light piece of jewellery on the upward neck
    were given birth by me; rosy things. When still possible.
    When at the least angel
    I'd straightaway conceive lilies
    simply by smelling the white
    still fragrant world virginally unsuspecting.

    That's why;
    vanity's bucket has sprung a leak
    and I refuse to buy it a new one.... more »

  • A MINUTE'S LICENCE

    The house a tiny neighbour to the sky.
    Nearness' tendency built so high
    on a peak's open wings like
    a lectern that splendour might read the dawning
    the meridian the setting gospel of the day.

    I go out into the yard. Waiting for me sparkling
    with reins saddle harness is the horizon's wild freedom
    that I might mount and galloping tame its verification.
    Ah, only gaze and vision managed to ride
    this immaterial untamed conquest.
    The heavens' overweening views tumble are dashed
    for the unhindered is of the briefest duration.

    See how it catches on a stretch of barbed wire
    round the property. Low, tame and yet
    if you look carefully consider it carefully it divides
    my good-morning from the neighbour's
    all day long fanaticising borders quietly arming
    the weeds against their brothers.

    At night alone the unifying fragrance of night flowers
    cuts through it in places and passes
    in the demented glow of the fireflies
    - glowbums we called them when alive.

    Oh, inglorious heroics by volunteer dreams. What's the point
    in encroaching on two inches more of moondust
    inheritance left by the summer to its passing.

    Let them observe a minute's licence
    those few illiterate widow extensions
    that the law doesn't cover

    though no one knows
    what hope still holds in store for them.

    Summer, Platanos-Aigialeia... more »

  • NOT ONE EXCEPTED

    Dreams are so antisocial.

    No friendships or bonds

    they sooner see us than vanish

    a spark exposed to a squall.



    Anthropophobia?

    Perhaps injured vanity

    since they work down in the mines

    of chances lost.



    They too had other

    dreams, you see.... more »

  • CARTOON

    I have to remember that packet of Camel
    The camel that tonight is a guarantee
    Of my attested insecurity

    Maria Kyrtzaki, The Woman with the Flock


    Are you still smoking those? Try Camel.

    Not that I'm advertising some new tar
    that removes death's difficult stains
    nor that I still believe in the different
    taste of the untried, in its new strength.
    Every kiss exchanged between the old sensual
    habit and each new gigolo smoke
    is quick-burning.
    A slower blend of love has not been found.

    Camel because
    however well you've managed till now
    alone on foot to advance the wilderness
    following of all its myriad paths
    the difficult one that brings you to the exclusion
    of all travel companions

    now as you see the climate has rebelled
    the sand rose up became a storm
    the cargo of time you bear became harsher
    lead drenched as it was by the rain of fast numbers.

    You wish the ozone were to blame, that the soul's
    black hole had grown overly big
    you wish your sterilising of dreams had failed
    so they wouldn't bear any others
    now you're wrestling, groaning, shrieking
    just as a dream shrieks that despite the sterilisation
    bears for you the dream of a companion.

    Accept then humiliation's admonitions
    and climb on the camel's hump opportunity
    offered you by that passing nicotine fellah.

    Climb up, admit it
    partner fears have entered your self-sufficiency
    (just the other day you were seen with company
    in sunstroke's mirror).

    Let's not fool ourselves my likeness.
    Only the futile is self-sufficient.... more »

  • DIVERGENCE

    Instead of hyacinths

    I thought I'd bring you heliotropes today

    so that my care might have more upright stems

    and its bony already meaning seem

    round-faced full of sun's seeds.



    Heliotropes. Silos of glowing heat.

    I prayed you'd benefit.



    And having arranged aesthetically

    by even heights my duty in the vase

    I stopped a bit to ascertain

    the flowers would rotate

    as their name heralds.



    Astonished I saw them turn toward

    my prayer's lunatic fulfillment

    gazing not at the sun but you.



    Out of respect.

