As I passed through these opaque cities crumpling the newspaper’s strange signs there were seasons and sparrows and glimmers and syllables lost all around the brazier’s coals

I wandered past opera houses losing threads

Ah yes I walked in snow and inferno having no need for a closing parenthesis run aground twenty times on the silt of the night delta giving my blood its plain

And in the debris the remembrance the rumours

So I dozed in the scars of cities

Long repose of a river alone

Lip touching the crevice of time.

Leaping from a blank page a false

Chicken seller offers me a mug of beer

A cigar when a chain of cutout

Figures is paper-mâchéd down the boulevard

The end of the strike threads its way

Between the wax museum and the 

Feast tableclothed in an austere cream

The organist of transparency

Performs a birdsong to muddle

Drop by drop a giant oil tanker

In the blueing black toward the crowd 

Night

Cul-de-sacs of rats

Scattered stars

Night of shortened breath

I call I

Dream I scrawl

Between distant clamour

And this quarrel closer by

My grandmother walked in a little yellow wood crunching in an autumn I no longer recall till a poacher on the run knocked her down to the ground When I leaned in and pressed close my ear I only found an ancient book whose open pages moved no more Lifting the book I was taken back to a town abandoned by its orioles With one gesture a photographer beneath his hood turned a baker’s entire family to stone The sky itself was yellow too and the end of the road did not yet have any monument to the dead.

In the desert of solitude, my love, are tremors

the shadows of your voice, mirages of your lips

In the desert of solitude, beneath the ash

and dust of distance, blossom the jasmines and roses

of your touch

A flame of your breath rises somewhere nearby,

smoldering          softly     in its own perfume

far beyond the horizon       your heartening eyes

drop shimmering dew

How lovingly, my love, your memory visits me,

lays her hand on my heart:

I surmise—though, this is the dawn of parting

—that the day of migration has waned

      and the night of our union, crested

The sky today is a sea-lane

busy with the ships of passing

clouds

whose decks are masted

with sunbeams draped in

diaphanous sails

The city’s domes are the islands

of this sea

where everyone is busy

risking it all:

see that blackbird swimming,

that eagle

    diving in…

There is no contest of power

here: no battleship fleets or flags;

no submarines creeping on the

seabed; no rockets or cannons

And, though, every element

here is bursting with charge—

just look how peaceful

these bustling waters are

Samarkand, 1978

In a little while,

the moon will be

robbed on every

rooftop;

mirrors will thirst

for vanished reflections.

One by one, the stars will

disintegrate—

exploding into

dust that will rain down

from heaven’s moist eyes.

Inside night-quarters

tired beyond hope

someone will gather his

loneliness, he will spread it

over;

at this faithless hour,

at this time of turning away—

when every man is only for

himself without memory

of another,

at this hour of severance,

at the end of our tryst

with the world:

wild heart, where will you go

at this hour?

No one will recognize you, let it go.

Who will you find now? Let it go.

And whoever you come across

by chance, you’ll regret seeing:

wild heart, where will you go

at this hour?

Stay a little longer—

wait until morning’s fleam

has roused every eye once more

              like a wound;

then all the helpless slain

at the end of the night—

forgetting the destitute hour,

the end of the night—

will insist on meeting,

on being called by name

Unlike in the U.S., UFOs in Norway don’t often land in the countryside.  Instead we have domestic flying saucers, especially at Christmastime. With no warning, they fall out of the clear, blue sky, crashing in our blond hair, making mystical patterns in our brain waves. What do they want? Are they hostile? We don’t have a clue. Even our wives shake their heads, unable to speak. There’s a high-pitched humming sound, as if the computer inside is still working, as if someone had survived and is speaking frantically in a strange tongue, someone who has all the answers to our questions. We believe the scientific approach works best, so we secure the crash site, inspect and catalogue each piece of wreckage. The temperature is quickly falling below zero. We gather around the fireplace, a bewildered bunch of primates picking lice out of each other’s hair in the faint December light. 

We bought a cocker spaniel, but it wasn’t realistic enough, so we gave it away. When the goldfish died, we turned to appliances. Our old toaster. The glass-topped stove. Appliances are not flawless either, but the on/off buttons worked so well we decided to develop a similar system of our own.  Instead of buttons, we use baseball bats. One rap on the skull means “It’s your turn to do dishes,” one smack to the shin means “Leave me alone,” a heavy blow to the solar plexus means “Can you repeat that, please?” Life’s a lot simpler now. The kids line up every night to do the dishes, I get to read the paper in peace, and when we’re talking, we get straight to the point, our diction impeccable.

Bread hard as a rock,

rocks that God turned into bread;

loaves prepared with the sweat of the brow,

a brow of rock,

a bread of sweat.

Bread is bread, and wine, wine.

Body and blood of hunger in the world.

A rock of hunger.

