CORRECT SENTENCES AND INCORRECT ONES

Correct sentences and incorrect ones. The correct ones become the incorrect ones. Good is bad. You caught a dark sun and put it in your hat. You keep a monster. Dark arms fall unto your face. They beat us. We die.

Our tears are useless. Even the salt from our tears, you don’t want it. Your blood of self-righteous anger against our blood of despair. Children under your feet.

Dirt in that thing you call your heart. Spiders of evil words thrown at us to cheat the world. Flags to strangle us. We’ve never seen a snow flake. We can’t go anywhere. Little brown birds have more freedom than us. Water running away from your holy body holes has more freedom than us.

Do not search here for a sentence that means a thing to you. You do not understand. You are beyond the ordinary understanding of space and time. You look at me just as a possible gift of smoke for your ancient Blue Sky god. Your father is still hungry?

I spit up in the air.

We should be asleep. Our mind is gone after our sleep. We fall apart, the broken robot beings of your weak imagination. My thoughts mean nothing to you. My cries do not reach your ears. You say four hundred, after I’ve said one—twenty over the years.

Your tongue has grown heavy with lies. Now your shoulders hate you. Your feet will soon refuse to obey you. Blue Sky god is thinking: “What’s the problem with these folks?”

What is wrong? It does not matter. Just sell me the means and I will show you how right I am. Before the year ends (in a few hours from now) everybody close their eyes. There will be no surprise, no cry of you, no nothing, just people.

::: ::: :::

Picture: There is no picture

ICE SKATERS

this morning on my way to work
on the Big Stone Bridge I saw the river
frozen at places

I imagined ducks ice skating on the Moskva

half-way across the bridge a man was shouting
at the waters, at the ice
holding his head with both hands

he looked angry
aggressive, perhaps dangerous
to me?

another man passed by, old one, shuffling snow
he smiled at me
his face was red from the cold

I was walking backward checking on the shouting man
thinking he could have jumped
into the waters, the ice

mix with the ice skating ducks

flags on the bridge
lengths of brightly colored material
kicking in the wind

well, i reached the metro station
removed my woolen gloves
the escalator took me down, deep, very deep

I lost a glove
somebody yelled STOP
I didn't pay attention, but a young guy ran to me

then I was in the train
fast moving one, very noisy, Moscow metro
a book with me, sometimes I read a few sentences

enough to give me something to think about
this morning, Marquis de Sade
words of power, but dirty

oh, the darkness
oh, ice skating ducks
oh, shouting man, lost glove, moving train

in Russia if you are unemployed you get $20 a month
that's about
twenty beers at the grocery store

could one live on that
like the writers on the Beat
used to live with one ice cream cone a day?

perhaps I read too much
inflation going up, talks of deflation, price of oil is up
nobody happy

guys at the US government borrow money
from other guys at the Federal Reserve
at a cost, and who is paying?

tax payers must return the borrowed money
+ the interest
money that doesn't exist, it's just a trick

money should be printed free of charge
like oxygen is free
money must be free

tonight in the metro I saw a beautiful woman
next to her sat a handsome man smiling
the two of them were smiling at me

I was smiling back
they came off the train waving at me
what a world !

the sky was blue when I woke up
was it this morning
or the next?

the church down from my balcony has pink walls
cupolas five of them covered with gold
there you go, something to think of

cupolas like onions with a cross put on top
peel off the onion skins and you're left with nothing
the cross above it means Love stands above it

love standing on the Void
love saving us from the absurdity of your fate
love and life against nothing and darkness

::: ::: :::

Picture : A tired door

Note: "ICE SKATERS" was a boring long text which I turned into this perhaps more readable poem on August 26, 2012.

WILL ART NATURE WHAT?

two books on my coffee table
Qu’est-ce que l’art? by Tolstoy
and De la volonté dans la nature by Arthur Schopenhauer

I have little to say about them
except about their cover
well, both are red

red eyes red
heart drawing of little children red
poor dog bloody red after you've shot it with a gun

I don't read books anymore
instead I am wasting my time reading essays
all of them about the obvious madness of our leaders

yesterday this quote came to my screen:
“There are worse crimes than burning books.
One of them is not reading them.” -Joseph Brodsky

my interest for the obvious madness of our leaders
has turned me into a criminal
one who is not reading the books on his coffee table

I must go back to reading books
just like I used to do
reading them while walking home from school

monsters come from all directions
will art nature what?
oh, one monster is already here

::: ::: :::

Picture: Time-fast by reading_is_dangerous

THE WAVES OF YOU AND ME

she asks:
“How is your day?”

it's okay

but not great
just another day, another day

it resembles thousands like it
darkness against the light bulbs
the computer screen
the evil chair
the stupid keyboard
one hundred documents awaiting to be read

