Poetry

In Alzheimer’s Fields   she gathers and gathers those dandelions wading through a meadow up to her knees – old unhinged and fatigued – while the wind scatters dandelion seeds until there is nothing left in her hands I stopped – looked – thought how I need to help my neighbor who can’t find her […]

Spring Light   This day will be long – Spring, the devil’s clever helper Always brings strong spirits, Good recordings and photos Of blooming bird-cherry trees.   Even the kitchen of it’s abysses Has a pleasant scent, A cup of strong, black coffee Before morning dawns. The day will be long and arduous, And the evening

the key of memory   “Daddy, I have had to kill you.” – Sylvia Plath “Mio padre è stato per me ‘l’assassino.’” – Umberto Saba like a key that you would always lose (you lose it because you want to lose it, Freud would say) (the thing itself wants to be lost, Jung would say) you

Mammoth Hunting Creation, when there is no creation. Everything is lived.                 —Vladas Šimkus All of this from longing                 —Sigitas Parulskis Beyond the highway: grass, a meadow where burdock sent down roots, sharp spades rang out, the animals moaned, bright lights and their reflectors formed a

children of the white swan i don’t stream any shows. i can’t vividly compare the swan’s children with the stars of one day or elevate my personal story to an abstract summary. i could sell it as a script for bingeworthy movies. the white swan: that’s the name of a workers’ dormitory in different clothing

Clean Future about the time the sun turns its face to my window to check out what I’m doing and (speaking non-poetically) to fuck with my mind (and feelings, no doubt) every weekday late afternoon a van drives by maybe a truck (I am not quick on the take when it comes to questions of

IV do you hear outside the window the black ravens cawing it’sthe limousine of my delight an unusual joy to listen to when the silence rustles and they quietly caw to my own inner ravens their conversation is like a bridge with forests and marshes like a black band tying me to the blooming plants

SIGNS i turn i try to descry the signs of survival st. anne’s church the closing wounds of the mortal excavations in the city of silence and laughter piercing laughter     SOUR LITTLE APPLES when i’m silent i find my voice yelling crawling on trunks of trees prowling in the murky shade sour little

Mood (I) Happy young men with shaved heads Waving orange marigold garlands Dance – almost in flight – and sing Flowers fragranced by fall’s hare krishna Wherever you go, the flowers seem to follow From parks and plazas, alleys and squares Annoying and celebratory, sharp and sweet Happy in a way not ours, tenderly sad as

there is a river there are women as straight as strings, always straining to be in tune. you won’t find a single piece of fuzz on their coats. there are men in suits who always shake your hand in greeting. they smile – but circumspectly. there is a vagrant who sleeps at the Šilo bus