NEIGHBORHOOD
1996-1997
*
* *
I've just come
from a suitcaseless journey,
refreshed by a roarless flight,
with seeds of the starworld life
in my locket.
I came from The Islands,
named along exotic spices:
Melatonin, Melanoma, Melancholy -
I sampled incredible species
of life and death and their many combinations.
With some dry petals still in my pocket,
I am looking over my new dwelling.
*
* *
The night. The neighborhood.
The sleeping cars.
Where are their souls?
In bed: the sleeping bodies.
Where are the bodies’ souls?
In dreams. They drive.
Where are the dreams?
They fly. They never drive.
*
* *
Who tosses my head
From hand to hand,
Like a hot potato?
Who braids
My fingers?
Who wraps up my heart into a newspaper
And binds it crisscross with a cord?
Fear.
*
* *
The world will never end,
But we shall die.
The snow will always melt,
But we'll survive.
The dreams and hope:
between the snowfall and my world:
the frosted windowpanes.
* * *
This is a lie
that happy ones
do not write poems.
I do: I am.
I am not dead,
Nor ill,
nor in the pang of love.
I want to understand this world:
With whisper
I nudge it to respond.
*
* *
The way I see the winter night:
The sprawling Orion, the houses,
the windy dance of trees,
and lights in freezing pools,
and scent of distant dryers,
It is the way I breathe :
I simply live.
The language is the life.
*
* *
A one-legged poet of aging,
in the land of evergreens,
looking for my deciduous kind,
I want to lose everything,
to sleep over this ferocious winter
and sprout my defiant green.
Only the things age here
in their casings:
the buyers are immortal:
they divide like bacteria.
It is your trunk, they say, that we need:
we need firewood.
Your flamboyance is welcome.
* * *
This winter is slow!
A couple of distant cries
From a distant world:
A thunderstorm in February,
Washing away the last mildew of snow,
like somebody's last remaining years.
Some music, some poetry, some rain —
And my grass is coming from under the snow,
but only because the snow retreats.
Is there anything we don't know?
*
* *
Low-budget, silent,
black-and-white, static,
although with brilliant all-star cast,
the movie of the sky
is what I watch.
I am alone
In the abandoned drive-in
turned into a drive-out.
*
* *
I
don't want anything that ends,
And everything ends.
I don't want anything lasting forever,
But the rut goes on.
And so I start and end, start and end,
While the squirrel is doing its balancing act
On the upper beam of the fence.
*
* *
I cover the sprouts of daffodils
With glass jars:
The frost is coming
There is so much life in the woods -
Flying and crawling and hopping,
Still asleep.
Children run around
On rollers.
The change is coming.
There are so many ideas and plans
In my head.
But the frost is coming.
*
* *
Why do we like to look at young faces?
There were times when we saw only them,
Like dogs see dogs from afar,
And adults were like boulders -
all of different sizes,
But all the same.
Yet why do we look at old faces?
They are young
but rippled by the pebbles of events:
in the liquid mirrors of time
they are young.
*
* *
The ocean is ashamed of being so big:
He hides behind the horizon.
We can see only his wet tongue.
Often he just chews his cud.
Now and then, however,
ecstatic, with foaming mouth,
he wants to tell us something.
We only laugh,
we feel happy.
Hey, dreamer, it is just water.
No, it is wet wine.
Sweet saliva.
Well, it is plasma.
OK, saline.
*
* *
The comet, the Blue Moon,
a flood, a drought,
Waltwhitmanosaurus Rex,
Emilia Dickinsoni—
Whimsical, erratic,
they drop in on impulse,
haphazard.
The timely fall comes Always,
with the cornucopia of ripe old poets.
Who needs green poets?
They don’t exist. They are weeds.
There is no such thing
as a young thunderbolt.
*
* *
Like
you, women, I live by cycles,
From ups to downs,
Like you, civilizations, I rise and fall.
From pride to shame,
Like you, stocks, I soar and plummet
From nothing to nothing.
Like you, October foliage,
I stick to the ground:
With neither pride nor shame.
Like you, free water,
I rise with vapor and fall with rain,
From despair to delight.
