No matter if there are two strips of mud, sand or roots
Anything can function as tracks
No matter the rotations of clocks¡¯ hands ¨C or how much money one has
This train will run on into low-lit lands dripping with richly saturated color
Mud chases dragonflies while blots of scintillating silicates
rollercoaster to the sides
Trees tilt their bodies while spreading their arms
and their hands make a single flip as if to reveal a prize
In a rhythmic archway of steadily random nature
rustling, sifting sounds and a thundering rugga-chug chug
lead to a sudden explosion of space.
The sky flies up and releases us,
morphing into a blue mass that escapes our fingers
We write on her body with warm lines of breath,
our pen two soft, massaging lips
and it¡¯s in this ecstasy that a large bar of concrete
between two masses of aquamarine
sits without a whisper, like a terrible, old memory
that¡¯s become acquiescent with time,
that squints tears of rust into strangely crystal canals of saltwater below.
A giant succession of green train cars whisks into the distance and a glass door
of an overlooking coffee house opens before us.
A couple among us tries to write onto the sky,
but instead they¡¯re just talking
and those old memories buried in the saltwater below,
seem like a dream, like something better than the same old embrace.
He says: ¡°I¡¯m flying on a kite to Russia next month.¡±
And even that numb mass of smiles across from him feels a pinch
She blurts like a percolator:
¡°That¡¯s nuts. You¡¯ll die there in all that rust and concrete.
Your lips can¡¯t handle vodka¡¯s sourness, and your brain will collapse
under the slithering mass of Slavic, philosophic drivel
Their couches have Cyrillic upholstery
that makes a farting sound from under your ass
and your gleaming smile only tells people how damned nervous your are.¡±
His will is a rusty, concrete slab.
His language is crystalline saltwater, flowing in a low babble:
¡° I will fly on a black kite into the darkness of an unknown land
I will tie my line when it breaks,
and smile at the twinkling night district below me
And wait patiently for the sun to rise,
for that day when I romp in a birch forest
chasing a paralyzingly sexy woman who kills me before I refuse her.
I¡¯m a sucker for my visions, a fool for punishment
But at least I don¡¯t wear red, white and blue panties
and cream them every time I see power.¡±
After a short pause, she opens her mouth, as if to say something
But the espresso machine rudely interrupts
The whole table rolls it¡¯s eyes, and takes a moment to make a gastric grind
At this coffee house perched over train tracks
With blue canals on both sides.
Explanation of "Kite to Russia"