Bread eaten away by man,

man made of rock,

bread woman,

rock eating bread.

God hard as a rock,

the rock of the world.

She chopped with apathy the arugula and the endive; she topped it with crumbs of almond and macadamia, sherry vinegar and avocado. When she grabbed the beef sirloin in her hands, she seemed to be chopping out her worst enemy’s heart. She set the table, with no glow or fragrance, and sat to wait. When he got there, they ate in silence. The rest could be read in the afternoon’s paper.

We just said: Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. And we wolfed down the rocks they put on the table.

Drowning people don’t always sink to the bottom. It is even enough for someone struggling in the water to remember that he knew how to swim and then he sees his trousers flap around like the legs of a jumping jack. That’s what happened to me at the Concarneau regattas. I was perfectly calm before sinking, or well those elegant people in their skiffs passing by will notice my efforts or well…in short, a certain optimism. The shore so close! With life-sized Israelite individuals of the most gracious sort. What surprised me in getting out of the water was that I was hardly damp, and that people looked at me not as a poodle, but as a man.

It’s a little party in the countryside! A little party near a well. The poor little girl is alone on the beach, on the steep rocky slope of the dune, and you might say there is a halo around her head. Oh, I’ll know how to save her! Me, the fat puffy one, I rush I run. Down there near the well they are playing the Marseillaise and I’m rushing to save her. I haven’t mentioned yet the color of the sky because I wasn’t sure that with the sea it doesn’t make a smooth painting the color of a blackboard smeared with chalk, yes, with a diagonal trail of chalk like the blade of a guillotine.

so much silk unrolls

continually under my skin

that the guardians had to move me

to the temple

among the clergy of the tavern

they said, here, little one,

you’ll learn how to write by throwing a leg over the wind

and with the wind over the city seas

you’ll learn the trade

of flinging flying pencils

(so with eyes closed you unknot the navel

and cut the nipple)

I saw how crazy teachers sing and kiss

how they jump over the linden and the water tower

sometimes tipsy they run along the walls of houses

but in the morning they soberly sweep their naked rooms

gently dress their naked women and young men

and bind what’s left of their hair

into bundled sentences

hover over holy keyboards

I first mastered homemaking

I folded all the silk into bales

like in a little fabric shop

it took me thirty years

and I’ll need that many more

to sort the word buttons

and all of their use

meanwhile, I’m afraid,

the teachers will get old, finish smoking their pipes of hope

and with them both courage and wisdom

I worry about what will happen to their bones in the books

not a living soul will be able

to assemble a poet

More time passed than was necessary

For her to sit beside you and happily with both hands

tap your head like a bongo. My father, old lover.

That time starts when she imagines going down to the harbor

By the rampart, but the turn is sharp, the skin from her left shoulder tears and the chassis breaks

Every few summers you seek names for your boat

You call and ask her opinion, talk about parents and kids, about marriages

That are mostly happy and about health, work

She says: you were right, I forgot you like I forgot my fourteen-year-old breasts

She thinks of you when she sees a bus conductor: white pants, never too clean

And more often she remembers your little dog that rolled bones down the long hallway

Of the house. And the waterfalls.

But since the accident everyone ran out of her dreams like mice—except you.

And look, you now march under a strange order, hers

You smoke and drag clogs on crooked hairy legs

And she walks beside you in a sleeveless shirt

Too short to cover her ass snatch thighs

Hopelessly she pulls it down, and you, even though indifferent, see her problem

These are just her dreams, but even in reality you’d say to her:

Don’t worry, walk naturally, I’m next to you,

After all, my old daughter, my young lover,

We’re alone on the road, after all.  

Our love fits the furniture too much.

And it’s heard in surround sound jazz that circles the mahogany.

Our love doesn’t rip,

it sews.

And in this there’s also the sense of a needle going into flesh.

The punctures are like pinches that prove it’s not a dream.

I want to be awakened from our love.

Our love fits the plates too much,

the ones that your father’s third wife bought us.

But it doesn’t taste good with what’s

cooking on the stove.

This love fits the end of a fairy tale in which I’m the most beautiful bride,

but I’m too short, heavy, and sharp.

The night carries me

but not like a promise,

not like how I carried you,

in the stomach,

on the chest,

the back,

the neck,

on the head of my joy,

on the shoulders of my concern.

through swirling snow.

The poems come

almost too easily,

it’s almost too easy,

too obvious,

being your mother,

belonging to you.

Selling Aori apples under a cherry blossom tree, that granny

Has either dozed off or she is dead.

Ass almost to grass

And the gap between, fleeting

A vein inside the leaf of a crumbled bush

Is about the same whether you buy it or not.

With nowhere to go

I ride the bus.

The 110 to Hannae Street

Has just one route

Whether you ride it or not.