I can’t believe
I am flowing downhill.
* * *
The
larger the crowd,
The smaller everyone.
We don’t reed same newspapers.
The tingling of the horror movie is sweet.
We can shine only among a few peers.
All we need is a few friends.
Civilization is not about friendship.
It is about things.
A Few is all we need.
The civilization of youth
Can only age.
The civilization of decline
Can only burst like a cocoon,
Sending the New into the world.
There is something Few inside us.
*
* *
It is
the night of the year:
We all are a big family:
The raccoons, the trees,
The bulbs of daffodils,
Beach chairs,
Sunroofs,
Light love affairs,
Skimpy nights.
We all are sitting in the kitchen.
The snow plows
Are turning in their sleep.
*
* *
The
sorrow is all over the place:
Young people are struggling with their youth,
Old people are struggling with everybody’s youth.
Nobody struggles with the old:
They snap even under a casual glance
They are either shy or arrogant,
Like teenagers.
*
* *
It takes forty years
For the petal of the upper lip to wither
But it still opens to a kiss
It takes thousand years
For a civilization to develop arthritis
But a lot of children still run around.
It takes five minutes to lose interest
In almost anything.
The life devotion is rare,
except to either beauty or money.
*
* *
There
are four friendly seasons:
No black, no white. No good, no evil.
Just a crisscross:
Male—Female. Up—Down.
Fall: FD. Winter: MD.
Spring: FU. Summer: MU.
This
is Fall: she is down,
And soon I will follow her,
and then I will wake her up
And follow her
On a carousel .
* * *
The
bituminous affluence,
The glutinous peace,
The molasseous comfort,
Somnolence.
Constant shuffle of small crises,
disorders, and moans.
In this circus a gunshot
like a whip in the arena
tames the timid, they cling together.
The bold ones watch the blood on TV.
The tireless, tyrantless nation
Is ever young.
It sleeps well.
*
* *
I am
afraid of sharing my memories
Telling my story
Opening my
heart
Being
frank.
A photo camera may take your soul away.
Likewise,
I am afraid of confessing.
I am afraid of the eyes of my listeners:
they may take my soul away.
When I speak,
I scramble my words.
* * *
Believer
in the conservation laws,
I relish my sorrow:
When I feel dismal,
Somebody is ecstatic.
This is my way
to make somebody happy .
But I have doubts:
When I make love,
Who is tortured?
I have my limits.
It is as easy to die as to be born.
I’d better stay alive.
* * *
Two whispers
are rustling in my ears:
The Tao tells me:
Go away, in the mountains,
Far from the crowd..
Buddha tells me:
Give up desire.
I never listened to any voice,
When I was young.
*
* *
Through
the stampede of Things,
Through the flurry of bills, ads, checks, forms,
I am dragging my feet.
From
the faces and breasts, like from beasts
From the hands and eyes, like from fires
I flee.
Tired
of souls, tired of thoughts,
Stamping the crackling dry twigs of ideas
following—like bacteria—the same branching pattern
for millennia,
Light and empty I feel.
I am happy:
I don’t want to change I for we.
*
* *
Surrounded
by the world,
I have nowhere to go
but into myself:
there are too many directions
outward, and the more out
the more branching.
Inward bound,
I find less and less junctions:
It is easy to find my way.
*
* *
Humankind!
We are all human!
I love everybody!
Embrace, millions!
I
wish I could be the citizen of the world,
But I am afraid to be in a bad company.
This
is my nation,
desti-nation, coro-nation,
my last rein-car-nation.
Nobody wants me here,
Nobody wants to make me happy.
The
apple pie is my coat of arms,
maize and pumpkin are my scepter and orb .
I am the king of squirrels:
they take peanuts from my hand.
*
* *
The
gears of instinct:
lever, cog, spring, crankshaft, piston—
The paraphernalia of memory:
byte, file, directory, disk—
The warehouses of possession:::
inside countless things
the callous, heartless ideas
lay stiff in the rigor mortis of matter.
The
woods of desire: shady, pungent, slippery, mossy—
The flowers of sorrow: tawny, ruddy, saffron, hazel—
The ephemeral kaleidoscopic butterflies of regrets
hatch from the pupae of fleeting longings.