    You were

    thousands of light years

    you recede.... more »

  • EASTER IN THE OVEN

    The goat kept on bleating hoarsely.
    I angrily opened the oven what's all the noise I asked
    the guests can hear you.
    Your oven's not hot, it bleated
    do something otherwise your cruelty
    will go hungry and at festive time too.

    I put my hand inside. It was true.
    The head the legs the neck
    the grass the pasture the crags
    the slaughter all cold.... more »

  • ECSTASY

    My small child

    got into mischief once again

    climbing the ledge of the universe

    his hand jostling the red

    plate hanging on the skywall spilling

    all the light down on himself



    God startled

    to see the sun

    dressed in child clothes

    scrambling back down the ladder

    of my mind



    And now I sit

    and sternly scold my child

    as secretly I steal his poured-on

    light.... more »

  • EXERCISES FOR LOSING EXTRA POUNDS IN A SHORT TIME

    Lie down. On something hard.

    At first comforts' vertebrae might hurt

    but gradually and painlessly the spine

    of immobility lengthens like a cypress.



    Now contract your bad habits

    in a rigid line.

    Bring your hands loosely to your chest

    like makeshift wings of temporary angels.

    Don't shift position.

    Deftly the supine rows.



    Don't be scared. Fear is fattening,

    it contains hunger.

    Don't snack on sensations. Too many calories.

    They're responsible for deprivation bulge.



    Eyes closed at all times please.

    No misconstruable peeking,

    no lollipops of light.

    They radiate ultraviolet nostalgia.



    Exhale forcefully, lie still,

    don't breathe, don't breathe —

    you risk imprinting only half

    the oarsman on the x-ray.



    Surrender now to the slide of sleep.



    I'll put on a tape, relax, your mama's

    lullaby, sleep my sweet

    baby, willing or not.



    Weigh yourselves. No moving —

    your body has an integrated scale.... more »

  • Exercises for Weight Loss in No Time at All

    Lie down. On something hard.
    At first your leisure vertebrae may hurt
    but gradually, painlessly, immobility
    straightens its back till it stands there like a cypress.

    Now compress your bad habits
    into one rigid line.
    Rest your hands on your chest
    like the makeshift wings of a provisional angel.
    Do not shift position.
    The supine rows best.

    Don't be afraid. Fear makes you fat,
    it contains hunger.
    Don't chew on sensations. Too many calories.
    They cause the fat of deprivations.

    Close your eyes, please
    no dubious chinks
    no lollipops of light.
    They emit ultraviolet nostalgia.

    Fully exhale, hold still
    don't breathe, don't breathe
    lest only half the ferryman
    appear on the X-ray.

    Let yourself slide down sleep.
    You just relax, I'll play
    your mother's lullaby on tape
    hush little baby hush
    like it or not I say.

    Weigh yourself. Please hold still:
    nested inside your body a scale awaits.... more »

  • FORBIDDEN SUBSTANCES

    Despite its polite temperature

    the night

    hustled October to its finish.



    Others too sat outside timid

    each one's fear

    won't easily forgo

    that tepid prequel of the wintry

    and so I too detoured

    your Nordic climate

    with an almost summery attitude.



    Are you cold? No

    we were discussing heatedly

    how very black the absent stars

    painted the sea



    your orange juice sat far

    from my coffee

    and totally out of context

    you whispered love

    dies before it gets to age



    I barely heard

    you pulled your chair

    so violently close its iron leg

    jammed into my leg's thought



    and up flared a suspect otherworldly

    fragrantly vacant pain



    plainly you

    God from your secret and forbidden

    heights had squeezed

    derision in my cup.... more »

  • I DO NOT KNOW [THE MAN]

    [Matthew, 73]

    Because you keep

    suspect company

    especially that of the soul

    you will be called someday to Prosecution

    for interrogation and identification.



    Be cautious

    confess laconically.



    They will lead you in darkness

    to a sealed informants' hall.

    You will sit

    at a fist-beaten table

    before a fat dossier

    of suspects' pictures.



    They'll leaf through it one by one,

    you will not speak, they will go on.

