Miroslav Tichý. Source: lempertz.com
*
My hunger for love exceeds me
Which has been a continuous annoyance
.
Although possibly a passe
But I do love both women
And the people who imagined God differently
It is a strange game
Gueorgui Pinkhassov, Paris, 1996. Source: magnumphotos.com
On the Bus
Caught up short on the express bus and those drivers don’t stop for shit. I avoid the express because of my affliction but it was filthy out, brown cold rain, and here come the bus, and jostling, and I don’t notice, and it’s an express, and it won’t stop.
I’m good at first, plop down in a seat, bag under my feet, floor wet but seat warm.
Claude said it come from eating out of trashcans and such. They fixed us so we could not ever have kids and road us on a rail out of Utah.
I like to look into the houses, warm glows of lights, the bus passes.
I consider my options.
Bad to give us a bad name. And I do not call myself that. I’m a traveler. A time traveler. I travel all the time. Round and round the city I go.
But I can’t hold it any longer, and this an express bus, so here we go.
Need a boat to paddle out of here. Gives a whole new meaning to disembark.
Robert Frank, from “The Americans”. Source: fadedandblurred.com
Shadows in ink.
On such evenings I’m
too tired to applaud the maestro
but a fresh maté soothes nevertheless.
War has not been declared
and there is not one fraction
of my life left behind.
There are lots of commas
and etceteras lying about the hallway
waiting to be used, waiting to be set free
to dance across the page.
They seem to comfort each other
after these outbursts;
a sort of mirage
these words I cannot grasp
.
тнє ѕυℓтαη'ѕ ѕєαℓ 