Rusty steel maidens enter the scene
To spill smoldering metal in molds to the brim
And shape bones out of beams with magnificent sheen;
A perfect reflection of the Great Mother’s dream.

Out of thick mist, in orderly streams
March mannequins made by man-made machines,
Cold to the core, with meat masking the seams,
And empty white eyes shining murderous gleams.


On occasion

Sometimes bad luck comes by in buckets on the back
Of heavy transport trucks, with enough horse power
To make trains look like children carrying backpacks.
Sometimes my hands run on my face for hours
And I can’t tell the passing of the time,
And I can’t well start up these rusty gears
To trivialize thoughts and make them rhyme.
Sometimes I shudder when I count my years,
Measuring life by lousy paradigms;
Life as a marathon of facing fears,
Where my spleen hurts and I’ve fallen behind.
So now life is a struggle to get back in line
With no sense of direction. A bad joke. Perverse.
I stare at what I want to be like mirrors in reverse.
Sometimes I see there’s always something worse,
Like how sometimes my mood swings something worse
Than small bands playing standards out of tune
Then claiming they had no time to rehearse (!).
Sometimes I stare out to the moon,
Full as the glass half I refuse to see,
And freezing on the balcony, I play the loon
Until it sets across the street, behind a block,
And I’m left counting dim stars piercing through the smog.
And sometimes I wish I wasn’t blind to beauty
That I could capture it and lay it down in words
And throw it at the world, like freeing birds
To fly as flawless bastions of hope through the absurd.

Drac albastru

Foaie verde, drac albastru,
Mă făcuşi într-o sihastră,
De stau noaptea la fereastră
Şi tu stai să-mi scârmi în ţeastă.

Foaie verde de cucută,
Şi n-adorm decât băută
Şi mă scol cu perna udă,
Că tot stai să-mi faci în ciudă.

Foaie verde, mătrăgună,
Mai taci dracului din gură!
Se fac ore din minute
Când doar gura ta s-aude.

Foaie verde, mărăcine,
Dracule, şi nu e bine.
Te îndur de ani de zile,
Dar tu nu te-nduri de mine.

Foaie verde de secară,
Azi i-aşa frumos afară,
Dracule, şi astă seară
Cred c-am să mă duc la gară.

Foaie verde, iarbă fină,
Ş-am să-mi las capu’ pe şină,
Vie trenu de-o să vină,
Durerea de mi-o alină.


Again I step forth
through this nauseating network
of boulevards and by-streets,
a stray dog prone to bitch fits –
I am the finest example
of wildlife in the asphalt jungle.

All bite busy biting through bark
and with an outlook so dark,
I often can’t see
that I’m biting up the wrong tree.

Enter a voice sister with reason,
on a mission to place the last piece on
and set down her foot –
as to kindly remind me that I’m gnawing on wood.

(So I’ll drink, and I’ll smoke, and I’ll curse, and I’ll take a deep breath,
for endurance is something that spooks and blue devils respect.)

On broken things

Were women art, she would’ve been a masterpiece
of grays encased in black and reds bordered by white,
fit with a subtle grace, the kind you blink and miss.
She fit her hand in mine like it’s where it belonged
and let it linger for a moment’s gentle squeeze.
A quiet chemistry to burn louder than vows,
like making matches with phosphorous and sulphur;
there were no tricks of mind, nor games of cat and mouse,
just hands and eyes. The two of us, we had enough
issues between us to start a publishing house.

We spoke what little words there were to speak, then spoke
only to hear each other speak, then simply sat
as sentries for silence to veil us in its cloak.
Our faces met like magnets with a mind to take
gravity, bend it out of shape and leave it broke.
So strong this force of magnetism, it forbade
our lips from leaving. A kiss out of bad movies,
or dime a dozen books, that managed to degrade
a thousand words into a quick exchange of looks.
She was my Queen of Hearts, I was her Jack of Spades.

Perhaps I was a fool to run away so soon.
Perhaps I was a fool to think no man alive
could take two broken clocks and make them tick in tune.
And if I never looked behind, it’s ’cause I was
walking backwards when I left her that afternoon.
Sometimes I think her tongue and lips must’ve been laced
with stuff only Greek gods could take, that years later
the thought of her alone is like an aftertaste
of caterpillars; butterflies in the stomach
that line my guts in ice and grind them into paste.


Pute a rugină-ntre cartoane,
La capăt de oraș, într-un tunel,
Unde urcă fum din tomberoane
Și petrolu-mpinge prin burlane
Cenușă peste grinzile de fier.

În mahala, un maxilar de crom
Scârțâie-ntr-o tocită față
S-aducă aleile la viață
Printr-un strident, “Oase vechi luăm.”
Și mașinile fac șir spre piață.

Worn-out blues

I’ve got the blues about me like October ’29,
I said, I got the blues about me like October ’29,
Y’know, they’re ramblin’ in my head and weighin’ on my mind.

They came by in the mornin’, thought I’d walk them for a while,
Well, the blues came in the mornin’, thought I’d walk them for a while,
And I almost broke my shoes, ’cause I couldn’t stop for miles.

They came back in the evenin’, tried to drown’em in the glass,
Then the blues came in the evenin’, tried to drown’em in the glass,
But I almost drowned myself, they must’a gone to swimmin’ class.

And they came around last night and they wouldn’t let me sleep,
Yeah, the blues dropped by last night and they wouldn’t let me sleep,
Y’know, I started laughin’, then all I could do was weep.