What collocation of beginnings
side by side in the sky
looking through window
at a fiery gas and ox flame
woven in lurid clouds,
the unit of beginning
3 seconds of origin
awoken in the mist –
then return to the tunnel
of thought, drug and routine
as a dark spiral without
exit.
Follow the designs
of the fruit fly course
and swallow the silver abyss
of the month, like a pocket of lungs
in the tissue of paperwork,
the wrong eschatology
roaming freely in the
painless nurture
of nature – there
flapping endlessly
in a wind of glimpse.
dO you smell the crust
of the aging mutation,
with mY despair
spreading
on the epidermis like
a rash of Saturn;
I’m seated on the stool
of a cosmos, looking at
the eyes of the bartender
that serves one last
drink of bitter birth;
the memory of orange sequence
expanding in the wave
of the hour;
the noise was a velvet number
dialing red, green, blue
in the connection of perception —
a nook like the sun
an insignificance
with the oblivion spangled
moments.
The axis of third world haircuts
the bland greed of vodka drinkers
the pale skin of the lonely heart
the tomato sun of the market
the prison noise of the taxi-bus
the Cyrillic insistence of the numbered floor
the deathblow in the eyes of the stranger foe
– Chisinau my jail –
the guilty joy of soaring through the clouds
the change and the chaos
the memory
and the wait.
The sadness of the suit –
hung
the window shop
like a memory
carrying the scent
of an effete cosmos,
the wrinkles engraved
as snakes on a dead desert
of polyester,
the trapezoids existing
shadows in the skin
of the pattern,
and the sadness of the suit
saturated with the rust
of a regret, the shoes
of temple sacrifice-
the suit gray and occidental
ail and sober
standing brave
as the soldier of ruin.
Hunger of blue void
the mirror of the sky
like a desk where I write
the big numbers of silence –
light blue song I imagine
traveling the fields of
my childhood, was
there a wrong window
in the house, an opposite
shadow to the sun?
Hunger blue beginning.
I’m ready to wrap the folds
of the blue world around me
and sleep, like an inebriated god,
through the eternities and the distances
of the missing answer.
The emission of the lotus
some of the vapor of my personality
arriving in the blue club of antecedents
so the understanding of oblivion
powered by the moon empty
of hair and hour,
this is the shadow of life
and the open desert of knowledge,
arson and the noise of sleep:
this is my tongue
and its seduction
of darkness.
the horizon swells with rawness
a white cumulous beehive,
my thoughts circle the distance
like black heavy flies,
the hairs of time
stroking my mind
like the drunken summer of an engine;
the horizon swells with pink oil
all the trees are horses
with green galloping flowers as their
heads,
my joy is the shy protruding
obnubilation
frozen in the sky like a gray cusp of moon
–
I am the city
with the touch as long as the empty
avenues;
my eyes strange
as the streetlight’s gloom.
Digesting
the poison rule of desire
I have to choose my eyes
and shut them hard
to taste the illusion,
aloft in the descent of darkness
the static of essence
emerges, black liquid coal
in these orbs born
to drown in light.
The decrepit couple
man and woman
the last steps of life,
Chisinau their home
and root.
Rooted in the artic
clear hour of pain,
red indelible struggle;
to choose to close the eyes
and dissolve,
to choose shadow
me or them,
in our walk towards
the great structure
of death.
Motion of orange limb
cloudlike epicenter
in the mindful gap
of my vision –
motion
bulging multitudes
of dismay
faraway kaleidoscope
in the origin of the mind,
of dense, opulent
location – married to
chance and improbability,
the bread of destiny
in the ruthless jaw of divine
novelistic forces –
a day here
and a bulge of eternal
there,
two
spiraling towards each other
like the allegories
of the eternal return
and the empty
nirvana.
Beyond Language 
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