    As soon as you see a finger press

    insistent as a gun barrel

    against a suspect's temple



    be ready you will say



    I do not know the man



    (thrice)



    the barrel will move slowly, it will land

    on time's temple, keep

    steady insistent



    I do not know the man



    (thrice)



    equally strong if terrified

    your answer in front of death's

    photograph must stand



    I do not know the man



    (thrice)



    and when the Prosecutors finally

    irritated and with savage

    punches smash your face

    upon a faint exquisite sketch

    in dreaming's charcoal



    I never saw it again



    once



    you will say.... more »

  • I LEFT YOU A MESSAGE

    Hello, hello, can you hear me? Hello?

    I'm calling from far away. What?

    You can't hear me? Has my distance

    discharged? Are you speaking from mobile

    space? Press zero again? Again?

    Can you hear me now?

    Yes, can you please put my mother on?

    What number did I call? The Sky —

    this is what I was given. She's not there?

    Can I scream her a message?

    It's very urgent, tell her

    I saw in my sleep she died and I

    small sobbing child who peed itself

    fear-soaked all the way

    up and still

    not dry.



    Tell her to come and change it.



    If she can't, tell her please

    her old warning ripened, that the old

    man would eat me if I didn't

    eat.



    It ripened. I became

    a meal of age. Not in a small dreamy taverna.

    In some popular dive now managed

    by the mirror.... more »

  • NOTHING IS LOST OF A PIECE

    Do you remember the small carafe

    a crown of blue blossoms painted on

    its wine-bearing lip?

    — you bought it in Alsace for me

    without enthusiasm

    what for, you said, we never drink.

    You never know, I insisted, one day we might

    in some haze need to meet.



    Its handle broke for no reason

    other than a deep crack in my touch.



    I hold it now from your hand

    steady with your hand

    my hazy alcoholic figment

    fills it up with wine.... more »

  • OF VISIBLE AND INVISIBLE

    c. Crickets Without Night





    Night

    I heard the crickets and the stars

    praising with incense

    you who gives them meaning —

    if you don't come they neither sing nor shine



    I heard the invisibles

    whisper gratitude

    for the absolute silence you spread

    allowing their resonance to clamber

    safely up awe's giant trunk.



    I also heard a few cowards

    badmouthing you for obscuring us

    how can they see to love us

    without light.



    What off-the-wall argument, as if

    stars and crickets without night



    love has ever clearly seen.

    Only by her genetically weak spark

    the wind-whipped light enlarged.... more »

  • LETHE'S ADOLESCENCE

    I wait a bit for the differences

    and the indifferent to darken, then

    I open the windows.

    It is not urgent

    but I do it to keep motion from warping.

    I borrow my former curiosity's head

    and twist. Not twist exactly.

    I nod a servile good evening to all

    those fawners of the fears, the stars. Not nod

    exactly. I fix with a gazing thread

    the silver buttons of distance, some of which

    are undone, tremble, and will fall.

    It is not urgent. I do it only to show distance

    my gratitude for its offering.



    Without distance

    long trips would shrivel. The universe

    our need to flee had pined for

    would be delivered to our door by motorbike

    like pizza. Like a leech

    old age would suck on youth and I'd be called

    grandmother from birth

    equally by eros and grandbabies.

    What would the stars then be

    without distance's provident support?

    Earthbound silver, some candelabra, ashtrays

    for the spent butts of pugnacious wealth,

    and fawning's investment bubble.



    Without distance

    nostalgia would speak to us in thees.

    Her now rare timid rendezvous

    with our plethoric need

    would fatally assimilate

    frequency's street-smart speech.



    Of course, without distance, our neighbor

    wouldn't seem a far-off star — he'd be

    in prime proximity, two steps would bridge

    his outline from a dream.

    As also nearby the soul's

    ultimate escape would stay.

    Why so much wanderlust? Whole rooms

    are empty. We'd go downstairs

    to live in our basement body

    and distance with its myth and odds and ends

    would incarnate to flesh.



