Poetry

*** I don’t recall without a doubt, Perhaps a woman’s words: don’t cry. That’s all. Candles snuffed out. Arnas, you can open your eyes. But I’m running with my eyes closed. I’m late, and can’t remember to where. And the snow – the snow falls composed In A minor shifting to C major with flair. […]

*** you can call it the sea because emptiness is frightening it’s black and deadly you can’t encompass or imagine it you can’t let it in the predatory bones of a whale stick out from the sand of the shore the scattered sand of an hourglass where time does not belong to us   ***

Baby My baby’s down with a stuffy nose, sleepless for the second night in a row. I’ve heard that stifled thoughts can clog the sinuses, the body conjures a disease, the immune response, and the cure – if you will it and believe it, program yourself and meditate – and you’ll be right as rain,

Debrecen Street Blues Epigraph: “They’re all already dead” – Cesar Vallejo           – Vytautas Stankus   I and what about alcoholic pranas from the second floor who spent his last days drinking pure spirits from a jar throwing up blood turning yellow he was a good person just really angry and

*** I’ll never have the home I want impossible – my home is books and pictures on the walls and windows opening onto a silent linden-shaded lawn others have such homes on the other side of reality I have forbidden myself from having such a simple home because I know if I were to fall

January The suicidal urges have faded. I lie hidden in my lair. Snow falls heavily, and I know you’re watching it. I’m reading the breviary, mouthing the words as if talking to you. I would like my speech to be noble and beautiful. Something that would sound like love. Insomnia: I hear water drops on

Stonemason Love is like a stone. If you heat it up, it stays warm for a while And can seem like the source of the warmth. Love is like a headstone It is shaped and Given a name, the before and after. Everything is a form of love. Many deaths and loves are adorned with

courtyard Athens And what of Easter – already it’s hot in Athens Dust rising to the Parthenon burying marble feet Lost in the foothills of the mountain. The sun outshines everything, Even the most beautiful of church hymns, uplifting the black Folds of bearded priests and monks, when, having left the caves with all their

Lost Gloves When I was a child, my mom sewed a rubber tie onto my gloves so I wouldn’t lose them she did the right thing because later, when there was no one to sew on the rubber ties I always lost them the path of my life is strewn with lost and lonely gloves

*** The water turns clear under blackening sheets of the city. Time de-rusted by waterweed emerald flames. Throw a linen of white on the ramparts, take pity Let an underground serpent approach you, shedding its scales. Slow he slivers through Baroquan church carcasses Across toothless skulls of the town of ye old Like a funeral