In the Hell of the endless Brooklyn night on the crossroads of wars, perestroika, the sleeping terrorist cell waiting to explode in the middle of life, the unshaved face in the window cell looks in fear at angry Atlantic Ocean loudly arguing with ghosts of American Dickinson and Persian Khayyam. Great sinner Omar! You thought that the more you have, women and wine, the closer you are to God? Bullshit! God does not exist; a man drinks only because the … Read on…
my temple will be my aquarium, green plants of Sadness muddy waters of Meditation round shells of melancholy fishes’ blind eyes of unconsciousness going up bubbles of Hope exploding upon reaching the surface of Life. translated by the author and Marina Rubin
On February 21, 1205 In the noise of busy marketplace Lost in the Middle East, An astrologer-sage predicted That in 800 years exactly I would get myself drunk as a cobbler And when a girl starts playing With my belly button I shall cry like a baby, And get horrified that At any moment I will get unwrapped And break apart in thousand pieces.
That December, Rocking in a chair And reading Rumi, I ceased to reflect in a mirror. You broke into tears: “How can I trust you ever again?” In January, I began to levitate By the chandelier Reading Khaayam. It made you nervous. You learned to Throw the rope like a cowboy, Pulling me back into the bed. And in February, I went into spontaneous combustion, But you, ready for contingencies, Slept with a fire-extinguisher And put the flames out, Destroying … Read on…