LatinosUSA

By name

in you as in a church
this night

                                  in your tender body
                                  this eternity

my loneless
in your haos and crunch
of house

now it is only possible to sing the last rites for my deceased heart
you are the emptiness of black incense and the wax of an extinguished melted candle

a barely noticeable fluff flies in the sky like a bird
a fluff like a bird drinks the silence and drowns in tranquility
and i also used to call you air

a glass frame with a photograph falls from the wall
carelessly and accidentally I call the woman in the photo mom

i will never call anyone 
                                    home 
or air 
or family                                                 or by name 
again

~~

Inside

We have long since died inside the belly:
Аgain and for the first time I came to the cemetery island.

The house has been turned upside down, 
Аnd now everything is in its place.

No one died except Jesus:
Coal or/and Death?

~~

Cross the road 

Cross the road when the traffic light is red
Cross the road when the traffic light is red
Cross the road when the traffic light is red
Cross the road when the traffic light is red
Cross the road when the traffic light is red
Cross the road when the traffic light is red
Rebel until humility sets in

~~

It was me

The river does not talk to the stone. I am silent together with the stone about the shadows and how their bodies, burdened with sound and smell, are reflected in these shadows. The stone does not argue, the stone does not understand, the stone will endure everything like a candle until the last trembling fiery drop. The shadows of birds cannot be confused with the shadows of buildings or animals. The shadows of people can be confused with anything from emptiness to a statue. The dead and newborns are also statues and their form (before and after) is unchanged. The stone wall of the house turns into ruins and bricks and stones again find humility. Moss will tell everything about a tear because all the tears of the world are just one drop in a stone sea screaming into silence. Shadows and roots drown in water (or in the shadow?) with cut-off hands. Monkeys sit on branches. Monkeys fall into cages. Monkeys don't call their home a prison. People drown with their bodies cut off. People drown in themselves. They drown in their own crowd. And the river regains its shore. Dawn of dew. On the embankment, the dew has blossomed. God drowned us with the blood of the killed and wounded. God sharpened the knife. At night, a stranger stuck the knife into my back. Above the head of the stone sky, distant stars burn. And above my stone head drowned in the sky, the cosmos burns. I set it all on fire.

Previously published by "Inflectionist Review"

~~

What flows from the second hand of the clock

I say party but involuntarily I pronounce death
In each fold of the official flag lives a hungry belly
In each note of the official anthem lives a combat concussion
In each color of the official coat of arms are absorbed blood
I say sunrise but while I look at the sky it begins to get dark
In every official speech I hear the noise of a chainsaw in a dying garden
In each raised hand I seem to hear a cut vein on a tree branch
In each formulation the crunch of leaves or bones underfoot in autumn seeps through
I say stone but this stone like a fist means silence in the wind
The palm involuntarily opens like a flower dew falls from above and a bird flies in to drink from my hands
An iron-crippled shot-down bird drinks blood from my hands
I say bird but I mean the dead daughter of other people's parents
In each feather there is a mysterious minty pain
In each sip the emptiness comes to life which we swam before than we were born
In each breath the fish wheezes which we were in our mother's belly
I say fish and I mean the drowned silence in the form of which we came into this world as a stone 
This world stole us at birth and brought us to its home
Now all the drowned have overcome their fear of swimming
And the blood like time flows from the second hand of a clock

Previously published by "Inflectionist Review"