    If not for you, distance, Lethe would,

    much easier and faster in one night,

    traverse her difficult protracted adolescence

    which we, for euphony, name recall.



    Not recall exactly. I fix facsimiles

    with a gazing thread — they've come undone,

    are trembling, and will fall.

    Not fix exactly. Servile, I orbit

    those fawners of time which I, for brevity,

    named recall. Not recall exactly. I refuel meteors

    with extended annihilation.

    It is urgent.... more »

  • LO LALA LOLA

    A dream on patrol

    in abandonment's tenements

    arrested an old acquaintance suspicion

    red-handed, leaning on

    a shuttered likelihood,

    eavesdropping.



    "Please understand," I told it,

    "the folks you nab are no garbage.

    Don't mire them in. I break my back

    retrieving them. They're for repair and return.

    You're not their expiration.

    A poor exhausted nap is what you are

    under the cool of tears

    while the repairs occur so they won't hurt."



    A skilled restorer, inspiration,

    precisely montaging all their trials

    without which the body doesn't trust

    any reintegration.



    New people never did exist. And even if

    we named a couple first-created

    it was to win imagination's

    majority confidence vote.

    They always show up second-hand

    from their mysterious origin, a mystery too

    how old that is, what slavery it comes from,

    horsewhipped in cellular plantations

    for dinosauric eons.



    We don't know a thing.

    Every beginning came to us

    a simile with its mystery.



    A fabulous restorer, inspiration -

    of every worn beginning

    renewing art, artifice, and life

    from ashes to Lo

    Lala Lola all fall up!



    Only their box is new.



    I send them down again with the old price

    since they have lived before.



    So, have we too?

    Then what's the quick?

    And is the seam a gimmick

    to make us love?

    If life is reparable

    where's all that's lost?

    Still being stitched?

    Can such delay be overcome?

    This inspiration, is it careful,

    correctly marking, numbering each piece,

    or does it use my body by mistake

    to fix like new what yours

    is lacking?



    So old each new sorrow.

    So dearly paid for its new box.



    O millionaire

    answers and your unknown

    hooded, secret abductors.... more »

  • MARCH

    A pleasant surprise.

    Today at 6:30 AM

    — instead of 7 yesterday —

    the public streetlights dimmed.

    Some small birds tripped a bit

    over their hazy twitter

    but right away one constantly

    strengthening hand of light

    lofted them on high.



    So now day's grown.

    By half and hour you will say.

    Is that so small?

    Just remember the chronovores —

    finally 2 minutes were enough

    not even.



    Then all the rest of the limitless

    remaining storm was yours.... more »

  • MICROWAVES

    What are you doing here

    a straight working road like you

    on an idle bench?



    Well, I'm psychoanalyzing free of charge

    this painter from a foreign dark-skinned land,

    how calmly and skillfully he paints

    the day out-of-work.



    I midwife reliability and honor.

    He plants the brush in one hand

    and in the other's microwaves

    he heats a breadstick dried by hours

    upon the sun's proclaiming tongue.



    I'm analyzing the inventive stalling

    of his hunger. He eats a sesame

    apart from each small bite

    extending its face value.



    The light annoys me. Difficult customer.

    He doesn't like the paint job

    keeps changing it by stirring in

    every new passing hour.



    I'm furious at obedient expatriation.

    With every passing hour

    it paints the unemployed day.



    Finish already.

    Soon the difficult customer

    will set.... more »

  • PASSE-PARTOUT

    I open the photo's windows
    to air it. It's been shut up for some time.
    like so many summer-house pasts.

    You're on the balcony. In your old favourite
    position; standing; you're wearing the earthly coloured
    tight-fitting costume of planes: a tiled
    roof the pine's inflatable anorak,
    patched in-between with sea
    in places where the branches tore
    playing with strong winds.
    The orchards are at high tide
    they're up to the telegraph poles
    and lemons dangle from the wires
    unripe festive bulbs.

    You're lowering the sun.
    You're roll up the awnings crushing
    canvas flowers. Impatiently you rotate
    the motion as thought shade were scarce.

