Tuesday, May 15, 2007
On the Way to Szarvas
I saw a mutilated deer carcass.
Black birds rummaged through the carnage
with their pitchfork beaks like winos
picking a dead man pocket’s for change.
I thought of you, snapping juicy tendons
of our bloody, burnt-out roadkill love,
and although the image was adorable,
(your red fangs and delicate fork)
I think its time I told you that
every time you try and kiss me
I try to kill you with my tongue.
Something about stray dogs, ghosts rattling
like bones finally surrendering, shriek of moon.
Topless horseplay, the twisting green of dirty windows,
bee-hived ballerinas crying inside a glass of wine.
How and when did where arrive? Are we
there yet? The answer—islands and islands away.
At the Window
A pair of newborn kittens
with their heads stuck in their asses
squirming to breathe is what I think
her breasts resemble from here.
I want to live somewhere
where I can hear
a train ramble away
at least once a week,
an escape route
I’d promise somebody
I’d never take.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Last night I finally bitchslapped my insomnia, and I actually slept for the first time in three days. This week my classes have been terrible. I assigned busy work as my bloated brain wobbled back and forth between conciousness and some terrible gooey feeling. I met a very clever hungarian girl for coffee, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn.t keep up with her jokes, which were mostly puns and ironic suckerpunches, you know my favorite type of humor. During my private lessons, we watched movies. Hopefully next week with my mind and body recharrged I can make up for my ineptitude. By the way, insomnia in Hungary is fucked because church bells bang all night long, and I am not sure if I am dreaming the landscape. I still wonder if I'm even here. Am I still in Portland walking hungover down Hawthorne, trying to find a way to slay the grabby goblin in my brain?
Monday, March 26, 2007
This small town swelled to the size of a badly sprained ankle this weekend for the annual sandor bali. Two other Americans and I sat through a Hungarian play only to dance to a terrible band, all night long. We had to do some freestyle climbing to get back to my apartment at 6 in the morning. My American colleagues gawked at my students all night long, while I reminded them that they were gentlemen and not pedophiles every 5 minutes. I am hungover as hell and I didn't drink a thing last night. I won free trip to the szolarium (tanning salon) in the raffle. Ladies, Ladies one at a time!! My dark teats will remain a deep mahogany for at least two weeks.!
Monday, March 19, 2007
Or maybe butterflies flutter like drunk pianos. One of those is right. I know butterflies much better than margarine!!!!!!!!!!! I was in Vienna a short time ago. People traveled in fiberglass bubbles, that darted through the air. There was a funny dog. Nevermind, that’s the Jetsons re-run I watched on Tuesday. But Don’t you think Judy is hot? I think she should quit Space Age Beauty School, and concentrate on her rocky relationship with the undeniably hunky Irving.
around the campfire
when I told you
I thought of
the perfect chorus
for a pop song
and you never
what it was.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Battling The Jolly Green Giant in Hungary(to all the motherfuckers back home in Anotsomerryca, You know what I mean. goddam right. Hellefukingyouya!)
Now is not a good time.
That’s what I want
tattooed on my forehead.
When I do need companionship,
sex, or money, I can
say its ironic, or that I brim
with hot optimism.
No offense. But no world
can yank at my ear lobes.
I spent all afternoon
reinventing the word universe,
and then rearranging the wheelbarrow,
which is now the word for a starlit sky.
Seriously, my heart floats like a ghost
following a former wife
around the track at the gym,
which doesn’t interest me.
And my mind blinks like
a florescent banana begging
tourists to have one more drink
before they visit their lives again.
So, don’t worry about it.
I’m not mad. You’ll probably never see me mad.
I am neither forlornly profound.
I am an animal that must hibernate
for at least three months a year
just to remember what dreams are,
and that there is no better time than now.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Our Foreign Tongues
Like an old Hungarian woman pushing
a bicycle down a dirt road
the rain drives the window.
Like a ex-lover dialing your phone number
over and over and over, a call
that you wished you could answer,
and let some silence say something,
that you did love her, that you never
meant to take anything away,
or that you only left because you can’t
stay anywhere long enough.
You can’t take your shoes off,
nor your coat. You can’t come inside
out of the weather. You can’t love
a life that is so clearly unlovely.
If there was a silence strong enough
to say that you never use her recipes,
that no warm meal can offer
sufficient warmth and that you remain
in the rain watching wet grandmothers push
their broken bicycles home,
then you’d say it. You’d say it.
Mezobereny February 17
Maybe it was all the yellow things,
or the years of dirt distorting the view,
but for the first time, I felt
I was on the right side of the window
that we do not exist on accident.
The yellow crumble of old churches.
Sparrows in canary costumes.
In Bekescsaba, woman drag axes
down the street, mangy dogs order
coffee and no one is interested.
Something dramatic happened,
It had to do with yellowness.
Why else would such a serious
steam burn my eyes,
like a lost Saturday in summer?
Thursday, February 15, 2007
I just got the internet installed in my apartment. I’m hoping that this is a good thing. For the past week my hot water turns cold every other day, and friendly bearded men come around to try to fix things, to make the American tourist/teacher/milkman feel milkfed. It’s a rough mustached dark teat that I suckle. I want to offer them something. I point to the wine and they shake their heads. For some reason, I think financial tribute is too cheap.
Fanta might be the best soda in the world. I am feeling sick and it’s the only thing that kicks my clock. The men, my dark portly heroes decline the Fanta as well, probably because it is too tasty to actually drink. It’s like in the Thomas Lux poem Refrigerator 1957, when he doesn’t eat the maraschino cherries, “because you do not eat, which rips your heart with joy.”
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Okay. So there are several silences per second here. The silence of a fabricated Romania. The silence of church bells introducing an abandoned field. The silence of the great nothing sleeping around the corner. So here's a poem about it. I wrote it about Budapest, but the same feeling has lingered everywhere I go in Hungary. I am a drunk American and I am beginning to enjoy the spaces between me and everything I have said and will say.
The Fires of
You can’t see the dark,
light absent, a language unlearned.
as a bee, or an old incandescence
from a forgotten attic, seen through
a window during a hurricane.
There is no word for please, no room
for flippant lips or polished teeth
in our squalid cloudy lives. Yesterday
means tomorrow and tomorrow
is some foreigner’s bad idea.
Finally, when the flood arrives
we will thank our God.
The only serious revolutionaries left
are vigilante cats. Stone Heroes repeat
the same line, something about suffering
and terrible beauty. Petofi was killed
by the right word on the wrong battlefield.
Night and silence are always sinister.
Even the church bells hiss a warning,
“There is nothing at stake here.”
Nothing means everything
and everything is the last thousand years
shackled to our ankles.