Words are small drops like raindrops on my head.
They wet my hair and run down my cheeks like tears,
except not mine.
They are not mine, but I absorb them and they make home in me;
a home not very lovely but livable.
I can not offer them a better accommodation.
I am a dumb believer in them words:
unwillingly, but I accept them fools!


 

Where is my Cluelessness?
It goes missing while Certainty escapes the bars
While Ignorance leaves no trace behind
While herds of proven truths trample ground

I dream a dream I will forget
A dream I won't remember
A dream I want to dream
A dream of self

i live in fear of the unsaid words
the words that i don't want to hear
out of fear that they were never said
i live in fear of the untold past
and in horror of inarticulate mumble
of my entire life

i am nobody bound to everybody under the oath of polygamous marriage taken in the full absence of conscious mind
under the oath I wear masks of appearances every day of my life until death separates me

False harvest yields the dust. Old Cronus turns away from us. The Hollow Horse continues sprouting ribs. There is no better time to stumble than when the darkness falls.

Chess pieces played in game of cards may feel misplaced but act like strong believers. Am I a part of it? I pick a random queen and smile into fer face, and throw my arms around her waist. We both break into laughter. Our wide open mouths issue sounds like those of children before they knew the separation.

There are no accidents, only irony, and no doubt it has been said before.

Into the woods where I will say two words and hear two truths I shall go. Where has this path begun and where it's heading? It spins until, awakened, I lose my balance falling onto my faces. Down on my faces I fall. One is my mother's before I was alive, and another is my daughter's who can't remember me. In the woods on the path of separation I am walking.

What if my will is just some crazy fella who climbs the rocks before and after drinks? What if one day he wills to break the habit? What will I do without chasing him?

Time drops into the kitchen sink and hits the pool of grease and soap on the bottom of spaghetti pot: the faucet relieves suspense: the moment is relived time after time.

... and destiny will speak when future comes to the Land of Plenty where the Only live where nothing can be further from the glove than the hand that made it.

And let us realize the tragedy of life before we leave the stage.

Remember, in the past she used to be a sinker in every shallow stream? She used to suffocate in currents and in flows until today. Cleaned out from the gutters she dries on rotten floors.

I am entering the phase when mask falls off my face and features underneath are morphing. It happens once a month; it happens everyday; it happens all the time; it's happening this morning.

To think is just another harmful habit mind-altering for those who binge on it. Thought-poisoned I am stumbling up the stairs and count steps to help me out of it.

Art is a space where when stretching out I lose my fingertips and toes behind the curves of four horizons. It's so lonely - no schools or systems - and so wild - no single highway in wide vicinity. Turned towards nature, art is a human nature. It's an adventure in the spirit of exploration, so vulnerable and aggressive, meek, shameless, and alone. Things made without instructions, words uttered without learnedness, attempts to express that which is difficult to express start art. Courageous ones, who go to a journey without maps, I solute everyone of you, who comes back!  

An artist must remove a chatter from her thought: it doesn't feel as bad as it appears. In the bathroom, in laborious attempt to pluck invasive thoughts with trembling scissors, I do an awkward move and break the mirror. With my reflection gone, I look behind the cracks in sudden hope to see the Darkness, but instead, I find a few old scratches on the back board.

I tend to pause between the threads of thoughts that force my tongue to turn. It isn't easy. The fibers broken into shreds fall to my feet in random hips in random colors. But on recycling day - next Tuesday is the next recycling day - when they will come for usual collection, they reassemble them in less peculiar way, in better, simpler way to fit banality.

Collecting damaged things may grow into passion when wholeness feels nothing but pretense. My cobalt Turkish vase is just a fragmentation whose pattern brakes without making sense.

Her psychic's overrun by road traffic. The screams for freedom to express may deafen quiet mouse inside her shirt. Unfettered spells of varied meanings take strong effect. She chatters teeth and growls in response.

I lived a life of a woman and reached the age of an artist, and there is no such thing as turning back.

Once I was told that art is not about feelings but purely an intellectual journey. These awful concept hit me in the belly like a bullet and ugly wound inflamed and started oozing art.

A crow on a tree may signal isolation to anyone who slows at the sight. He may be dead, or so deafened by loud bellows of the wind that ticking time does not occur to him. He chained himself to one of many branches of solitude.

Embarrassment creeps from under the sheets of cowardice. A taste of currency on a delivery ship's tongue. The hardest part about being harbored lays in the wake of beaten stars. Now listen, fools, there is no destiny, just destination, so come aboard without looking back. Life is beyond return, and pains accumulate despite the wishes for happy things to come.

All ladies were in love with Tyrant, who paid them visits via their dreams. He was in their dreams, the tyrant who was real, and real men are not as manly as we dream. The dreams that ladies dreamed made Tyrant grow manly because they were as sweet as mother's milk.