    So far the photo's behaving logically.
    Until I appear, a paranoiac newcomer
    to the image; as if by plastic removal.

    Though I was beside you all along
    joint-owner of tide and orchards
    seated just behind you
    in my very cosy pliant smile
    in now seems
    as if I've just been added to the photo.
    With my present face, dark gaze
    long its tail dragging on the balcony
    as if I'd been invited by the official darkness.
    Not breathing I stretch as if wanting
    to get you away from the awning
    so no further shade quarry
    will fall on you.
    You're already sunless enough.
    How was the photo updated.
    How did real time get into paper time.

    With what familiarity did pain
    speak to the inanimate's apathy.
    Might the inanimate be something deeper.
    Perhaps the animate's former lives
    that at the first painful opportunity
    suffer a relapse?... more »

  • PROVISIONING SUMMER NEEDS

    Below, the sea waits always

    for a wrinkling wind.

    Athos Dimoulas

    "Supreme Generality"



    Some wide-flung windows

    hoist Summer up by insect derrick.



    I count: a couple of letters

    are missing. The bottom rocker of the s

    is gone. It had been loose last year.



    Now where will all this dimininution sit

    with its host of eunuchs?



    Still, the diminishing is firm —

    it withstands tons of pain. Sit freely.



    I think I'll add a recliner to the list

    to replace the broken s.



    I also need

    a small transistor radio

    glued to the ears of the waves

    tuned to the pirate stations of the sands.

    An easily sensitized song reels in

    characters that almost match the ones

    summer is missing and then some. In case

    you remember others. You'll have

    plenty of seats.



    Filtering glasses too, lest I remember more,

    though now and then I do wear smoky contacts.



    A hat for the sun

    although it blazes less than when

    night and day you'd invent it.

    I'll try on an old sunburn

    curious whether my back's

    old crazy passion for it peeled.



    New swimsuit — my decline has gained

    a lot of weight. In fact, I'd relish

    a new body — to sit along its miles and stroke

    the airy wrinkles of the sea.

    But logic will finally prevail:

    the logic of this body at my disposal.



    All the sea's Ss one by one

    are carefully hoisted bubble-wrapped

    in blue transparent water

    by seagull derrick.



    What sea? Mere

    illusionist pirate water —

    a distant cosmogony's refugee.

    Corruptingly immense

    because of the precipitous

    and schistic initial temper of the cosmos.

    Harlot escape's optical pimp.



    What sea?

    Time for the logic of the body

    at your disposal to prevail.



    Get dressed and swim.



    (Tear-Dumping Strictly Prohibited.

    Maturity already is
    rabidly salty on its own.)... more »

  • RESURRECTION WEEK

    The devotion night will show us

    oppresses me. I prefer



    to remember. Not that my well

    of living images is dry.

    But each time I place them

    in their expressive postures,

    I see by morning they have moved.

    I know it by the scrapes their drag

    from their original positions leave

    on stability's luster.



    It's why I insist

    on remembering: to not mar the luster.

    Not because it makes me feel more durable

    — it being the infinity of time already lapsed.



    If I insist on remembering

    it's not to accommodate God — arousing

    the inert figures, I provide him

    also with some motility.



    I insist on remembering

    not because ease offers me this choice

    gratis. By arduous feeling and sacrifice

    and turning despair inside out,

    I eked out how to squawk-dyi squawk-ing —

    I speak crow-Latin to keep the menace

    ignorant of my refuge.



    If I insist on remembering

    it's not to find excuses

    for always speaking in the same

    worn words — what do you think the new ones

    are? A temporal childish defiance

    to the old.



    If I insist on remembering

    it is no battle-flinch

    no backwoods retreat. All kinds

    of people constantly pass by.

    What I remember can be seen

    from the most central districts.



    For a little hope, a hint of renewal

    I remember. I'm totally fed up with all

    that ineluctable and future Lord

    squawk why-have-you-forsaken squawk—

    without exaggeration!... more »

  • RESURRECTION WEEK

    The devotion night will show us

    oppresses me. I prefer



    to remember. Not that my well

    of living images is dry.

