Poetry

VILNIUS—DOES IT EXIST?             Inspired by “To Go to Lvov” by Adam Zagayewski When I walk the streets of Vilnius I search for daydreams for what’s no longer not for Proust’s madeleines but for my mother in her blue polka-dot dress making strawberry jam in the kitchen I’m tasting the pink foam from a spoon. Windows […]

Range The world’s largest living thing is a fungus. It lives in the Blue Mountains of Oregon. The Armillaria ostoyae specimen takes up over 2,000 acres. Most Baltic peoples cannot resist wild mushrooms with rye bread and butter. It is a nourishing staple, a fulfilling meal from the forest—a reward for hunting and gathering them. 1. We

nine lives                    everybody has already died                               –César Vallejo they’re all alive. my neighbor Pranas is alive. he used to slaughter animals for us. he shared a horse with my parents. my father joked about how we

*** words are just this hollow chimney smoke, these stuffed birds, perched in your shade, or silent hanging heads of boars, having lost their bodies and their power of speech, you know, I went hunting for ducks once, I watched how little dots fell to the ground, insignificant as all hell, and then we walked

*** The field of victims shrinks to a gravel road in spring. Some four green bodies lie in the dust. The same ones we saw basking on the warming lake shore. Now – just crushed lead slough. The former act of jumping has become an inert, spread-eagled noun. With the husk of windy days open,

searching for the basilisk go straight ahead for a third of life to where a certain city stands you’ll smell it from afar incontinent with age with cemeteries under foundations pickles and potatoes in cellars from the last war where blind eyes sprout pale shoots and glass jars lie ruptured among dynasties of rats older

land of glass into the pocket of her well-washed robe she’d shove seeds, dandelion fluff, a feather, a fist, pressed stone-hard nails writing into the tissue of her palm – firmly, drops of blood settling into the life line’s arch, dust, all sorts of nothings, choking on tears when she read, tossed fire-wood into the

*** Anna Lee Fisher, the first mother in space – In flight, I contemplated her photograph, black and white. Dressed in a spacesuit, an icon: beautiful, famous, a woman. Maybe, in some sense, I could launch myself as well? Maybe gravity is not so universal as it seems? Apparently, one can leave one’s children on

Regressive Hypnosis That girl – her classmates can’t say her name – whatever it may be – names are not what matter to me – I can tell that she sees how we tear ourselves in two, at times, from shame, then crumble – or she stops at unfinished phrases – fearing false finish, unsure

disabled poem   Poems can always be exchanged for other poems – Michael Augustin this text doesn’t have an end and perhaps no beginning either it’s just a text and nothing more this text can’t save the world it’s just a text and nothing more this text has no point it’s just a text and