I have the figures
the number of deaths in G., at hospital X
this was year 2007

gun shot trauma: three eight, not too bad
body injury, irritation, trauma: six zero
heart failure: eight three
car accidents: eight nine
other reasons: one four six

to breathe
to breathe
to breathe

I really am only a fish
that’s trying hard to breathe
out here in the cold air

tell me where the door is
the doorway by the beach
that leads back to the eternal sea
back to the waves of you and me

::: ::: :::

Picture: A door is never just a door

HE WAS AFRAID OF LIGHT

he was afraid of light
because he imagined that
it was hiding something that
darkness didn't know

::: ::: :::

Picture: Time doesn't snow

YOUR SHOULDERS COME TO ME

love the silence in the noise

love my song in silence even

your shoulders come to me

your shoulders you and me

mind like the country

heart like the traveler

love light in darkness
love this silly little song

::: ::: :::

Picture: Shoulders come to me

WHEN COMES THE WORLD OF CLONES

at the megastore

on the shelves

tens or hundreds of copies

of every item made for sale

all of them 

almost identical one to the other

except for those to be found

in the 30% discount section

scratches and broken pieces

scars and pain...

transformation of the like copies

into unique individuals

in the coming world of Clones

besides customization

suffering is the key to identity

and a way to be noticed by the gods

here we’re all born equal

yet made different from each other

with the scars and the pain...

inheritance from our beautiful past

::: ::: :::

[Picture: This one special puppy-thing with more light on its nose]

THE BEAUTIFUL SHELL

everybody was working, but he
who was starring at a picture he took earlier
of a church that is standing
a few yards away from his bed
not far from the Red Square

the building survived the Soviets, the death of god

now it was pretty much like the beautiful shell
of some creature eaten alive and squirming in lemon juice
so he was thinking
when a colleague of his, a Chechen surgeon
entered his office, returning from holidays

“one month already!”

the surgeon had a
bottle of brandy
and in the office’s kitchen
they found
an old
lemon

::: ::: :::

Picture: St Nicholas church from the balcony of this bedroom in Moscow

Changes made to this poem on August 26, 2012.

AN IDEA FOR PARADISE

it should not be difficult
to find yourself a table

I went to the shopping mall
which was opening on that day

there was no table
but I found something else, an idea

Paradise like an empty store
whee there is nothing to buy

naked figures stand still
holding on to their breath

time doesn't flow
eyes always opened, heart between beats

love immobilized
under most perfect lighting

this means: No shadow whatsoever
so you can't make a move, never

::: ::: :::

Picture: Perfection

Poem somewhat edited on August 26, 2012

THE FISH THAT'S A KNIFE

the fish that’s a knife
jumped from my plate
back into the sea

a slice for you
a slice for me

the fish swam out of waters
became a bird
went up flying, slicing the sky

a slice for you
a slice for me

this bird has a soul
that's also a knife
sharp enough to slice heavens

a slice for you
a slice for me

in between worlds, there is a blade
a living creature
a thought

a slice for you
a slice for me

::: ::: :::

Picture: Lady Blade by reading_is_dangerous

AN ENCOUNTER ON TOE HILL

Lonely plastic boy was traveling across a world of his own making, in search of wonders he had imagined absent-mindedly. He was lonely, although not exactly alone. 

Above his head was a peach: The Sky, silent and mute, whom the boy addressed often like people used to do it in the old days, when everybody believed the sky was listening to their talk, the cries and the prayers. The sky back then was our god, just enough of a god, some Thing or abstract being, a super man, who’d understand everything without ever having to commit himself or it self to reality. The sky god was there, yet it wasn’t there.

The plastic boy had imagined a different sky. This one was a colossal peach, sweet and juicy. If that doesn’t make sense to you, then you should read on, in hope that later you might discover how it makes sense. 

Everything makes sense.

There was also the singing Sun who was a traveler too, like the lonely plastic boy, but the sun’s way, you could never cross it. Thus the sun (or the Sun if you prefer) was always going and content with itself, which is or was the reason for its singing. Indeed, the sun never stopped singing.

One day (which is the same as saying somewhere) the lonely plastic boy met with the White Face With Many Bodies. It could have been the Moon with such a face, white and shiny, round and somehow distant, but it really wasn’t the Moon or any moon, because there is a rabbit that’s living on the Moon and this White Face With Many Bodies knew nothing about a rabbit. 

I know this all sounds like a child’s tale. 

The White Face etc. was busy sending a text message to one of its bodies when the lonely plastic boy came by. This happened at the top of the Toe Hill, which was rosy and pink, a funny place where you could fall asleep and dream of love. Why it was called the “Toe Hill” is an ancient story. They say—who are “they” is another story—that once upon a time a Giant left the world leaving behind a toe. Why?

Firstly, because he used to keep that toe in touch with the skin, the bare skin of his dear and beautiful wife (until her vanishing.)

