he returneth

descend

stair

despair

mire

lurk

molte

fich

heh

hehe

camel blues

(as) the first finger moves the string,

flash of light: hits blind the eye

the pupil dilates for a fraction of a second

sun leaves the frame for the vision

begging to be recognized, a wide horizon;

a bird, uncomfortable with the gaze, slowly flows away

from the far corner of the blotched frame

noone hears the rustle of his wings---

eager silence absorbs.

waiting for the second note and the

finger pulls!: a lazy cluster of clouds drop

their shadow first on the barn, then

touching his porch.

his hand reaches an unseen pocket

leading to the appearance - a tired cigarette

a crack rises above the reverbed clatter of the cacti

bluesmoke invades the frame with a prolonged gaze -

while the snaky rattle and hum rule

supreme like an eternal drop in time.

silence sweeps the scene with a dustbowl

then third time's pulled the string,

this time, more like a twang

a dog bark! following a rooster hoot!

the door of the house opens, tentatively: a woman

comes out meanwhile sushing an invisible infant

quietly.

and one last string, finally

heard, somewhat protesting

the lady gives in to the smile starting to pervade among her lips

one more bark: this time, more friendly;

smile lifts her arms to an embrace

one deep, last drag; a feeble fog

dispersed quickly.

oh, yes.

shrugged shoulder; blinked eye

running legs; a passionate cry

end of the blues

end of the wild

Fleeting

Cry

Stoppage

Yes and goes

Fame woes

Beloved

Sonne knows

Rampant

Cane moans

Rum flows

Hum, tilt

Rim grows

Helen, doze

Bubble blow

Child drowns

Breathe

The Reading (Please join me in welcoming...)

And I start the reading. I utter the words formed before this body of people. I, at first, hesitatingly, then with accelerating courage, talk about the words I intented to be together at will. As I open and close my mouth in an increasingly incessant manner, people look at me. Not at my mouth, necessarily, but at me. And they think and reflect and ponder and muse various, various things.

Simply some say, man this is bad.

Simply some say, man this is okay.

Simply some say, man this is good.

Man, this is good, I say to myself, while saying other things to the people in front of me, listening. At least, they are listening and some of them are looking at me with a kind smile hanging by the side of their lips, some of them have a more impatient expression hovering around their whole being and some of them just fidget and fudge.

Fidget and fudge.

I fidget and fudge a little, and as I warm to the occasion and kinda fool myself that people are really (indeed) into listening to me, my confidence starts to soar up to the skies with the speed of an air balloon I just saw yesterday, having thought that how steady and elegantly it rose with dignity. My polyphonic spree. And I---

And I---

And I waver for a fraction of a second and the hunters hidden in the audience bare their teeth with a flash! How immediate their perception! How imperious their judgment! My eyes are dazzled and I raise my hand to hide from the reflection coming from the teeth and when I manage to get a hold on my prose I feel better of a sudden and I smile, and a bright one at that.

Hunters go back to their dens.

The teeth disappear.

A good move, one of my friends before me thinks while I see her approving smile, trying not to betray too much.

Then what? Talk, jabber, hop, and jaw, while muscle, rip, rip, rip and bow! Perplexity starts to coat tens of faces in front of me very rapidly as I utter the ostensibly insensible words with an exclamatory tone, giving me great satisfaction. Yes, they are listening and they cannot do anything about this nonsense as they try their best to attach at least some sense to what I just uttered seven seconds ago. And yes, they will stay to the end at least for a chance to catch an embarassment on my part.

We’ll see; we’ll see.

A sip of water brings the much need moisture to words as they were becoming dry and stale. Not so much, now.

And I look around for a second as my tongue and my lips help me finish three consonants and two vowels. While my most famous orifice is busy, the eyes help me notice several thoughts hanging in the air, from
having a smoke to wishing not being here in this place in the first place while, outside, there is a lively Friday afternoon waiting with a beer in her hand. I feel angry. Why not?

Delusion springs to mind immediately and without reason; I feel an unstoppable wave washing over me with some stupidly repressed nostalgia. Why am I thinking of a National song right now? Yes, inescapably, I’ll write now, in my mind, while at the same time I read, with my mouth: Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks fill my head and they dynamite their way out as soon as they are all in. Now I’m hearing that archaic cry of anguish near the end of the song, seemingly coming out of a mamooth’s mouth and it never felt this real.

This.

Real.

Which brings us to our subject which I should have started talking about long time ago: can intermetahypertextuality of life be regarded as a pseudoquasirepresentation of youthadult narratives?

Who knows?

Maybe you, maybe me.

Only thing that is certain is that one must never trust utterances – nor sentences, for that matter – starting with please join me in welcoming...

Or you may find yourself making a text which is not yours yours and which is mine yours as I read it and as you listen to it and create it in your minds again and again and again. So, please join me in welcoming this text.

We made it.

It is ours.

It is.

Ours.

itch/drink/king

little, little creepy things on my mind
do nothing but make my brain itch
and so goes the last drop of whisky
in the bottle
with a bang!
and with a pang
of pain too, which is probably unavoidable
when you are drinking with a thin king:
he knows;
he watches;
he's been there (and here too) before.

and the itching continues relentlessly,
leaving tiny remindy rashes after them
as the hand of my heart grapples in the dark
to relieve the pain.

the king looks at me knowingly and i can do nothing
but just rotate my dilated pupils aimlessly
in my coarse sockets of eye and i! for the hundreth time!
declare my loyalty.

i'll drink with you, king,
i'll drink with you
as long as i forget about
the fish, the cat, the fight
and
yes,
those thingies
thingies with teeth!

a real poem

with mode
with note
with soot
with doubt

with rhyme
with teeth
with lies
with deed

with some
with me
with one
with thee!

precipitation I

drops
fall
drums
beat;
bead
after
bead.