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Motionless forgetful music of women and men

Yet I am. I exists. I has a body, When I see my wife’s slender boyish legs the roof of my mouth goes dry. She takes my toe in her mouth. Bites lightly. How do we live on earth, Mosquito? If I could hear you what would you say? Your answer, Mosquito! Above all, beware of sadness on earth we can do —can’t we?— what we want.

Running down Vasenka street my clothes in a pillowcase I was looking for a man who looks exactly like me so I could give him my Sonya, my name, my clothes. Running down Vasenka street with my lips moving, one of those who run from the trolley that bursts like an intestine in the sun, those who lock the door, lock it with the second key, and who try to speak, stutter but try to speak. A wife screams as if she were in labor

Don’t forget this: Men who live in this time remember the price of each bottle of vodka. Sunlight on the canal outside the train-station. With the neighbor’s ladder, my brother Tony “Mosquito” and I climb the poplar in the public garden with one and a half bottles of vodka and we drink there all night. Sunlight on a young girl’s face, asleep on the church steps. Tony recites poems, forgets I cannot hear. I watch the sunlight in the rearview mirror of trolleys as they pass. Don’t forget this. There sat in the poplar two brothers, the barber and podiatrist, in love with the same woman. They drank there and recited each poem they knew. Not a soul noticed: notasoul.

“You must speak not only of great devastation but of women kissing in the yellow grass!” I heard this not from a great philosopher but from my brother Tony

I watch loud animal bones in their faces & I can smell the earth. Our boys want a public killing in a sunlit piazza They drag a young policeman, a sign in his arms swaying

Through Vasenka: a herd of boys runs. With their icy hands they haul a policeman and for an apple a look they display the man on the asphalt. Snow falls in his nostrils. I watch him. They circle his eyes with a red pencil. They teach his neighbors to spit in two red holes. I watch the snowflakes melt in their hair. The neighbor aims in the red circle, spits. I stand on a park bench and chew snow. Boys walk west of Tedna, carrying snowflakes in their hair. A neighbor aims in the hole, spits. Walking by night with their arms lifted up from their bodies. As if they were about to leave the earth. And were trying out the wind.

Dr. Alfonso Barabinsky wants to go outside I hold him down with my smaller body. He walks, runs from his shoes to my kitchen. He is drinking in my kitchen, He swims in my kitchen with his varicose fat legs. Alfonso, you fool. You think it is brave to drink vodka all morning on an empty stomach. The walls of our apartment flash. The walls of our apartment stand. They are bombing his hospital. He washes my face. He fingerspells the names of patients. The shadow of his fingers huge on the whitewashed wall. The walls of our apartment flash. When the bombs fall we make children. He kneels and kisses through my skin the shape of our only child. They are bombing his office. Takes his glasses off and lays them on the table like a shining weapon. Throws his t-shirt at our cat, fat hangs over his belt. Pulls a stolen lemon out his pocket. They are bombing his hospital office, But I am a ripe woman a man could be happy.

I am not a poet, Sonya I inspect the fragrant feet of younger ladies—

I am not land or timber nor are you ocean or celestial body, but rather we are the small animals we have always been. The land and the sea know each other at the threshold where they meet, as we know something of one another, having shown, at different times, some bit of flesh, some feeling. We call the showing knowing instead of practice. We seem to say, at different times, A feeling comes. What is the metaphor for two animals sharing the same space? Marriage? We share a practice, you and I, a series of postures. Here is how I become a tree [                            ] and you [                            ] a body in space.