Secondly, because he wanted her (her ghost?) to remember that leaving (where to?) was hurting him. Walking after you just lost a toe must really hurt. His pain was real. 

Thirdly, because the giant had been hoping to come back, to that same spot from which he left, and the toe was to be a place marker unique and easily recognized. Whether or not that story is true I do not know for sure, but I believe it is, although I have never seen a giant. A giant Giant.

Imagine one giant missing a toe, walking away, eyes full of tears, but not because of the missing body part...

There roses had grown wonderfully. Such was their wonderfulness that the lonely plastic boy had come wanting to admire it, and this is how he met with The White Face. “Labas!” said the plastic boy. That means hello! in Lithuanian. The boy enjoyed the Lithuanian word more than the English one; otherwise he was speaking English like you and me. “Please wait until I complete this text message,” answered the White Face. “Come… meet me… at… etc.” typed the White Face, and then it sent it, the text message, to one of its bodies, the number 75 one. There it was put, the face was on the head of body number 33. The bodies could move by their own will. Their life was a bit of a mystery. Without the face…

Here is a question without an answer: Are you wearing a mask, or it the mask wearing you? Hmm? What do you think?

Then White Face turned to the plastic boy, and said: “Hello, my friend!” and this conversation followed: “Are you not afraid of falling asleep, here, and dream of love?” asked the boy. “Indeed I am, replied the Face, and that’s why I just called one of my bodies to come and meet me here. It’ll wake me up in time.”

The lonely plastic boy pondered that wisdom. He too was afraid that he could fall asleep and dream of love, but he had no extra bodies to come and wake him up in time. “I shouldn’t stay here much longer, said the boy, unless you will agree to wake me up before you go. –But why would you want to stay here much longer?” asked the Face. “Perhaps I want to dream of love?” asked the boy.

He was just a little boy who didn’t know much.

The White Face With Many Bodies said: “Some mistake we make, that we can only see ourselves after everybody has seen them.” 

And then it suddenly fell asleep, leaving the lonely plastic boy unsure about what he should do next.

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The White Face With Many Bodies by reading_is_dangerous] 

THE LONELY PLASTIC BOY

A fly was bugging him during the last few days. He had been hoping that the animal would go to sleep, but the Sun kept waking it up. Then he opened the balcony door, and the fly drove away. She was immediately replaced with a family of fruit flies which had made their home in a bunch of tomatoes left on the kitchen counter top.

He hates it, when his tomatoes have seen the fridge.

Only one of the fruits was rotten. He threw that one away, and then he prepared the others into a tomato sauce. “This needs one onion,” he thought to himself, thus he discovered more of them, fruit flies, because a second family lived amongst the onions.

Only one bulb was rotten. He threw that one away, pondering on the natural wisdom of the flies: They do not eat all the food at once. Perhaps one fly finds her way through the skin of something edible, and there she lays her eggs. Later the larva eat their food until they metamorphose into tiny adults who will leave unless they find a suitable spot to lay their eggs. On that second turn , the chances are that all the available food would be targeted.

Flies make the perfect pet for someone like him, who lives alone on the fifth floor of some new building in a big city.

Earlier he had imagined a lonely plastic boy who was exploring a world of his own making, a world virtual and especially created for his soul. “My soul is made of plastic, the lonely boy explained to the Sky (indeed he addressed the sky like people used to do). --Plastic adapts very well, and it can last forever or almost, continued the boy. Death is but the sea that we shall leave behind, sometimes in the future, just like the fish with lungs and legs left the waters, a long time ago.”

Sky was a rosy peach, and beautiful, yet it couldn’t talk, so it remained silent, mute, but the Sun was still visible, and as everybody knows: It sings.

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The lonely plastic boy by reading_is_dangerous]

THE STORM BELOW

he spent two days alone
behind closed doors
alone
his back at the wall
facing the window looking over the balcony

there was a storm
light rains
a lot of wind
he could tree tops pushed forth and back swinging
the whole day long

he ate toasts made of black bread with goat cheese
drank tea black and green
no TV
no radio
no Internet
no book
no walking around the large, six-rooms apartment

he was just sitting
lost in thoughts, if that really means anything

day dreaming not

absent?

he just had moved from Armenia to Russia

now the prospect of working

after four years of unemployment

+ this new situation, having to speak Russian all the time

all that, and other things unknown

had left unable him to find his voice

voices don't travel well

I am talking about the one he would hear

when writing

many years ago there was a certain war

villages were burned that he saw when they were still smoking
who burned them
but the crazies
soldiers, warriors, gangsters, politicians
all of them making evil use of the money they steal from us
one way or another

why am I writing this?

he was there, in that large apartment
because of that damn war
and now he was left unable to write, voiceless
with terrible memories on his mind
and the unknown before him

he was preparing to go back

he took out the tarot deck
that he used for creating characters in his stories
and he asked the cards this simple question:
How are you?
the answer was: Not in control

he was the Hanged Man
feet over head
the storm below

::: ::: :::

Picture: A skull and more

THEY ARE THE SECRETS

there is nothing much to say
but to lie or try
with sentences made to start again--
to talk, and share

about love and the stars
about the forces which take all forms
about the embraces foreseen a long time ago
about the inevitable possibilities

two weeks of silence
revolve around me, a whirlwind
of thoughts collected
into a secret

they are the secrets impossible to share
because truth doesn’t always fit in words
or in mathematical formulas
but you can hold my hand or nod (or both)

I have news ideas or ideas new to me.

