Walking on Bones

I walk on bones
of jews massacred silently,
angrily, with smiles on
the culprits' faces
and a shot of vodka, after
by the fireplace, legs kicked up
and a bear rug
jews ratted on by neighbours
scared to walk the street
denounced by little girls
with aryan ringlets
jews stuffed, suffocating in closets,
crawl spaces, bricked up rooms
ghetto jews, defiant jews
turncoat jews of the JP the judenrat
little boys hidding the forests
scared to, and forgetting how
to speak. Their ghosts
dance in the wind
like the white, pure flecks of snow
like grey flecks of ash.
Forgive me brothers,
I walk on your bones.

The Idea of a Smile

There's the idea of a smile
lurking behind your lips.
Maybe it waits for the spring
the april torrents
strong currents
gulped up by the dirt
to poke it's green spear
up to the light.
Or maybe it's waiting
for my hand on your hip
and a dip into your eyes
Cool like a breeze
off a field covered with snow.

Like a Sunset

like a sunset
thrown through the window
the glass lies on the pane
gather it up and
cut your finger tips
my heart is a trip wire
barbed wire high wire
tight rope act
and I, up there blind-folded
teeth chattering and frightful
hope to avoid the last, hopeless
drop.

Vultures

no, vultures are not lesbians
but something more sinister
circling circling
for a sniff of flesh
with no other meaning
than the tip of the wing.

My Love, T.5

My love isn't a bit beautiful
and has a rather difficult personality
but she paints the sky for me
with dark violet afternoons
which let her go, but not come back.

My love has warm lips
and near perfect teeth that when she smiles
answer the challenge of the world
my love has a mouth that rises
like the half moon in all my nights.

My love doesn't have tender eyes
but dancing in the rectangular streets
a crazy woman flame
blackens my weak shadow
I put my hand on the nape
of her neck.

My shadow crosses a fragile blade of grass
and an opening apple blossom.

To Lodz

'Gazeta fakt-tylko jedno zloty!'
says the man-dirty ball cap
faded pink jacket-monday morning
9 a.m.-tram number 11
I see him again-Saturday morning
black pants and shirt, pink and yellow feathers
an earing and a black fedora
'Gazeta fakt mother fuckers!'
Nobody bothers to laugh.
Maybe he's a gypsy king
maybe he's just another drunk
with an odd taste in clothes.
I don't know. It's hard to
break through the shell of ice
behind which the true lies.
Later on I hear the familiar
melody of a trumpet and accordian
people open their windows to listen
to the same song their grandparents heard
they toss down coins wrapped in tissue.
This is Lodz-the slow catipillar
gently unfolding its wings.
Maybe like that man, restrained
so many Mondays and Tuesdays
has finally reached Saturday morning.
The city starts to shrug off
the sluggish movements of a past life.
Old buildings are reborn
and the dull grey blocks of flats
of the socialist workers paradise
are being embraced with a jail break of colour
Lodz-you will be the rainbow city
and forget, maybe not forget, but recover
from the shcok of the jews starving in the ghetto
the dull November concrete
the tanks in the streets.

Eyes, t.4

my eyes-now not eyes
but stars
small, scatter in the heavens
my skin-now not skin
snow on the window
softly falls to earth
my love-takes root
descends
my love deep
in the
deaf, cracked, parched earth.

The Initial Lightning, t.3

I was who you are
I am who you will be.

In the basement of the valley a river bakery
mills, battleships glance at the foggy canning plants
with chipwaggons blossoming gretting the sky
like a healthy dream in my hand
it flowed away-
a whisper.

The deceptive weeks on lurking beds
brushed with the music of temple flowers
anxious smoke I called your name.
I called
Come.

Shadow, t.2

Does the moon bird
tumble? Doe sit fall
from the face
covered up in shadow?

In my heart
it falls from your face...
We both cry.
Don't say anything.

Life is Hard, t.1

Yes, life is hard.
It isn't impossible to live.
It isn't impossible in a valley
or living in a shack by the sea,
but yes life is hard.

Yes, life is hard.
It isn't impossible to live.
Life is terrible and shy like a hunchback.
It isn't impossible in an attic eating dried fish.

Yes, life is hard.
It's hard yes to love a peg
without a bathrobe
without a shirt dirty
from picking mushrooms.

It isn't impossible in a valley
or living in a shack by the sea
it's in your hands.

8 Landscapes

http://www.archive.org/download/8_Landscapes/8Landscapes.mp3

Knowing You

www.archive.org/download/Knowing_You/KnowingYou.mp3

Grampa's Dead

www.archive.org/download/Grampas_Dead/GrampasDead.mp3

Death, the final close of the door
seperates us, and yet cements us.
I do not know what I was,
if anything to you
but I knew you were ready
with a smile and kind word
when nervous I stumbled
through your doors. Maybe
like other men you had your flaws
but they were hidden from me.
I never heard your anger or unkind words.
So I will spare you the false tears
and let the jackals of guilt stalk others
you and I demanded nothing of each other.
Let others carry your body down
to the open arms of the grave
your spirit has already flown
somewhere beyond the imagination.
I will give the best memorial I know
these words and when the time
comes to close my eyse maybe someone
will remember me as I have remembered you.

Two Bergs

two bergs
float on the midnight sea
dark as any dream
migrant birds
snatch a few moments of rest
the saline saturated air
cleansing their lungs
and perhaps those two bergs
rub up against each other
the frozen desire of hydrogen + oxygen
and what is tender for them
is an icequake for the startled birds
who jet up to the dull, night foggy sky
and set off, again, to find some other shelter.
But which are we? The moulting birds
or the burning ice?