passing by
and he swallowed a nail
and they nailed silence
to his stomach
he could puke
on demand
this was his sole
distinguishing mark
which betrayed to us
the clay he was made of
he was later nailed
for a second and third year
to that same place
to that same grade
after the death of his father
we dutifully went to the funeral
death had not yet taken us
by the hand
we waited bored
for it all to end
we hung out on the banks of river Nevėžis
near Senvagė
after the funeral
we enjoyed the free day
the warmth of spring
it was a very good day
to get to know
the girls from our class
we didn’t hear
the raspy breath of time
on our backs
even as it lagged
so far behind us – –
that night before the Russians invaded Ukraine
we made love
I woke up at five in the morning
all we lived by was over
a few days later boris from Kaliningrad reached out to me
offering futile apologies
saying how there’s nothing he can do
how his buddies got arrested
and his own life his own writing
and everything else went to shit
to him Visby felt like the center of Europe
he rode his bicycle there on November nights
until Swedish ice enveloped his fingers
as I read about bombs in maternal wards
there was nothing I could say and nothing for us to talk about
ilya – a translator from Saint Petersburg
popped up in my feed
ten years ago during the small hours
in Vilnius he shared a stale blood sausage with me
broke off a piece and waved it around as he argued
that we katoliki work and work
and don’t think about anything else
now he texted me saying how he’s forced to carry this guilt
for the rest of his life
I saw a post on Facebook by ivan the Ukrainian
with whom I cleaned restrooms
in mythically beautiful Iceland
he shared tips for managing stress
as the bombs fell
strange
life keeps going and going on
even after it’s over – –
dum dum boys
we thrashed around like dull knives
through the netherlands
slicing
city after city
dicing
street after street
cars bicycles feet
cars bicycles feet
forget De Hallen in Amsterdam
or the museum of De Dageraad the art
or the Dutch
language
the severed ears of van Gogh
thoughts like butter
runny words that never reach
their target
passing us by
on the autobahns
as far as the eye can see
coffeeshops parking lots
Gauguinesque mugs
sunflowers
vibrating in the windows of red light
districts – –
letter from Rome
sometimes books appear
sometimes your thoughts are gone with the winds of Aeolus
and once again capital letters are displaced
from names and titles
and lives
punctuation marks cannot contain
words anymore
they land on other lips
and nest in urns of ashtrays
I would really like to tell you everything
but the cities we had unconditional faith in
are ruled by white noise
it lets us forget with increasing ease
that it’s January it’s February it’s March
that ice has abandoned the rivers
and time beat us to it
at least several times
see the rowan trees
ripening – relentless
fall is upon us
the Migration Period – –
***
what’s left for me is only the vague imprint
of a vanishing city’s insignia
which presently carries the birth of a novel conspiracy
a fresh set of plans for seizing new worlds
once again the Batavian rebels
are preparing to slaughter Rembrandt
this is a tale that leaves more
and more of me out
I am my own fading thought
but what could have transpired
is that which remains
with the spotlight of a throbbing brass moon
in pursuit
anxiety rises like floodwater
slowly engulfing my feet – –
clear sky
the alluring cerulean sky
of the mayonnaise lid once
sealed firmly by Father’s hands
so you know it won’t be raining
today just too hot to drive in a car
aimlessly down the streets of a city which
hasn’t bloomed and speak of things that
no longer bind us – –
surface
the water’s reflection
birds quilting
clouds – –