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Across the street from where I live by reading_is_dangerous] In Moscow, August 2008, artist unknown

ADIEU POET

he opened his heart
and gave life
to countless thoughts

they opened his heart
and gave rise
to countless tears.

well, now
I feel lonelier

Photo: Mahmoud Darwish, a Palestinian poet (1941-2008)

COURAGE, PERSEVERANCE, HOPE

Exactly one year ago, he promised himself to fast on August 8, 2008, in protest of the current wars, the injustices, the sufferings, etc. Fasting is not going to stop any of that, the wars, the injustice, the suffering, but he was hoping that some of his anger, and the stress, they would somehow quiet down with the fasting.

He could not have guessed that on August 8, 2008, he’d be preparing to leave the country where he lived, to go elsewhere, thanks to a job that has much to do with the wars, the injustices, the sufferings, etc. “Not eating, on that last day, is going to be difficult,” he thought, “but coming back on a promise to myself would seem to go in the way of the wars, the injustices, the sufferings, etc.” And so he decided that he would, after all, privately abstain from all food, on that day, August 8, from sun-up until sun-down.

In the name of courage, perseverance, and hope, he’ll do it; Anyway, that’ll give him more time to pack his things. His favorite books, mostly.

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Page 93 by reading_is_dangerous] From Primary Surgery, Volume 2, “Trauma” (low price edition) edited by Maurice King and Peter Bewes, featuring many contributors. I perused that book while staying with Doctors Without Borders, in the town of Rutshuru, in the North Kivu, in the Democratic Republic of Congo, in June 2008.

RECIPROCAL LOVE

he returned from the lake
with nothing much to say about it
except that he forgot to spread sun screen
on that most fragile of skin:
Behind the knees

consequently he suffered some mild burns
wasted one night’s worth of sleep
too bad
he read a novel by Umberto Eco
BAUDOLINO a fun story

next day another mistake
climbed a hill wearing flip-flops instead of shoes
the right one soon broke apart
forcing me to come down barefoot
thorns, rocks, tiny seeds with spikes
I was watching out for snakes

swimming was perfect
my back against the cold waters of Sevan
I was pondering on the possibility
of reciprocal love between a man
and a lake

::: ::: :::

Picture: Hill overlooking Sevan

Poem significantly edited on August 26, 2012

DEPARTURE COMES NEXT SATURDAY

most big fights
come for no reason

except that perhaps we need the
fighting, sometimes

and now I’m off to lake Sevan
my last chance to let its gentle waters
rock my soul

I should be back in three days
to receive my
passport with a
visa stamp

departure comes next Saturday

::: ::: :::

[Picture : My house on lake Kivu by reading_is_dangerous] (June 2008)

CHILDREN OF THE SUN

I just read that
a team of researchers
working for a big, big company
studied the addresses of 30 billion
text messages
in order to find out whether or not
it is true that any two people on
average are linked by seven or fewer
acquaintances

the result is: YES

78% of any pair of people chosen at random
could be connected by a chain
of just a few messages

that means this:
a) we could all be friends, and
b) there seems to be nothing to stop
the same researchers from turning to the study
of the actual content of those text messages
and these you’ll send today and tomorrow

in other news
a professor at the MIT announced that his team
developed an unprecedented process
that will allow the energy of the sun
to be stored until you need it

“it’s easy to implement,” says the scientist
who figured this out
“it’s a giant leap for clean energy,” says
another
“it’s the Nirvana we were looking for,” concludes
the first man
and we can now,
at last
think of solar power as “unlimited and soon.”

isn’t this great?
1. all of us are acquaintances or almost
2. all of us could have energy for free or almost

and now we’re missing only this:
3. human beings make decent beings
of themselves

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Corn seller by reading_is_dangerous] (In Rutshuru, June 2008)

ANOTHER COINCIDENCE

it was thirty-five degrees
on the balcony, in the Armenian city
and this was Saturday
in the early evening

the Canadian man was trimming
his beard
and watching an ant manage its way
around the mosquito net

it’s the explorer ant
that looks like it’s lost

going up and down
and left and right
and forth and back
checking this and that

it’ll get killed for some silly idea
or a poem
while the other ants walk in line
protected by the big officer ants

“you rarely call yourself the
Canadian man,”
thought he,
feeling his now shortened beard

a minute later (I swear this is true)
he got a phonecall from
a lady he barely knew—she wanted
to ask something about Canada

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Swi by reading_is_dangerous] These days the poems are bad, but I decided that I should keep on writing, anyway.

