spiders

the first one is
New York from the plane
a giant electric spider with his highways outstretched
like legs
twinkling vectors intersecting in the dark blue nothing
(even from up high
I can tell one of these cars is speeding)

the second one is Prague, lying
in a gentle web of silky white
the veins on the pale arms of an ancient lady
who was caught in the tourist trap;
castles and bridges and baldachin beds; disrespectfully
sentimental lovers perfectly
still
I'm pretty sure Kafka wouldn't have understood
what the fascination is all about

those spiders don't belong to me; I don't belong to them.
the only one of them who moves when I blow in his web
is tall and slender
a black meta spider with four of his legs stepping on the skyscrapers of North America
four somewhere east, locked over the remnants of a broken
regime
a brittle body hanging above the Atlantic

when my nights stretch long, sticky
like a piece of lokum warmed over my
midnight oil
I jump on his back and tell him
look, I know it's hard to hang like this
I don't know where we're going yet but
enjoy this while you can, it's
better
than what follows. one of these days
you are going to have to cross over on one side

and you will be forever
half exiled.

the retired skydiver and his kite 1.0

not talking is an old tradition and so
instead of writing to you
I have tried to write about you

you
waited 20 years to tell me you love me
and when you did the kite tied to your wrist had already flown away

a young skydiver leading the Bulgarian disillusionist movement
seduced by the masochistic appeal
of "only the talentless require education",

(that guy who failed 9th grade physics because he
hated
the teacher too much.)

a self-taught mechanical engineer.
when you started losing faith in flying
you were already building your first machine.

you carried it in your pocket for days like writers carry around ideas in their minds
and it made you so heavy that it divided your landing time
in half. your parachute barely opened.

month by month, your pockets filled up with
clockwork mechanisms.
the pilots complained -

the planes got too heavy with
you on board
so they forced you to stay on the ground.

it was then that i showed up, head full of clouds and curls
and you tied my light-green ribbon to your wrist
to keep me close to you

to keep you close to open skies.
in your factory, where the machines rested
we played hide and seek

and you prayed to never lose me out of sight
but never said a word.

and then there was the storm.

My Foreign Eyes

Here I have never felt either the tenderness 

of the mother-tongue or the support 

of any tradition other than civil 

war, just where for me the past begins.

- Joan Margarit

Through the windows of the cafe
I am dissecting the industrial landscape of my city -
there are cranes in the river, probably
waiting for a command to build something
which will never be used.
Like this mall, left almost empty. No one is renting.
My home is deteriorating into
skeletons of unfinished buildings, their teeth becoming
sharper each night.

The neurotic waitress stirring my tea
is mixing
chamomile honey home
exile,
and when she goes back to
telling the people on the other table that they need to learn some patience
I almost can't bear to sit in this cafe anymore, and yet
I stay and think about my foreign eyes on all this
and how harsh my judgement has become.

My first sip of my tea finds me
back in the old playground from my childhood
where we used to play a game called
cops and robbers until the street lights came on,
where chamomile used to grow and we would take it
and rub it in our hands until we started to feel that the smell
has been stamped onto our skin.

I remember you and how you hated the taste, but
once in a while you would entertain the idea of being open-minded
and have a cup with me.
In our last summer together, the one before I left
you walked me home every morning.
It took exactly twenty-three minutes
to get from your place to mine
and each time we passed by the unfinished constructions.
"You know people live at the sight now, right?" you would ask me.
Your hand locked with mine, stiff like a mumbled "goodbye".
I would just squeeze your hand until I heard your knuckles crack.

My Own Carnation Revolution

The lights of the Lisboa bridge 25 de abril are
painting the water red and green

your eyes are not green

It's okay,
your stream of golden curls
distorted alpha-helices
should be described in research papers
as an anomaly of perfect beauty
should be in history books
a fallen authoritarian regime
a sharp increase in double-takes
sleepless economists try to model it
journalists cover the event
and i am there too
the only survivor in
the fireless war that is your smile
honored and barely speaking.

Your eyes are not green, but there is red
red flowers in the barrel of a rifle
and one burning inside you
not like a fire, but
the first moments of an explosion,
before you know if the construction will
tumble down or
hold still.

The odds of becoming the new Orhan Pamuk

It's Friday night after the last screening of this new movie
and they are leaving the theater midst a rush of people
both of them thinking, "I guess this crowd is going straight to bed
god, look at their faces, stamped with apathy"
and the subway is already closed
and it's cold so they are not holding hands

He is trying to get them a cab
while she is on the sidewalk, jumping in one place,
her cotton candy hair going up in the air,
filling her nostrils with cherry tobacco smells, Oriental yet close
and suddenly, there are
thoughts running
behind her eyes
he knows what this means by now, so no questions asked
the city is glowing dark blue and yellow, the flashes of the passing cars
right there, at Park Street
make it seem almost metropolitan

It's warm in the cab and they take off their coats.
He is growing uneasy, thumping his fists against the bricks of silence:
"what's on your mind?" - his accent is thick and unshy
"you know i'm writing, I have been thinking about this for so long and I think I know how to say it now, do you remember what I told you before, you know when I'm thinking about writing"

They are headed to Harvard Square, but the traffic is heavy - heavy for Boston,
there are sleek white limousines on the road, maybe a final club party
or maybe a just because
so the two of them are stuck in the car to the sounds of smooth jazz
and as she rolls her eyes with disgust to all this, he takes another little stone
from his pocket and throws it at her
"why don't you give it a try then? really, actually try?
why don't you publish something, send it somewhere?
why don't you show all this to someone who knows or understands?"

