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.
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
I lifted the eastern edge
of the table, to let the
of bread roll toward the
With my tongue,
like a faithful, devoted
dog, I lick Your
Horrible is my
g o d í s s t r a w
ďLa sainte eut díabord la vie díune femme
díun luxe frivole. Elle vťcut maritalement, eux
plusieurs fils et níignora pas la brŻlure de la
En 1285, agťe de trente-sept ans, elle changea de
vie. . .Ē
Ė Georges Bataille, Líexpťrience intťrieure
May 22, 9:30, listen
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
Absurdly soldered flour-box, consuming
miles of my paper, even in my
sleep! Where did you get the right
to wiggle beneath me,
to quiver and yelp like the orgasm of some alpine
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
I wonít take the bait.
Iím not some Slovene peasant.
Iím Angelica da Foligno.
I remain godís straw.
Andra and Toma
sitting in green armchairs,
two awesome salesmen from the least.
(I meant to write from the east,
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,
word of honor in both
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
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
Clearly, that technique only leads to an awful
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
Slovenia is so
tiny you could
miss it. Tinier than my
ranch east of the
Instead, get up,
stick you head out the window, though it says
Listen to my
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
I can scarcely control my
servants, who threaten me with
The smell of your burnt
flesh is my
life, they whisper.
Weíre too old to
So I warn you, your fate is
If I weary in
this battle, youíll
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
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.