THE LEOPARD

at the center of a field, wild flowers
one thousand species of singing birds

singing birds, yes, but also flying
changing trees of bells, flutes and violons

the song is always changing
but it is always around you, about you

you are so happy
you can jump, almost fly like them birds

so you do
reach the stars, touch the moons

jump and jump, until the other end of the galaxy
there, a forgotten temple !

a cup of alien wine !
and its guardian, a sleeping leopard

ok, you try it, take the cup
big cat is sleeping

nice, you drink the wine
cherry chocolate, leopard still asleep

you feel already drunk
funny cat, sleep and sleep

you fall asleep
what happens next? I will tell you

leopard awakes at last
stretching and more stretching

big green eyes, look at you
my god, you are deep asleep

now the cat with a jump leaves that place
comes back to Earth

singing birds and flowers
under the Sun, but where are you?

at the other end of the galaxy
in a forgotten temple, there is you

a cup of alien wine
and its guardian, the sleeping you

::: ::: :::

Picture: Moon Leopard

Poem heavily modified on August 26, 2012.

HEART IN THE GLASS

that man took a horse out of you
head, hooves, tail
the speed of the beast
its strength

that same man took an elephant out of you
the size of the animal
the intelligence, memory, madness
have you ever seen a mad elephant?

that man took a whole caravan out of you
the goods: Silk, spices, precious stones
the men, beasts of burden, the dogs and the road
the clients, the business deals

that man took the Blue Mountains range out of you
secret caves, rivers, red trouts, water dragons and master of Tao
how?
the master of Tao himself didn't know

that man took your picture on the beach
and the beach, and the sea, and what's beyond the horizon
took the world, took your nails, took your atoms out of you
you wonder, is there anything left of you?

yes, my friend, there is
boom boom, boom boom
you can hear it
your heart in the glass

::: ::: :::

Picture: You are not drinking alone

THE LAST POLICE OFFICER ON EARTH

they planned another
big demonstration for tomorrow
like there was one already, on June 4

rightful, angry people will be shouting words
"FREEDOM!
FIGHT 'TILL THE END!
SERJH MUST LEAVE!"
and they'll be naming the usual bandits and crooks,
and they'll be walking around the city,
and they'll be raising their fists,
inviting passersby to join them

and they'll be cops by the hundreds
and it'll be hot,
and I'll go take a look,
and sigh

of course
nothing will happen
because nothing can happen

there will be a real revolution
not before twenty years after the last police officer on Earth
will have resigned from their job

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The path by reading_is_dangerous] (June 4, 2008)

BROKEN STONE

he doesn’t do a thing these days
so there is correspondingly nothing to write about

he’s waiting for his Russian visa
he’s waiting

meanwhile he reads the news
a bomb here, a bomb there

that’s nothing to write about, unless you’ve been there
running away from the storm

death must come like a stone-breaking storm

the wind caressing your cheeks
you sense there is something in the air

today’s a sunny day
and I am just about to go out for my six o’clock beer

::: ::: :::

Picture: A wonderful place for birds 

(May 2008) 

Just a thought: I made a lot of blurry pictures, and wrote many a blurry poem..

Poem revisited on August 28, 2012

THE SNAKEMAN

this was there:
somewhere on Earth

somebody told me to take this tire
to some other place
and so I did

I was many-legged;
the road had two faces

one face was black sand
like an old Jewish doctor
digging for pain
and gold, and diamonds, and coltan,
his voice was good: “Take this tire to…”

the other face was that of a Snakeman
he had but one tooth

the Snakeman he jumped at me
and bit me on the chest—
here, look at this wound,
the tooth is still stuck,
it’s that tear in my heart.

the pain comes at night
a chest pain
terrifying
it’s like I’m going to die
and I try to shake it off
until it goes away

you see! I don’t have much time left
but I still have to push this tire...
all the way to...
to...?

::: ::: :::

[Picture: June 2008 by reading_is_dangerous] In Rutshuru, there was no easy way for me to move around the town safely, so I took the habit of sitting in front of the gates of the house where I was staying. There was a road with many passersby and trucks, and much dust, but little else. The "wooden bike" is a common sight. They say it can be used to carry a load of up to 300-500 pounds. On a flat road or up hill, you wouldn't like to push one, but going downhill an able driver will jump on it, and then it's a free ride... Coltan is the colloquial African name for columbite-tantalite, a metallic ore used to produce the tantalum used in consumer electronics products such as cell phones, DVD players, and computers. Export of coltan has been blamed for fuelling war in the Congo. (This bit, adapted from the Wik page on coltan.)