and she looks straight into him through her tar-black eyelashes,
"I could also, perhaps, dye my hair blond and change my name
become a trophy wife, an event planner,
taking care of being beautiful and terrible and the beautifully terrible
and just call it a life
your advice always comes with a twist of unintended schadenfreude.
Let's be real here, what are the odds that I will be the next Orhan Pamuk?
You are right, I can't stop the dreams from dancing through my head or
the heights from giving me a rush
as skydiving did to my crazy parents but
they don't believe in flying anymore. And I don't believe in poetry."

but mainly your silence

day after day

all i dream about is

red strawberries

the old factory

and your silence

except for when we disagreed on something and your voice was racing against mine

raised above the music we were playing in the living room

the strawberries taste so real

it takes me hours to shake off the memory

i drift away in class, remembering that time

you held my hand and tried to brush a tear off

before it trickled down your cheek

i thought you were the strongest man i had ever known

yet it did not surprise me

when you told me i would be cruel to leave you on your own

even though you wouldn't be alone

and i knew what you meant but i disregarded it as egotism

i think about your carefully chosen words now and

i keep you on my mind

but i can only hope that..

what i mean to say is

i tell people about it

i tell them i have a father who builds his own machines

and grows the sweetest strawberries

your silence

i keep to myself.

като човек в пълното си право.

притварям очи и вдишвам парфюма от китките си
толкова често забравям коя съм
къде съм се озовала отново
между бетон и улични лампи и
тихо потракване на мисли върху клавишите
думите се плъзват по хартията

миг по миг

оставям ресниците си да се открехнат
в мъгливия момент
момчето срещу мен изчезва
и отново
имам фокуса си срещу себе си като вписани окръжности

никога не съм ти дължала нищо, и все пак
дни наред стремежът ми
беше конкретен и внедрен в твоето съществуване
да целуна всяка пукнатина по студените ти устни
да отида там, където ме отнесат вълните на
стремглавите ти неврони
да се впиша в света ти като добър камуфлаж,
смутено надявайки се да ме объркаш с потребност

ужасно ли е да призная, че без теб пропит в секундите ми
всичко е същото?

ще ме сладоледени камиони
идиотски фрази ще ме
схванатият ми гръб
стиснатата ми челюст ще те
разтягат се
дърветата като сладкиши забити в пръстта
хората
като циреи
латерни
какво е размисъл
втрещени с очи впити в
сладоледени камиони ще са
блещукащи реклами
светофари
конвейри от скапани платове
за малко и аз да се

просълзени са улиците ще се
сбогуваме.

жирафите

седемнадесет сребърни пръстена на масата.
преди бяха
по два на пръст.
дори по три
понякога.
толкова много клетви, погребани под
стъпките на
бягащия човек.
толкова много думи,
разтворени
в безкрая на това да си свободен.
вече даже не си крещят.
лампите им искрят през мрака на предградията.
чуват се само стоманените движения
на ножовете на готвача.
толкова много храна
но не може да излекува
анорексията на чувствата.
и все пак
да си тръгнеш
и дума не става.

а някъде там, само на
километри извън града
жирафите заспиват с увити вратове,
светулките се сгушват и
изгасят светлинките си.

значи все пак някои
все още го могат.

rush

виж го с потните
кокаинови
разтреперани ръце
развяти във въздуха
криле
същински ангел
и всичко му е простено

чуй гласа дрезгаво истински
цели дробове
изпълнени
от това колко
те искам
издишано над тълпата
попило право в кожата

интимно някак е но
извинявай

няма цензура.

светът бил най-красив
с очи, пълни с небе
сърце, надишано с простори
и дробове, обгорени
от летни пожари

да изпиташ света било като да
се пожертваш в ритуал на древните ацтеки
да даваш и рушиш в себе си,
докато от теб не остане само
празно пространство
което да напълниш с живот

моят свят,
той е прост.
той е светли частици разляти през щорите.
вдъхновявам си всяко парченце живот
обрисувам - измислям го
следвам завоите
не живея в припряно повторен въпрос.
проблестелите мигове
тичат пред мен
ала аз вече знам,
няма смисъл от гонене.

той се обръща към мен и ме пита
защо гледаш така, сякаш искаш да ни убиеш всичките
защо си толкова агресивна и зла
защо си
присвила
Очи?

а аз дни наред съм се опитвала да проумея
бездействието пред отворените врати на бъдещето
циганските колела назад и липсата на инерция
стиснатите зъби пред смляното знание
обещаните три лесни стъпки до щастлив живот, които никой не си прави труда даже да опита
и боговете
коленичили пред вас, умоляващи ви да се събудите,
ридаещи по загубения си дъх,
не могат да ви разчувстват

гледам така, за да разбера
и да си намеря фокус
старая се да видя гледната точка на онзи,
който прекарва живота си със затворени очи
присвивам моите, но
не успявам да разгранича
нищо.

началото и краят на поезията

Алиса невъзможна недоспала,
през мъглата се виждат само парченца от небостъргачите
хвърчила зареяни сред облаците

чуват се бързащи неравномерни стъпки
някой се опитва да отскочи от дъжда
аз съм тук и там, ръцете ти
са успяли да се протегнат през
Атлантика и да хванат моите
в здраво ин и ян
моята агресия -
да ги пристегна около кръста си и да ме отдръпнат от този свят
на стъкла реклами
минувачи и музика
или да се отскубна и да отрежа всяка жичка,
без значение дали това ще означава
експлозия или спиране на брояча
дали ще взриви океаните
защото не мога да живея наполовина
стъпала на два континента,
за дъх ано
недостатъчно
опитваща се
да дишам
на
две
ши
ри
н
и