*
* *
Do not fret over the shortness of life
And the softness of the flesh
Armored by the cuirass of the car:
The life of things is even shorter:
They die young in the jaws of fashion.
As compared with things we are immortal.
We take things as pets,
even consorts and lovers.
Their ferric hemoglobin
and ferrous genes
go to our ferocious heirs.
*
* *
Those
are my neighbors:
Small houses with no garage,
Oaks and Indian Cherries,
Cars running by as if to salvation,
Dogs trusted by their masters to wander around
Or just neglected,
Squirrels and all the invisible life in the woods.
The humans are not my neighbors:
they live in their own worlds.
For them I am only a neighbor.
For me they are ambassadors of the Earth.
*
* *
Try
something new, you smiling man,
used to the bitterness of coffee and chili.
Experiment around, you happy woman,
used to the bitterness of tonic and rejection.
Try the delicate sweet sadness.
Try on the exquisite death mask.
Try making somebody happier
than yourself.
Try the melancholy of solitude,
Various imperfections,
The vast ocean of infectious sorrow.
Navigate it by radio,
With closed eyes.
*
* *
So
few people cry here,
Not even the babies.
So
many young people run to the office
And shuffle back old and infirm.
So
few people lose their minds,
Not even the poor.
So
many people make love in a fish bowl
And then wash away the water.
So
few people see dreams:
So many live them.
*
* *
From
the Bronze Festive Age
To the Iron Rusty Age
I stepped over the threshold of maturity.
From
the continent of belongings
To the continent of property
I jumped in just a day.
From
the Paleolithic Age of pre-TV
To the Neolithic Age of the Web,
I have jumped in just one life.
By
definition,
The Golden Age is always behind
but I am still looking for it.
*
* *
It is
cold, cold...
“The world is old, old...”
With
the Medieval joy of battle, conquest,
hacked and pierced flesh,
we arrived at the moats of inner cities.
Where
is my walking stick?
“The world is sick, sick.”
With
so much insurance and taxes paid,
How can anybody die?
Life is too precious
to share the mind with death.
I
command this song to be sung:
“The world is young, young. “
*
* *
Surrounded
by the world,
How can we notice a leaf on the ground?
But we do indeed see it.
A blue jay watches me
with no clue of who I am.
But the mere attention will do.
Uninvited, unwanted,
everything is seen.
*
* *
It is
not the money, they say,
It is love:
the buttons of things come to life
like the nipples under the fingers.
In
the homey bedroom of the kitchen
The electrical whip is set for S&M.
It is family love, they insist,
changing the diapers of the toaster.
It is
not money, they say,
it is the Kama-Sutra of possession:
it is the seed of ideas
impregnating matter
in millions of ways,
making it bloat with things.
The
mature bulls of things
Are dripping with money,
looking for young cows.
It is
the power to erect
the lever of the voting machine.
* * *
It
all starts with the weather:
The wind from the north
runs along the spines of the hills,
ruffles the bristle of the pines,
picks up images
cuddling under the fallen leaves,
and ends up in visions of poets.
It all starts with the weather:
the south wind comes,
turning the kaleidoscope of combinations,
mixing up the impossible drinks,
waking up snakes and spiders,
warming up the land
for the wind from the north.
*
* *
So
much has been forgotten, lost,
and ridiculed to death,
that we may start anew,
even if ahead of time,
abating the shame of banality.
Eventually, we shall all get together,
invite the things and animals,
and provide handicapped access
for senior ideas.
A Renaissance computer
will display the fireplace.
We shall join virtual hands.
*
* *
Sometimes
I see from my windows:
Electric pole, cable, mailbox, car,
bicycle, airplane, and lawn mower.
Sometimes I see oak, dog, crow, squirrel,
firefly, cloud, star, and grass.
We could probably produce electricity
From my changing mood,
But a squirrel running high on a cable
Could mess up the emotional power station.
*
* *
The
color perplexity
of complexity
is down to one color,
not even black and white:
moonlight.
