Poetry

*** 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

Truman It feels like I’m just another Truman, Chased by hidden cameras because sometimes Everything, every good thing, seems so unreal. It’s because they always said, laugh in the morning, cry in the evening. And besides, everyone pities this little girl. They wear their artificial smiles, give phony compliments And keep wanting something from you

Niktophobia nights sharpen their claws on street lamps laying siege to my windows searching for the smallest crack throwing themselves against the glass – and that’s how most of them die (I carefully check the keyhole every day, taping up gaps in the door and windows) the spines of books stare at me with the

[Text published on the book cover] I’m not sure whether I should be thankful to Tomas Petrulis for creating me, for while writing his book THE BODY OF A THING he would force me into awkward and even dangerous situations. His dubious aim to portray people as things and things as people at times made

*** I’m trying to remember the theme: a flaming field, which we set alight because the film needed mystery: smoldering sedges and grass, smoked out spiders – and from afar, the landscape looked just right. We didn’t need characters, relationships, decorations – just black and white in the cracked camera of reality. I never wanted