September
So much rain in the past month
flooding streets and homes
My body is bloated
to bursting
heavy with water
Mayakovsky’s verse stamped on my soul
“Я хочу одной отравы -
пить и пить стихи”
But I am full to bursting
gagging on the bitter taste
of a rotting name
I drank it all and I am full
I want to spit
cough
boil it out
with smoke and tar
But I am soaked through too deeply
A dirty sponge in a clogged sink
Oh God!
I could strike down this world right now.
the contructioneering jackhammerers, steamrollers and swinging cranes.
this dust the wind kicks up!
that swirls around the repulsive clicking heals of beautiful women
and ranks of parading boots of babushkas.
the swaying floor of the trolleybus makes me sea sick.
yesterday the only thing that brought me peace -
an old man with dirty fingernails -
sleeves rolled up
prison tattoo
bleeding into to the wrinkles of his hand -
less frightening than the leopard skin print stretched over springtime bosoms.
Should We Go Home by Ellen Allien
Thoughts, Dreams, and the Speed of it all
The days are growing longer now. The sun rises at 5:30 and sets at 9:30. It’s warm finally, but not warm enough to explain why I keep tossing and turning in my sleep as if it were July and humid. There are thoughts on my mind. They flicker between the slew of dreams and daydreams…
…I saw a man beaten into gloomy shame by the bickering of babushkas when he failed to pay for a bus ticket. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and leaned against the window of the bus…
…Last night I dreamt I was home and driving my car, the gentle tension of the gas pedal pushing me up and up…
…I slept the whole five hour bus ride to Moscow. The time at the Picasso exhibition was short, but the bus ride even shorter. I felt like I blinked and I was there, then blinked again and I was back…
Bedtime reasoning on the question of art:
…Whether it resonates with the whole of society, with only the artist, or with God, it does not matter, as long as it resonates. If it is emulated by others, then so be it. If it rings true, then it keeps ringing, echoing until it takes on a new outward appearance, though its soul always remains the same…
…Less than four weeks. All I can think about is how I have no clue how to think about it all.
Taken at the ГУМ in Moscow
I seldom look at the ground. I mean really look at it–not just to place one foot in front of the next, but to look at it, take in its texture, its worth. When I do glance down at the dust on the curb and the cigarette butts, the spring blades of grass, and green bits of tinted glass, my bus has already arrived, its heavy tread grinding against the curb.
Istanbul/Piter