    But each time I place them

    in their expressive postures,

    I see by morning they have moved.

    I know it by the scrapes their drag

    from their original positions leave

    on stability's luster.



    It's why I insist

    on remembering: to not mar the luster.

    Not because it makes me feel more durable

    — it being the infinity of time already lapsed.



    If I insist on remembering

    it's not to accommodate God — arousing

    the inert figures, I provide him

    also with some motility.



    I insist on remembering

    not because ease offers me this choice

    gratis. By arduous feeling and sacrifice

    and turning despair inside out,

    I eked out how to squawk-dyi squawk-ing —

    I speak crow-Latin to keep the menace

    ignorant of my refuge.



    If I insist on remembering

    it's not to find excuses

    for always speaking in the same

    worn words — what do you think the new ones

    are? A temporal childish defiance

    to the old.



    If I insist on remembering

    it is no battle-flinch

    no backwoods retreat. All kinds

    of people constantly pass by.

    What I remember can be seen

    from the most central districts.



    For a little hope, a hint of renewal

    I remember. I'm totally fed up with all

    that ineluctable and future Lord

    squawk why-have-you-forsaken squawk—

    without exaggeration!... more »

  • REVERSAL OF THE REASONABLE

    My God, try to remember

    where you hid

    the findings of that awful accident.

    I dug where I detected

    some buried wrecks of logic, but besides

    the illogical's propellers spinning still, I found

    no other explanation.



    I want to understand what overturned the rule

    and brought about that fatal

    by exception.



    What happened? The road was straight.

    The warring anarchic differences —

    which charged you from their lair

    behind the serene Edenic equality

    of blooms blooms and the flowers ―

    you cleverly quelled, corralling them

    in a spacious gradation:

    large

    small

    smaller

    least.

    And so the major matter: who eats whom

    was settled in the court of mass.

    The hunger of the smaller feeds

    the hunger of the larger and so on.

    It only surfaced later that

    the reasonable was not

    so fruitful.



    And while the large fish ate the small

    the ephemeral the butterfly

    eros ate eros

    proliferation the unique

    the soul was eaten by its fretting

    over leaving us

    the seven goats devoured by the wolf

    except the smallest one who hid

    behind a story.

    What happened, God, that final moment

    on such straight road, were you daydreaming

    and the rule reversed and we fell in

    that fateful by exception

    so now the small worm eats

    the large



    human

    except the smallest one

    who hides behind

    a story.... more »

  • Romantic Disagreement

    Of course I am
    against disturbing the moon.
    For many reasons.
    Not only is it an unseemly exaggeration
    —personally I've long avoided exaggerating
    because of exhaustion—
    but it is also improper.
    So far, the moon's relations with the earth
    have been
    highly formal.
    Discreet from its enchanting distance,
    it offered perfect solutions
    to mankind's musing.
    And, above all,
    every so often,
    it silver-plates
    this worn-out earth for free.... more »

  • SYNTHESIS

    A late-arriving friend brought by

    a basket of flowers progressively arrayed,

    white proper roses in the center

    fortressed in their buds,

    a moat of laurel leaves

    around the Achilles virtue of their freshness,

    and something else among their vital defended naïveté . . .



    And as our torrent of familiarity brought up

    a daze of stories, inner-tubes of events,

    tree-trunks of seductions, twigs of fame,

    their chance and reckless current flung your name

    forcefully against the boulders of my hearing

    how you had died in Africa too soon

    — your heart fell from its horse.



    So why had I insured your life

    in some newly-constituted little poem?

    It searched for a customer like mad.



    I don't even remember

    what huge sensation I exerted

    to ensure your voice's mane

    the silver melodic identity

    — in capital notes inscribed

    the purebred name of your hand —

    the violent equestrian gaze

    and me left below it at the trough.



    . . . dark little purple knots, third cousins

    twice removed of tears, bury your very early news.... more »