White Horses and I
White horses are coming, and You are arriving in hasty gallop.
In the stable reigns desolation, and in my room the same.
The lawn with dense pallid Loneliness and I are all that is left.
Because you didn’t stop—you just passed by, and ran away.
I'm here now, new air, food, faces, bodies, more ideals, ambitions and sadnesses.
All that was left behind sneaks back into my memory.
My country, former Yugoslavia, is one dead stifled specter, but the ancient beauty of the Balkans is still suspended before my eyes like a painting.
In the midst of all these new and strange sights and human looks, I’m struggling to be a part of it all.
I’m trying to find the path, so I can take a part that is only mine and nobody else's.
I’m commuting on the train, from the Garden State to New York City, and American reality spreads before me like a daydream.
The homeless are sinking, businesses are rising, and the bullshit is walking while the money is talking.
I’m stepping peacefully, naively at first, and without much noise, across this country, alive with contrasts, risks, and much hope—America.
The stars in my eyes tonight are for your eyes.
Yes, for no one else except you in this moment.
In this moment, dizzy, crazy, mad, heavenly mad.
Quietly I look on while you are replacing me with the water lily.
You are quietening the springs that are quietly healing all around us.
I am as happy as this wrung crystal hour, now turning into a vinous and quietening one.
Be quiet, the fingers are greasy and the passages to our souls are quietly opened for exploration.
Be quiet, and kiss amidst the sounds of that mountain little fawn—our only witness. Through the eyelashes, in the skin pores, our pains are, in masterly quiet, torn away from us.
Play five hours, modestly, and you’ll see that there’s nothing else besides that something so dreamy, sweaty and quiet.
Our strings, our tendons, are poised very greedily to chase the universe into the quiet spot.
Go on, our fervid breaths from our aroused throats are penicillin for this wild earthly game that quietens us completely.
Pause, two endings, quiet and indecent, and our lips, like razors in our hairs and our sharp teeth that are gnashing into this whole quiet turmoil.
Ask quietly: Why are they flowing away? Why are they burning? Why are they crying? Those quiet springs of our love. The two tears on our palms. Not separated, yet lifelessly quietened for forever.
Even the shadow of my shaking pencil on top of my open diary understands how much your phone number means to me above the 700 others that I have collected during these last four years when, roaming around the gutter-pipes, I could descry only the dark edges of love.
I'm sitting in my home hugging the cat in my lap, and you are inside of me before I go out to hunt, before the moonset shellacs my soul with lust and desire for a new attempt to fill in your absence.
A mouse came out of his hole and took a tiny bite—and, then, the people caught him and tortured him. Why? He was a gentle mouse and he had a cute maroon coat.
But people thought that his coat contrasted oddly with the other attributed of his genus. Under their feet people crushed the mouse, eagerly.
I came out of my hole and took a little bite—and they caught me and tortured me. Why? Because I was natural—in the way one is when alive rather than dead. Or, maybe, because my coat was maroon, in contrast to the other attributes of my genus. Under their tongues people crushed me, eagerly.
With red cat eyes I am wondering in your room, so which music am I listening now?
With shy and honest eager you are coming closer to me, so whose breath am I feeling now? Above the black satin and silk, I am ready to pounce into a coconut milk like inviting skin. I'm setting free my green lasers, to see better, to touch better, and to bite properly.
Divine skin I'm smelling, the familiar and lusty scent, and the biggest teaser of all.
I'm taking an infernal bath in your tasty sweaty drops that have a brilliant red glow like a finest wine.
I’m enlivening as I’m puncturing my hungry teeth, for who knows how many times again in you.
Oh you, my beautiful, found, and only loyal old friend, the source of my life.
John's father Richard was a very successful businessman, but he was homophobic and blackophobic. He was a failure of a father because, at 14 years of age, John runaway from home with his lover and moved into the ghetto. John’s father Richard organized a dragnet—fortunately, not a successful one.
Then, someone who looked like Richard killed John and his Afro-American lover at the subway. John's father Richard was a successful businessman but a big failure of a man.
If I could see for a second through your eyes when you are speaking quietly to me, and to everyone around, saying that I am everything to you.
If I could see for a second through the mothers' eyes when they are sending their sons to fight on the battlefields for stupid reasons.
If I could see for a second with the eyes of the thousands and millions of barefooted, starving children, the homeless, ill, handicapped, and those who are discriminated against.
I don't know if it makes sense to exist after the veils of the truth are removed in this cold, selfish, merciless, and absurd world we live in.
So, should I continue to breathe and be an ignorant blind bastard like so many of us, or should I contribute to the radical changes that lie ahead?
I am disgusted by the ignorant, selfish, blind, greedy bastards who rule the world with evil. I am angry at them. Aren’t you?
We wander everywhere. At the bars, and in the streets. We analyze the souls of others. We judge others’ actions. We make assumptions about the destinies of others. Some are pink and others gray. We fake it all over the place. And, as we do so, we always wear something. We keep it behind our faces. It always comes out as we smile—when we smile with no reason. Why do we keep doing this time after time?
Me, a Demon Most Merciful
Into the eyes of all and sundry I'm sleeping, very tenderly I'm touching, the most secret points I'm discovering, Me, a demon most merciful.
I'm pulling the curtains, layers of Penelope's spun yarn, and through my fingers the dreams are gleaming, in shame they are tangling.
Outside, Me, a demon most merciful over the dense fields, with radiant thoughts I'm passing, like a black angel I'm breaking away.
Where is Freedom, Dove?
How many years are left, hey dove? How many loves are left inside you?
How many freedoms are left, hey dove? How many joys are left inside you?
Our wings are bleeding, do you feel it dove? There are no freedoms for you and me.
It's dangerous now for everyone to embark on free flight.
Like you and me, like us, the artists.
To be in a dreamy boat made of paper—Is there anything more beautiful than to sail in an ocean of clouds?
To write, to sing, and to paint on it—Is there anything more beautiful than to be a crown prince of art?
And not to give a damn if the people understand it.
To See: All Reviews, Excerpts, Interviews, Upcoming Events, Art, and Poetry, Visit Bazhe’s Website at: http://www.bazhe.com