THE BEAUTIFUL COINCIDENCE

YESTERDAY I began to work on the background
of a fictitious character
for this new story of mine
which I am writing in French

HE was to be the descendant of a French officer
who had been captured by the Russians
when Bonaparte ignominiously
retreated from Moscow, in 1812

you see, I have been reading Tolstoy's
WAR AND PEACE
and I watched the magnificent, Soviet-made,
1968 film adaptation of that great story

well, it's been a week since
the weather here has been extremely hot
and this morning the fridge's electric cable
just BURNED

so the old repairman came by with his tool box
he changed the cable in no time
then (for no obvious reason)
he told me the story of his family

"It all started with Napoleon,"
he said,
his great, great, great grand-father
was this French general
who had been captured by the Russians
when Bonaparte ignominiously
retreated from Moscow, in 1812

later the Frenchman
was deported to Tbilisi,
in Georgia
where he married an Armenian girl

and some two hundred years later
one of his descendants
was this old Armenian repairman
who charged me $6 for his trouble.

::: ::: :::

Picture: Winds 

Seen in Yerevan, a few days ago.

Slight editing made on August 28, 2012

K-R-K-

sometimes my writing doesn’t go well
especially in English
which I still find difficult to master
because of all the little words
that cast so many doubts in my poor mind

and there is no one for me to ask
at four in the morning
if I should put a that here
or a which

a witch!

then there is this problem
that when I am reading it becomes harder
for me to hear my own genuine thoughts

if they exist at all, I mean
the genuine thoughts

in Rutshuru where I stayed with the doctors
there were many books rotting in a corner
of the living room
where it was all about beer
and watching African football on an old TV set

you should take a look at them books,
thought I
and so I did, and that explains
why I haven’t been able to write much
ever since, because
among the rotting books, there I found
a century old translation of Tolstoy’s War and Peace

the great book!

I cleaned it of all the mold and stuff
that lived on it,
and took it with me: my new friend

and I read and I read and I read
the amazing thoughts of that amazing man

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Keereeku on his favorite sofa by reading_is_dangerous] Perhaps the name of the dog was Kureeko or some other variation on k-r-k-; I don't remember so well, although it's only been a month since I left the North Kivu. There a dog is a rare sight. People told me that the locals eat them or that they just don't like dogs or that they can't feed them. Whatever. Keereeku lived in that house, with the French doctors, and it was impossible to convince him to leave the place. One troubled day, the doctors left the town, and when they came back a month later the dog was still there, albeit half-dead, because of hunger. They say he's crazy and doesn't want to play, but I've seen otherwise, and he's really a good creature. His favorite sofa is located right across the room, facing that corner where I found Tolstoy's extraordinary writings.

PORK OF HORSE OF DAMSEL OF PANG OF PIE

yur joei vljk, Tap
pork of horse of damsel of pang of pie

on a faraway planet, in a special cell, an unfortunate space traveler
is dying from lack of oxygen

and as he searches for his breath
he mutters these words:
“Pork of horse of damsel of pang of pie”

Please, God! Let them hit the keys!
They hit the keys

sssssssss oxygen returns to the room
where they keep him, their prisoner

eeeeeeee breathing again the space man says:
Yur joei vljk, Tap
which means: “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

they ask the prisoner about the meaning of these words:
“Pork of horse of damsel of pang of pie”

now the unfortunate space traveler has a big, big problem

::: ::: :::

Picture: Corn selling girl by reading_is_dangerous

CONSEQUENTLY

do not search for meaning
but for the absence of meaning
or seek not

::: ::: :::

Picture: Consequently by reading_is_dangerous

MOVING AROUND

it's two US dollars to travel on top of a truck
from Rutshuru to Goma

it's thirty dollars for a two rooms apartment
in Goma; for two weeks

it's fifty dollars for a girl,
the whole night

it's a hundred and twenty dollars
for a watchman, the month

it's $40 for the wooden mask,
made locally, smiling

it's $15 for a meal at Doga, steak
French fries, avocado (two hours wait)

it's one dollar a day for a worker in the field
under the killing sun

it's $15,000 or more for the medical drugs
required to treat somebody with multiresistant tuberculosis

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The dust of you by reading_is_dangerous] (On the road to Rutshuru, June 2008)

THE BOAT OF ME

nobody ever stole any land from me
or took my bed
or burned my garden
or ordered me to leave my own life

in the eyes of a woman I've met
I saw everything
all what I couldn't give her
and the boat of me, about to sink

::: ::: :::

Picture : Seven what 

-In Nyanzale, June 2008

Edits made on August 28, 2012

SUGAR CANE

from the ground
through the feet
to the eyes, until me

the directions say:
"You came out of the world,
reaching for me."



