...
Like the shadow licking the wall so nightmare-ishly
crawls down - everything drowns this fall in the color
of butterfly wing, freshly baked bread and autumnal apples .
and rust colored autumnal blood so teasingly runs
through our sorrowful veins. Injecting chill laughter for
last of the showing of skin and acknowledgement
that after cold rains there will always come winter.
Soul stuck in-between the body and sense of balancing,
nervous strain. Not knowing to choose normality
or measure sand. Because you know even if you
can come out of yourself to embrace one last time
and inhale summer musk and to cure the yearning,
- you will still ache. Fall is so awful,
just want to be gray or a deer, a bear, a rebel
till needles fill ears and throat doesn’t say, and the heart
feverish trying to fight the flu. On the raft of fallen leaves
pulp of a lotus you drift. Just listen.

Lullabies...

Sleep in the hollow cavity, where body
found itself in twilight. white cotton
of bed will soften for body its fall
when there is nothing to do except
to collapse into the snow of down
-
Dream about anything; anchovies,
leather belts, animals, ribbons, fruit,
hiding places, snakes of Colombia, AIDS,
biology, atoms, snapshots of a familiar face
witch, witches dancing, dance.
-
Confused. we are from different towns
with roads between them sprinkled with salt
from my non-lullabies, so it's not
slippery when you, so accident prone,
accidentally fall asleep.
-
Sleep on the roads, on which Carmen red colored
summer is drawn and warm oars, loads
of spam filtering- cross you into this
wintery dream, spinning into the web of
other-reality the actuality of life
-
Wind at your back. Sleep. This town
is slipping. Wind, speaking in native
tongues, plays with the end of the day, splitting
the crosswalk zebra, offering it to the North.
Sleep on my verses unrhymed yet. Unwritten.
-
Islands - towns, connected through rain
and straight phone lines are calling each other.
Clouds envelop. Sleep. When moon cuts a part
of sky out to put in your pocket. It's time.
Ash beats in the quiet heart. Calm it down.
-
Sleep. So simply. When your daily haiku
is burned onto your skin and messages
fly about the open space. It's late.
Sleep now. Time hangs in the spaces of
s t a r s . quietly seagulls fish