Fortune Teller
going home after a 10 – hour job…riding the bus
with the blacks and the poor…watching through
the window…the setting sun…the uselessness of
the trees…the stream of the cars…the concrete
of the sidewalk…the skittish cops…the blocks
with the streets of houses and their windows
and the faces behind…with all their blankness…
and the guy sitting next to me – a large man
with hands like tree-trunks – tries to start a stupid
conversation…but I am not here…riding the bus
with all these dead souls…I am out there…some
where…and then I got out…on the empty street
…leading to my place…with the burning walls…
the empty chair…and I am here…I open the door…
and then close it… I open the fridge…get the beer
bottle…and then close it…I sit in the empty chair
…and turn on the radio…luck with Brahms…I put
the green glass in my mouth…and the foamy liquid
goes into my throat…and I just sit there…thinking…
what this life is all about.
Melancholy
Watching the pigeons making gentle love
on the windowsill.
It is Sunday.
Beaks and feathers warmed by the sun,
touching each other.
Sweet noise
from their gizzards is
touching my fingertips.
Time slips by…
Still Sunday.
I am alone
and
they make love.
I light a cigarette and let the smoke
do the same with the emptiness of
the room.
Roominghouse Song in Texas
Listen,
listen,
listen:
to the song of the squeaking elevators,
the rooms with the unmade beds and the running
roaches hiding in the greyish hallways,
with the dusty Venetian blinds
and the rugs covered with holes,
listen
listen
listen:
to the sound of the footsteps on the stairways,
the whispers in the bathrooms and the buzzing of
the overworked air-conditioners muffling the gentle screams
at 3:27 A.M.,
listen
listen:
to the woman next door through the stained wall
singing a sweet lullaby to the spiders and the moon,
stretching her legs in the bed alone like a swan
during the mating season,
listen
listen:
to the dripping sink and the hot water babbling
in the rusty pipes creating the sound of the awakening
beast that is this building in this enormous city in this
concrete world so outworn by its own organic junk -
us - the humans, that cannot learn nothing from
the past,
listen
listen:
to the shadows moving on the roof with the rats
and the forgotten artifacts in the cardboard boxes,
once preciously loved by their owners and now
even the light from the old candles could not
penetrate their darkness that they dwell within,
listen
listen:
to the sound of the opening of the window,
and the cars hissing below,
and the people inside,
and their radios,
and to the garbage trucks,
and the ice-cream trucks,
and the kids on the sidewalks,
and their dogs on long leashes,
and the rising sun,
chasing the shadows away,
listen
listen
listen:
to the yells coming from the lobby,
of this old building, of this rotten Universe,
listen:
to the wrinkled landlady,
with her hands in the air,
crying:
“Oh, please God, show me the way!”
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