Monthly Archives: April 2016


if someone spits dirt upon me
my lips become chapped
like grandma’s apples baked on the stove
I cannot act as if nothing happens when I’m hurt
or as if I am the caravan going on in spite of the barking dogs
because I am alone and unique and vulnerable
though I am not beautiful like the moon
the way some women were in the Arabian Nights

I am still calm and meticulous with a quiet ticking
and I believe that I am more like the mole underground
than like the lady-vulture up in the sky
and no woman will act to imitate me thanks God
especially if she had danced at her wedding to be blessed
like Rachel Sarah and Rebecca
and no man will look through my eyes or borrow my ideas
if he collects stamps and engravings
because in my brain all roads cut short and straight

too many people are born through C-section
but are the other births really clean and pure?
when in fact only fire is clean and cleanses
and things are truly separated from one another
as for the rest only mishmashes everywhere
father son holy ghost

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it was a world where I was allowed to look on the window
and nothing else
every day I thought to myself that life was a wonder
like all the other things known by good people
being grateful
to have eyes that see and a functional heart amid mortals
feeling so happy

util one day
when some people pulled my hair my feet my belly button
my nipples my heart my intestines
when I was young enough to believe that my life was
granted until old age
the same as I respected others’ lives
or the being and the unbeing
that were supposed to be god to me

but it was only an optical illusion
like the eyes of a child through the steamy window
the happiest child in the world as I used to call myself
because everyone fooled me
to be too clear-headed and sober to never get high on dreams
to believe that life is what it is and never what you wish for
99% pain and 1% joy

no one understood why a woman like me
who wore rags and was brutalized every day
was still loving and trusting people so much
that she hoped they will stop telling her
that she has to carry a too heavy cross by herself

then came the ones who stole the dreams and planted hatred and lies
as foundation for their mausoleums atheneums and universities
it was a black and dry forest
that it will always be the same
that in the world of primates and other living beings
viruses unicellular organisms and so on
only the fight and the one who has sharper teeth count
because the world of human beasts is like history tells and foretells
governed by powerful and cruel people
and only those who are good die young

now it is seldom raining and the wind calmed down too much
you can hear only the neighbors dusting off small carpets
about half an hour
it is crystal-clear now why I was so happy in the past
because I was raised like this in perfect silence
even though I had only the right to look on the window
to compare the blue of the sky at 9 A.M. with the blue at 4 P.M.
and all beautiful moments passed by like this

but I was obstinate to be myself beyond their unwritten rules
along with other lonely women swallowed as if they were holy wafers
in the world where they say that life is a fight
in the world where such women do not have the right to fight
but are tied to the pillar of shame since childhood

and you can see them how they pour down
sweating crying urinating bleeding alone
until the sky steals from them their last bitterness
damned be the rain

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all good people read good books

someone said I was insane
it does not matter for my poems
that so many good artists were poor
or left alone by so-called friends in the end
as written in their biographies
or committing suicide or simply dying because of so-called
hidden or shameful illnesses
let’s say that Smetana was said to be dead because of syphilis
and remembered for his patriotic beautiful music
and others the same
no death is more shameful than another nor the insanity
when the man seems to be judged by fellow creatures
like a prisoner on the planet of the apes
and let’s say that life is sacred as long as the human being breathes
whatever his ending will be
all good authors have written
existentialist-like humanistic-like or whatever their theory
the same thing
I am not a good author
I am just a woman wondering
about another Götterdämmerung
without raising up the cup replete with hemlock

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the Devil

Once the devil had a priceless skin sought after by fancy ladies to tailor their fashionable hats and sandals for literary occult salons. Lately he is not hunted easily, because he has become increasingly cunning. He is no longer the bona fide demon who tempts and punishes only sinners, thus being worthy for respect and substantial remuneration. The devil has emancipated: he learned to steal like forest thieves, including the obedient souls and even the bodies (a second-hand merchandise) of faint-hearted believers, those with mimics subdued by illness or poverty. People still laugh at his majesty without knowing that today it is worse to go to hell than to be in the shoes of Little Red Riding Hood face to face with the wolf.

The devil became immunized, he even drinks holy water like it were double-refined plum brandy. God seems to have forgotten the book of Job and has allowed the cuckold officer to dress more dolled to be smug and presentable, an opportunity of inspiration for some artists who are no longer considered decadent, a different kind of flying superman for dreaming virgins, a respectable individual deserving a good defense in court, nonchalantly present in religious homes or in the parks admiring and photographing beautiful flowers, a skilled actor crowned with laurels on stage and on screen, so it seems that the world has forgotten the old role and the attributes of the character. The devil was desecrated, was demonetized, became more humane and thus more dangerous and unscrupulous.

Following these recent changes, more and more people suppose that making a deal with the devil is a thing worth other’s envy. Everyone thinks that they can fool him somehow, in order to obtain greater advantages at a price as low as possible. It is said that behind a rich man there’s one devil and behind a poor one, two. For those who are wealthy already have a nearby devil that serves their interests. Any intelligent man can see him smiling in family portraits behind the breadwinner. Waiting for the next apocalypse, I really wonder if all souls will fall into the abyss of sin and punishment, as it is written. But what would be the use of it? Since they are happy, carrying the devil inside them as a kind of parasite, or rather as a symbiotic being, and they think that they have lived their lives as they wanted to and enjoyed all the fruits of this earth, while people of irreproachable conduct and morality are left only with the promise of heavens and the belief that the others  suffer because of the gnawing worm inside the apple. I think that really good and honest people cannot enjoy the idea of sinners’ remorse. I still think it is so.

Perhaps the solution would be the rehabilitation of the devil, bringing him back to the original status, changing its public image gradually. But any moralizing eyes (and I do not pretend that I am a moralizer) should be open towards the future. I was always the weak guardian who pulls the little bell’s rope only when danger is very close. In vain or too late.

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I’m still in love with the grain of light tickling the palms of my hands
under summer sunshowers
with the tall persons bowing to share their umbrella with others
with the unheard voice of those who keep silent
their fists under their chin
with the wooden window blinds that hardly open twice a year
but most of all
with words, yes, words of all sizes running away from the lips
fresh like green peppermint bubblegum balloons
or with the scent of basil tarragon or costmary
let’s say something green
but alas the soles of my feet are shrinking
like a newborn’s skin after warm bathing
I can no longer make my way up through the vineyards
and when I open my computer I see in black Verdana
your inbox folder is empty

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