Robb Stark ( a d r e a m)

Our silence is an Arik Einstein record,
our rhythm – a fusion of a swing set & the wind.
For us every piece of freedom is ceremonial,
white shiny linen pressed upon one little moment,
our bodies placed perfectly like silverware,
cleaned out before the world feasts
on rusty routine & wretched clocks.
Our silence is a holiday on a big porch,
overlooking the inviting grass
we’re celebrating underneath a long blanket
and a hug that warms parts left barren.
It’s still just us and Arik,
nostalgia that may have been forgotten,
may not have even existed, but takes a few
fantastic breaths – we’re in love.
With my head on your rugged skin, my nose
rubs against the idea of entering our home
and you – so beautiful – write melodies
with unconscious eyes, another music
I’m hoping to sing with you tonight



In his eyes – rivers,
honey-colored streams
of hidden knowledge;
no axioms, two fronts and
the beautiful insanity
that blossoms on his rugged skin.
In his eyes – watered flowers,
for nymphs, for satyrs’ bliss.
No sonnets or rhymes,
just the beautiful vitality
of movement and the soft
touch of his hands.

Right Point

His face an eclipse I gazed upon for too long,
halo of saints & wisdom of the wisest,
distant light can never break through holes.
His music – muscles stretching poetry.

Enough with poetry, criminal coveting of my eyes,
rendering objects – peaks & mountains.
Nature seems to be his, well as deep as thoughts,
I cut the rope & stay on the surface where I can
enjoy the sweetness of shining apples in the sun.

Chocolate & Flowers

I must have overslept when
the message was delivered;
when eyes met & hands were held;
when one awaited another’s phone call –
passion’s own tension with matters of patience.
I must have woke up too late, after
they said how one could find it;
what to say between trembling lips;
what to do in between sweetened sips of silence –
passion’s own frictions with matters of tension.
I must have waited too long in line
for screen tests & awkward auctions;
no intellect could bid high enough;
no attention for brown eyes & hair;
just sold-out sex, painful, bloody –
passion’s own joke on those lacking direction

I write

Only in true loneliness, I write.
Memory feeds the poison,
It sets the blood free;
he’ll never know the crimson fruit,
or the letters scribbled
on heated windows.
My mirrors speak of love,
but he will never know.
He translates tongues,
renders their bodies senseless,
and I in his beauty lie.
There’s a great key, they claim,
But he will never know –
I write.

For Now

For now,
all sounds paddle your way,
all rivers echo your name,
and my body floats on your surface.
For now, for now,
all the mind wants is a specific image,
soft, confounded, a mountain,
I am water erupting around you.
For now, for now,
all songs devour fairy tales,
I’m a shining knight with no armor,
and you are caged in a world without sleep.

For now, for now.

Before Prague

He patched flowers on my dresses,
turned white dots to blossoming shapes of growth.
In his words I found mine and more,
in his voice I uncovered a clear mirror.
No warning signs, no borderline inhibitions –
just beginnings piling up with the fresh smell of flavored joy.
As the heart expands, all poetry becomes tangible
and one moment fills dreams with hopes for another.