Poetry

On Phenomena III I remember watching a documentary once about soldiers returning home, it seems, from Iraq or some other unfriendly place: moving scenes, of course – crying daughters women, sons, brothers, all crying, falling into embraces, around the neck, at the feet of this suddenly shy bull who spent years killing people and now […]

Helsinki syndrome I am accompanied by misfortune: I am a little white mouse. My sisters and my brothers – All gray little mice. Ramutė Skučaitė “Balta pelytė” [Little white mouse] I still foster revenge plans directed at my classmates who called me paper-loving rodent, four-eyes chernobyl. With real scholastic happiness I say: we are all

I Woke up Knowing I saw the future like a bride under a veil that one is not allowed to raise. Light flooded through the stained-glass of my eyes becoming my religion. From that moment, it lives in the church of my body under the arches of my ribs. It sleeps there, breathing quickly, lying

Waiting for Faith Wilding, author of the 1972 performance “Waiting” Waiting for when I can take my time, not work three jobs, not write out of duty, nor fall asleep at my laptop. Waiting for Godot, but she’s not coming. Waiting for the bill, which always comes: letters asking me to pay for electricity, water,

*** Good day! Nice to meet you. How may I be of use to you? I can tell you about contemporary global poetry, it’s very interesting, about making paper at home, about the sonata form, the fugue and counterpoint. I know something about ancient harmonies – both natural and pythagorean, I know a few good

electrical substation late autumn by the slaughterhouse, children sled from the foot of the hill towards the electrical substation. the transformers buzz and drone like a hornet’s nest, circulating the blood of the world. bare-headed children on scraps of linoleum on rotting leaves by the slaughterhouse late autumn – – – parents worked in shifts.

Two weeks of festivals, basta, basta, done: dobrdan, dobrdan belo kavo belo vino bella ljubljana after two weeks in loveljana after polyglot poems after gormless languages it’s so quiet, you can hear a mouse shiver under a hedge yowls yearning the for the Bruxelles-ma-belles sirens the neighbor’s mournful pipes echo through the wall, midnight trains rustling,

*** Sunday will come.     We will cover our bread with kisses and butter. We will scan, haphazardly, the circus posters and wander     through the motley noisy city of sun like two naughty children. When midday comes like dust between the teeth, we’ll fill our bottles with tawny beer, and surrounded by bar smoke

The Process of Beatification About the last portion of her life, we know very little. Many witnesses were killed, others, perhaps the most important, died soon after the war. Besides, it was all kept quiet. Back then – a skating rink. Four children smuggled out in garbage dumpsters (there were two hundred in all). In