::: ::: :::

[Picture: The feet by reading_is_dangerous]

VIRGINS OF WEIGHT

Virgins of weight
Nervously sit in their quarters of meat
Eating the floor, chewing, eating,
Until they fall down, into the Land Of Always Heavy
Where even the single photon
Burdens your spirits
And beats your back, the arms
Of the Queen of Always Heavy wield the Father Blade
Since the End of men
When the males' reproductive feathers turned into planets

Banana planets
Cry under a sun of worms
In your belly, my child, the itch
Shall forever be with you, in your fingers
And the galactic snakes from the dream of your mother
Will bite on the light, the heavy photons
Shall feed your reptilian hunger, the cold
Until the Supreme Digestion
Has rendered the light light
And your spirit free



::: ::: :::

[Picture: The Queen of Always Heavy by reading_is_dangerous] (On the road to Rutshuru, June 2008)

HE THOUGHT OF HIS THOUGHTS

Raven was getting older
around the eyes
and at the wing tips

but the hunger remained the same
every day when the Sun came
and when the Sun left
across the sky of Youth and Old

at night the bird thought of days
he thought of his thoughts
wondered about truth, what possible truth

truth under your wings
in the thickness of the air
in what is before you
in what has been lost

Raven was hungry yes
for meal and truth
perhaps also for yesterday

::: ::: :::

Picture: And that felt fine by reading_is_dangerous 

In Nianzale

THE INVISIBLE TIGER

oh! they shake
the trees, the land, the children
the weapons, the germs, the precious stones
the sugar cane

oh! I took everything
and the television, the Bible
the cars, the moto-taxis
the prostitutes, their cell phones

oh! I walked away
from the lake, the worms
the invisible dragons, as you said
they spit fire from inside

I saw villages and villages
on the side of mountains, on the top
at the foot of our hills
our hills : the Earth is ours

I saw a child the day before he died
I saw the father
he was waiting
we were waiting, the kid was waiting

I saw my words leave, never to return
my ideas flew away
I was left with only the call of crows
how they talk or laugh, those birds

I made everybody laugh when I pretended
that I saw a tiger, here
in the hills of the Democratic Republic of Congo
a tiger, a tiger, a tiger

a health center
another health center
a vaccination campaign
a nutritional campaign

a distribution of non-food items
the distribution of medical drugs
the distribution of a few jobs
the distribution of papers

paper me
paper you
I am gone, now, flying away
in a paper plane

oh! the miles
they come inside of me
miles and miles and miles
of people, and their smiles

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The invisible tiger by reading_is_dangerous]

GROWTH

the background, the setting, the context
grows on you
for the good of it, of you, of everything
including the words

bananas, mangos, passion fruits
the soil is red, black, yellow
now more than ever I wish I were a bird
a buzzard

I only have a few minutes
to say that I am leaving today
for a little town, Nyanzale
I should be back in a few days.

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Smile by reading_is_dangerous]

WHERE THE FLOWERS WALK

man stands still
within the man, the writer
within the writer, the traveler
within the traveler, the worker

man stands still
I wait
perhaps not unlike
the volcano

::: ::: :::

[Picture : Where the flowers walk you by reading_is_dangerous]

UP HERE, IN THE HILLS

up here, in the hills

the line
the border line
was shown to me
which waits for me
to take a step
and turn at last
into a man

but it won't happen here
that step --

first I need to climb higher
into the mountains

far, far from here

the whole thing about the human experience
is just this:
you be a man or a woman
among other men and women

so I need to go up
before I can come down

down from the hills
down from the mountains

and speak.

(and I'll need words, more many words
on the way)


::: ::: :::

[Picture: More many by reading_is_dangerous]

YOU TAKE THE SUN

you take the Sun
it has sun rays
like in the drawings of little children

you take the Earth
it grows with people
and other living beings

and even this little snake
which I saw this morning
dead, killed
by the guardian man
that thin, dead line of a life
dead baby snake
it shines too
it makes the Earth grow

green hills have hearts
and eyes and mouths
and bandits
what's in the heart of a bandit?

who
sits under the Sun
or in your heart?

the hills have ordinary people too
the people have words,
en tout cas,
ça, c'est très bien

and if I am an intruder
if I am to think of myself as an intruder
then I would say
that the intruder is little more than just
a drop of rain

::: ::: :::

[Picture : Nicole by reading_is_dangerous]

NECESSARY MARKS

sometimes I can't find the words
to go with the picture which is waiting in line
to be shown

that's especially true when I am reading a lot
or when there is little for me
to think by myself

tomorrow I am leaving for some place
a little city north of here

I don't believe there will be the Internet
but there should be plenty of opportunities
for new pictures
and new poems to be

new marks

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Drying pants by reading_is_dangerous]

In Rwanda, on the road, June 8.

