p o e m s

 

 

 

 

I remember a thorn in my heel.

Sheaves of wheat lay in a field. 

 

When I climbed up on my fatherís shoulders,

I didnít know he would die. 

 

Blue towels terrify me.

The pictures of naked women keep moving

 

to higher shelves as I grow up.

When father works, the clocks stand still.

 

 

s n o w m a n

Suffering joins fear and disgust.

I see enormous snowballs. I SEE

ENORMOUS SNOWBALLS. People

think they contain the hidden horror

of the world. But I know. Theyíre the finished

work of slaves, waiting for me.

I can build the little guy

half asleep. When I take a red root

from the bin and stick it in the smallest

ball, Iím more relaxed than a

king whoís planted a tree. The photos

of my gestures go to the center.

Immortality is always nihilistic.

 

 

s a n  j u a n  d e  l a  c r u z  a n d  j o h n  d i l g

My god is a cruel yellow bug,

it settles wherever it wants.

Clown! I donít fall for your tricks

anymore! My god is a thousand flashes in a

 

single cube of sugar. Now I dip it into

coffee in your castle, just as

fate dealt with your two children, Katrina Trask.

The sugar vanishes, I vanish. I wipe

 

my forehead. The guests stare and ask

if Iím insane. I come unstuck. And again

it transports me into the fire in the eyes of others.

Into the steely velvet irises of John

 

Dilg. Every bite in his bread is a

tempest. I bend like a bridge. Iíll

endure this joke. Where are you,

grass? Iíll wall you up in a bee.

 

Insects, insects! Striped, smelling

machines! Stay where you

were, friend. Donít stroll over the

abyss of my rights Ė human fibers.

 

 

Endure your crime.

 

 

To the nun who fixed

real hair onto the doll of Christ Ė

what did you pierce the head with?

 

Young ladies in far-off lands wear high heels.

Man strokes

a copper sphere.

 

 

If it werenít for Descartes, theyíd have

found the golden flower!

Horses in the steppes would have their hooves wrapped

in a layer of nylon. The nylon would be in my

mothersí flesh.

 

I lifted the eastern edge

of the table, to let the

crumbs

of bread roll toward the

door.

 

 

With my tongue,

like a faithful, devoted

dog, I lick Your

golden head,

reader.

Horrible is my

love.

 

 

g o d í s  s t r a w

ďLa sainte eut díabord la vie díune femme entourťe

díun luxe frivole. Elle vťcut maritalement, eux

plusieurs fils et níignora pas la brŻlure de la chair.

En 1285, agťe de trente-sept ans, elle changea de vie. . .Ē

Ė Georges Bataille, Líexpťrience intťrieure

 

May 22, 9:30, listen

Metka,

wretched creature, lurking from your ambush across

the ocean on my holy mouth with warm, dangling

members, affixed to that infamous

hen-house, dripping with oil and melon.

Into your blind alley, march!

Long live Agatha Christie and all tranquil

fossils! Disgusting

zipper!

Absurdly soldered flour-box, consuming

miles of my paper, even in my

sleep! Where did you get the right

to wiggle beneath me,

paramecium,

to quiver and yelp like the orgasm of some alpine

tour?

Your ears are flat! At every

throb I pray for an avalanche to

bury you. Hey, Saint

Bernards! I want your liquor for my wife. For

her sake Iíve neglected the

insects that have stopped

fluttering around my silk. Watch yourself,

cannibal, wanting to imprint

my face into your live

flesh.

I wonít take the bait.

Iím not some Slovene peasant.

Iím Angelica da Foligno.

I remain godís straw.

 

Andra and Toma  alamun,

sitting in green armchairs,

two awesome salesmen from the least.

(I meant to write from the east,

but mistyped.)

He with his madness,

I with my Christ.

Both of us stare at the smoke.

 

Yeah, I fuck his brain.

He loves my cries.

(I meant to write Christ,

but mistyped,

word of honor in both

cases.)

The same, mum!

 

 

t h e  o e u v r e  a n d  i t s  b r a c k e t s

Let various Marxists and the herd still

shuffling outside my door gnash their

teeth, but Iím living

now. All I

do is slightly

rearrange the struggle for the seed flowing

in the universe.

Remember how Maruska

went around dressed!

A fatter rope around

her waist Ė three years later it appeared in

Vogue Ė than

the kind they use to dock

a steamship. One day Metka will

show up at the Academy in

sackcloth, tongues of flame shooting from

her eyes. My wives

vie with the Lord

for disguises.

Right at the edge they scream.

They excise me from the head of the world. Thatís why

this time the muses dictate practical

instructions to me, because they want me to be

fine, even when Iím old and

dottering. With everything cooked

and laundered just right, young poets and lovers

met nicely at the door.

And not a dayís delay with correspondence.

In short, my wives must leap into

the Void, but

not with their eyes

closed, or holding their noses from violent

love.

Clearly, that technique only leads to an awful

kerplunk!

 

 

Not just me.

Everyone I touch becomes

the food of this flame.

 

 

d o u b t i n g  g r a n d s o n

Donít nod off on

the train from Venice to

Vienna, dear

reader.

Slovenia is so

tiny you could

miss it. Tinier than my

ranch east of the

Sierras!

Instead, get up,

stick you head out the window, though it says

FORBIDDEN!

Listen to my

golden voice!

 

 

p r o l o g u e  I

God is made of wood and doused in gasoline.

I take a cigarette to burn a spiderís leg.

 

The gentle swaying of grasses in the wind.

Heavenís vault is cruel.

 

 

p r o l o g u e  I I

I write this to you, whom till now Iíve only

warned.

I can scarcely control my

servants, who threaten me with

revolt.

 

The smell of your burnt

flesh is my

life, they whisper.

Weíre too old to

change masters.

 

So I warn you, your fate is

not clear.

If I weary in

this battle, youíll

burn up.

 

 

j e r u s a l e m

The crime has been written:

you will never

meet a person that you

love as much as

me.

 

 

g r a i n

In America Rose Kennedy goes to mass twice

each morning. Along the way she eats a sandwich

to save money. Three sons, three heroís medals

jingle on her blue blouse.

The woman even eats through the exaltation of the host.

All other women who donít eat through the

exaltation drown at

Chappaquidick, or go to hospitals

for electroshock. The third generation of Kennedys

numbers roughly a billion. Theyíre sweeter than the

kitchiest picture postcards. Teddy

sails. He hasnít yet made up his mind. If America

fails, it will be because Teddy gets

mad at some prankster who breaks his sailís

frame. Meanwhile, in California my friend

Jerry Brown is sleeping sweetly. No

wonder heís rested. I make love to him night and day.

And somewhere, in Americaís heart, lost

amid the corn, an ordinary farmer says:

Iíve had it with this Boston quasi-elite

and their provincial Catholic bullshit.

To hell with Teddy and his health care

mafia! In green fields and in the

blue sky my most secret flower

opens. Thatís also how every young

Slovenian poet should behave,

and if not, then in this century they simply

do not have a chance.

 

 

 

Contributors

 

next page

 

 


contents download subscribe archive