I have this old hobby of staring sideways

Leaning askew against the window of the back seat of the bus and

In the deep sleep of breathlessness, somehow, I exist.

In downtown Sinuiju, North Korea, I get off.

Holding a vinyl bag with a bathing suit inside, I wait.

A man approaches, waving.

A faint face spreading out its skin, the sun licks him with the tip of its tongue.

I guess we are a pretty mundane couple.

Bashful, awkwardly

We hug each other and go to public pools.

Whenever I open my eyes

The ambience disappears.

An escape attempt without hope, the green

Aori rolls toward the driver of the bus.

Awake, I am Desdemona, Patzzi, Annabelle Lee, the Barideki

Living reality in an exceptional time without dreams—

The drying smell of peppers

Blowing out a mill that disappeared.

what to do, something else was delivered, something more expensive than the food I ordered, what to do, I didn’t ask for seafood, look here, I ordered regular jajangmyeon, no, you ordered seafood jajangmyeon, should I call the owner and tell him to change it, what to do, if I call, the employee will get chewed out or he will have the seafood rate deducted from his pay or, at the worst, he’ll get fired, oh hell, if he says sorry I’ll eat it, but he didn’t even give me pickled radish, he didn’t even apologize, if only he said sorry, for me who asked but did not receive forgiveness, for me who received all the blame, for me, my expulsion, my deletion, after not putting forth the effort to fight, apologizing, mercy me, it’s not like I don’t know his position, maybe I mispronounced it, in any case, I don’t like abalone, I hate chopped vegetables

        Burn. Know. Surrender.

Clean up. Hurt less.

Know not—suffering.

Much I—suffering.

Like much—suffering, dis-

like much—suffering.

And death—oh, suffering.

All four—suffering.

Know what’s what.

What’s real. What’s pure.

                  Eternal. 

What’s what. This I.

That I. See clear.

Good stuff, like it.

Bad stuff, dislike it.

Dying, fear it.

All right.   

                   Stop it.

Draw in. Go in.

Feel it. Cut down.

Store it. No way.

Feel it. Go through.

Born how. Born where.

How long. Get what.

Good stuff/ bad stuff.

Sow seed. Reap fruit.

Change—painful.

Burn—painful.

Habit—painful.

See it.

                   Hurt less.

All done. Close it.

Mix up. See how.

Doer. Done to.

Seer. One seen.

One seen. Light up.

Move it. Steady now.

Mental. Astral.

Causal. No mark.

See clear, colour.

Unveil. Know it.

See how. For what.

See link. Free up.

This one, goes out.

That one, goes on.

See Self. Unfold.

Inside, outside.

Know not. Tie up.

Know it. Free up.

See through. Know it.

All seven. Go through.

Go on. Clean up.

Rise up. See through.

Eight limbs, five out,

three in. Do it.

Hurt none. Hold true.

Hold clear. Hold back.

Hold loose. That’s one.

Hold all. For all.

Clean up. Just right.

Burn up. Know Self.

Surrender. That’s two.

See across. Calm down.

See through. See true.

Clear heart. Stay down.

Hold true. Take fruit.

Hold clear. Take gems.

Hold back. Stay brave.

Hold loose. Know how.

Clean up. Cut loose.

Focus. Take reins.

Just right. Take joy.

Burn up.

                   Perfect.

Know self. Meld with.

Surrender. Merge in.

Sit still. Solid.

Sit still. Feel good.

Loosen. Lighten.

Focus. Easy.

Opposites. No worries.

Inhale. Exhale.

Stop it. Stay still.

Outside, inside.

See where. See when.

See how. See fine.

Inside, outside.

Go up. Over.

Unveil. See light.

Clear mind. Focus.

Turn in. Master.

Turn in. Master.

Turn in. Master.

Higher. Highest.

To be a poet is to be taller, to be larger 

Than men. To bite like others kiss. 

It is to be a beggar and to give like you are king

of the kingdom of brief and ever-lasting pain. 

It is to have a thousand wishes, splendor

And not even know what you desire.

It is to have here inside a star, a flame.

It is to have the condor’s talons and wings.

It is to be hungry, to thirst for the infinite.

The gold and satin mornings like an antique helmet;

It is to condense the world into a single cry,

And it is to love you, even so, desperately.

You are the soul, the blood, and the life in me

And I tell it to everyone through my song. 

The world distains me because nobody

Has wings like mine. Because God

Begot me princess among the people

In a tower of pride and disgust.

Because my Reign goes beyond here.

Because I bring in my look the vast skies

And the gold and lightening are all mine.

Because I am who I am and because I am somebody.

The world? What is the world, oh my Love?

—The garden of my verses all in bloom,

The wheat field of your kisses like blessed bread.

My ecstasy, my dreams, my fatigue,

—They are your arms inside my arms,

the Milky Way closing the Infinite.