A LITTLE QUESTION

"In plague epidemics, it is essential to destroy the flea population without harming the host species (rodents) otherwise there will be a greater risk of flea infesting (and infecting) humans" --p.78 of Refugee Health, An approach to emergency situations (MSF)

how to apply
that
recommendation
to the field of
politics,
now I wonder?

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Red crosses by reading_is_dangerous] In Rwanda, on the road to Goma, June 8

THE FLYING 4 X 4

the 4 x 4 was flying on the road
from K to G
and I wasn't offered any chance
to take pictures
other than from inside our speeding vehicle

the results were blurry
and at first, I thought of deleting
the whole serie,
all the pictures

but I gave them a second look
and then I saw it:
the beauty
the truth
the terrible story
of these blurred figures

by the way
I just realized that I don't know
the difference between "blurred"
and "blurry"

except that "blurred" sounds like it was done
to
it
while "blurry" sounds like it was born
like that.

::: ::: :::

[Picture: What is your name? by reading_is_dangerous] (Rwanda - yesterday)

THE OTHER SIDE OF US

this is
will be
is going to be
what is going to be

the second picture I took here
the hills
the clouds
and people to far for me to see

there is the white vehicle that will take me
to
Goma
in nearby Congo

the soil is dark
the sky is white
a man stands in between
or he doesn't

I should not write now
right after the airplane trip
right after the first night after my arrival
it's too fast, I'm taking a poetical risk (ha! ha!)

the kids here, numerous tourists
in shorts, all pink
one is right here in front of me
they're discussing the drugs they take

of course nobody's looking at me
that's the trend in traveling:
be a snob, don't talk, don't look
or look like you're utterly bored

my colleagues say
there are volcanoes on the road
they say the road is beautiful
they say it's another story on the other side

the other side of me
the other side of you
the other side of us
here is a question: how many side have we?

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Sample picture by reading_is_dangerous]

THE OTHER DAY

?



::: ::: :::

[Picture: The Universe by reading_is_dangerous] (The other day)

AND SO ON, AND SO ON

now leaving for the airport
it should be a twenty minutes flight to Bordeaux

the plan is to spend the day
with people who will show me
their part in the complicated business
of saving the world

on the same day I should come back to Paris
another twenty minutes flight
then back to hotel
it will be a long train ride

then I will be sitting here again
to be thinking of tomorrow, and so on, and so on

::: ::: :::

Picture: The squirrels of us by reading_is_dangerous

SEEN BIRD

the hand was the first bird
to come out of a pocket



::: ::: :::

[Picture: Seen bird by reading_is_dangerous] Sculpture by A. Bourganov

I AM THIS BIRD

I am this bird on the roof of this house in Paris
And I am bird-thinking,
That I am this man
In the window looking from across the street

And the houses are secretly thinking,
That all is well in this world
When people build more houses
Where more people are being born

And the clouds
Just come and go

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The Bridge-Eye by reading_is_dangerous]



I just remembered this recent comment (here), by Mijo:

Are we not just momentary clouds
In the eye of the universe ?

WHO LIVES HERE

a film,
it's bad, in your mind it's bad, that film
but then you watch it, the whole thing, and you think,
"they succeeded in making this one good."

and you end up dreaming of films which you never made
and then you think of all the stories which you never wrote
and then you think of these ideas which sit on you --
the ones that looked good in the beginning
but then you thought some more about them,
and they held nothing good

well, they sit on you. Those ideas

ok ok ok ok ok

my eyes, they look like eggs, sunny-side down
and my hair is gone, how quickly that happened
and I am skinny
and I don't know anything
but I am here, right now
and this is me, writing this (oh! the comforting thought)

if you were here, with me
we'd be talking
or just kissing
or playing cards
or watching a movie
or we'd go to sleep
and catch a dream (one each)

in seven days from now, I will be leaving for the Congo
and I was told that I can choose
one of two different drugs to keep me safe
from malaria

one, you take it once a week,
and it gives you nightmares in the beginning
and other side effects include, can include depression
dark thoughts -- as if I needed them

the other one, you take it once a day
it's an antibiotic -- no side-effect, theoretically speaking

well, I'm going to go for the later
because I don't want any molecule to touch
my nervous system
my beautiful nervous system
so precious (I should give my pills to a Congolese)

ok ok ok ok ok

I don't usually write like this
I don't think I should publish this
but I don't think I should trash it either
therefore I’ll just put it here
and perhaps one day, I'll read it again
and think,
"this started well,
but it ended badly,"
or maybe I'll think just the opposite

or nothing --
perhaps I'll think nothing of it

ok ok ok ok ok

earlier today I wrote something which I later deleted
that was about the pepper ants and the spiders
and how they come into our houses
to find a place with food and warmth

a place where to make love

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Leave them doors open, and the windows too by reading_is_dangerous]

I WILL MISS YOU

I will miss you
The day
The night
The other times

I will miss you
And here
And there
And elsewhere

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Cotton by reading_is_dangerous] (yesterday)