I understand all simple things
between life and death
love and hate
(there are not too many).
The moon is hooked up
to the fierce electricity
of simplicity.
*
* *
The
Things are joining the nature
in rites of life and death.
My car feels he is dead
Under the killing rain:
He is cooling down
like a corpse.
The other car is steaming:
She’s just arrived,
Full of life, irreverent of death.
We are joining the Things,
in rites of immortality.
*
* *
How
would I see myself
In a column on the march?
On the roadside.
How
would I see myself
In the field where men are wheat?
As a cornflower.
How
would I see myself
In a crowd of smiling faces, waving hands?
As a clock.
How do
I feel myself
In a crowd of the merry and proud?
Uptight.
Where
do I feel at home?
At home.
*
* *
The
rusty blood of Things
runs high in copper veins.
The rubber heart of Things
pounds away in plastic chests.
The purling brook of speech
wets carnal teenage sleep.
Our waxy curly brain
pulsates in puerile dreams
of our new children.
Soon we will talk face to face.
*
* *
Ice-Water-Snow-Water
Snow-Water-Ice-Water
The seasons are rocking my boat,
The water rolls from side to side:
It cannot freeze.
Reasons are simple.
Explanations are long.
Words are shadows.
Casting a long shadow is easy
When the sun is low.
It is
not what you think it is
nor what you think it is not.
To know the truth
Wait until the sun is hot.
*
* *
Only
useless things are precious.
To
play the husky xylophone of the trunks.
To drink the fog fresh from the sky udder
To mimic the brisk movements of birds.
Freedom
is not the freedom of choice:
To choose is a hard work,
like to sit still for a child.
There
is only one freedom:
of dolce far niente.
We can only dream about it.
*
* *
I
can’t believe I am telling him:
“ The matter consists of atoms.”
“ The earth is round.”
“ Life evolves.”
I
am branding this young mind
with red-hot iron.
He will never think otherwise.
Afraid of my power,
I bless the power of doubt.
*
* *
In the
world with no promise
of
rain to any desert,
nor luck to any affair,
nor happy marriage to everybody,
the Things are quiet bystanders,
the pillars to lean on
in a display of despair .
They take both love and rejection easy,
Equally good as servants and concubines,
They made us all the nobles.
Only a few of us fear the revolt.
Tonight
let us cling to the Things
oozing with the hot coffee of love,
crackling happily under our hands
and bodies,
smiling slyly behind our backs.
*
* *
It
all will flee me
in an exodus, as from Egypt,
in reversed order:
the last
as it came first to me:
The giants of adults,
the scary shadows on the ceiling,
fear of dogs and cows—
The knowledge of everything,
earned at the very end,
will go first, mercifully.
I will not understand the end.
*
* *
Do we
really need to say the truth?
With all the burden to prove it?
And the inconveniences to defend?
And the commitment to fight the lies?
Do we need to wake up every morning?
With the spousal naked body of truth?
Curled aside, frigid, fruitless?
No wonder they hate our truth.
Because we hate ours.
No wonder we are so nice and tolerant.
And carry electronic relativators
Along with tubes of skunk spray.
*
* *
All
the trees of a kind
are look-alikes.
You, human beings,
prone to imitate, follow, and mimic
like the school of fish—
you are not alone in the nature:
The curse of all things alive is:
to come in numbers.
Even those in the image of One
imitate each other’s uniqueness.
*
* *
Death
is life after me.
It is longer than life,
But much safer.
If it were as terrible as we think,
The roofs of the hospitals would collapse,
and two-headed calves would be born,
and blood would seep
through the walls of water towers.
Even
if millions die—
the peace is sweet.
The air, fragrant of remaining lives,
smells fresh like after a thunderstorm.
If I
die
nothing will happen.
We should not be afraid.
*
* *
A
big wind comes once in a while,
Ruffling the fur of time,
Stripping the instincts off layered clothes,
Rewriting the stone tablets of minds,
Breaking the half-broken.
The
wind of the new century
Left art bent, washed out, stripped, warped.
The snow-grass of bank notes covered the earth
And never melted-wilted since.
The
winter of novelty was welcome:
Everybody could become like everybody else.
Everybody could have a pet Thing.
The
locust of Things ate the snow-grass:
It fell-grew overnight.
The
wind whooshed away.
*
* *
Life
is short.
Why did it ever seem so long?
It loses whole chunks of the past.
The body of latest grievances is the slimmest ever.
The old grievances are all gone.
Life
is long enough to file an appeal,
too short to wait for the ruling.
*
* *
Never
go with the tide:
It will revert.
Never go against it
For the same reason.
Never
fall in love:
descend carefully,
like with a leg in a cast,
down the winding stairs
of a lighthouse.
Never
regret mistakes:
They will happen again.
Don’t to-be-or-not-to-be:
It doesn’t matter.
*
* *
A
city child, grown among stone corn-cobs
with kernels of bodies
hulled by millions onto the streets
where the streetcars,
carrying the ambitious and the tired,
fiercely charge on each other
but the very last moment luckily pass by—
always
hungry for novelty,
I now live among green cathedrals
full of simple faith in life,
side-by-side with the simple creatures
discussing in a tentative language
their simple parochial problems.
The
full-blown summer
infects me with the sweet non-thinking,
a great exercise before non-existence.
I deny my childhood:
it never happened.
*
* *
My
beloved dog died.
My school friend looks like my grandfather.
My wife is a half-stranger,
What I see in the mirror is a complete one.
I
look up in a sudden need of protection,
But my parents are long gone.
I try on the shroud of indifference:
It does not fit:
There is some life in me,
slowly seeping out
through obstructed ducts.
*
* *
The
live photos of the deceased
are not the same as the photos of the killed
the killed are rarely old
the deceased are rarely young.
Still you cannot tell one from the other.
*
* *
The
mystique of money:
The power of a pure idea of quantity
moving the people and the mountains.
Humans
have never been as close to infinity
as when counting money,
submerging into the ever quieter depths
of numbers so big
that they are all equal.
*
* *
Let
me be alone:
The hell with the daily transfusion
of g’mornings, g’byes,
bonds and ties —
I close my eyes
and chase off the social illusion.
Leave
me in peace:
I’ll brush off the sawdust
of Millions of miles,
Millions of smiles
and even Millions of coffees and sodas.
Let
me grow, let me die like a tree:
Nillions of lies
Nillions of cries
and the foliage of thoughts
dying free.
*
* *
The
square, the round,
even the perfectly triangular,
rolling, scrolling –
How can they change my life
If I still read Plato,
as archaic as radio?
With
cordless cordiality
radio keeps my eyes open:
I watch Socrates
carving a succulent piece of thought.
*
* *
Fragmentation:
This is what is happening to us:
hulled from the pod
to be individuals,
we split first matter into atoms,
then spirit into bits,
then life into nucleotides,
then nations into factions.
Balkanized, we
are now flocking back
to the ecumenical church of numbers
under the single banner of money,
to the comfort of simple goal,
to the sugar pill of acceptance,
to the sure salvation of making.
*
* *
The
second hand
is slapping the face of the sleepy clock
doling out
second-hand time
for the second-time offenders
doing time for delinquency
on time-tables.
*
* *
Squirrels
ate my sunflowers
and gooseberries,
but the money plant
is withering peacefully,
losing its denominational seeds—
three, five, seven—
undressing
down to the silky nightgown.
Soil, wind,
rain, and sun,
the true elements of life,
have made me rich.
Winter
will made me clever.
*
* *
I was a new form of life.
Energy was everywhere:
I grazed in the fields of the power lines,
I nibbled on the quanta around the clairvoyants.
I chased the cars on highways,
picking the crumbs of cellular talk.
I fed on the outbursts of anger and hate,
And the sweet juice of the turning switches,
And the clicking jellybeans of keyboards.
My seed multiplied, and soon
I became a predator.
A big silence fell upon the earth.
=======================================================
========================================================
NEIGHBORHOOD 1996-1997 Technos 2000-2001
Bagatelles
2002
Misprints
2003
Anti-Noah
2004
СРОКИ
ДАВНОСТИ Statute of limitations...(in
Russian)
1971-1984