Photo by Viktoria Andreeva
My Hands are Asking you Breathlessly
My hands are asking you breathlessly:
Haven’t you longed to be a guitar?
To wait for a musician in a desperate rhythm
thirsty fingers over you to run?
To Judas
I am here.
Unashamed of my crystalline skin –
so thin at times
that one can hear
the howl of blood through my veins.
Photo by Lubomir Sergeev
Instructions Upon Opening
This Life is not a Gift
It cannot be returned,
exchanged
or repackaged
It can be refound, restored and
renewed
The Lonely Man
He bears a scar upon his forehead and always sits at ends,
He might be tall, but even so the lonely man is small.
Photo by Viktoria Andreeva
Timon Sinos
Timon Sinos
Rises the ordinary into infraviolet intermissive bereft of brief
nothing to stamp so I stomp this out
please do not accept under conditions or on any behalf
My Nag
We lived so well, my nag, and yet this life of ours
Is granted for an instant, just enough to shout.
So now we have to part, for in these final hours
Your eyes have closed, your feet gave out.
Arachne of 21st Century
Woven.
Yet keep on knitting.
Clumsily
and
recklessly
I twist the needles,
besmirch the patterns,
tighten the ends,
and like a true maiden form the Balkans
interweave
my own shadow
The Late Train
Perhaps he greeted all the trains,
That shall return me to his town.
Photo by Viktoria Andreeva
Silence
Silence.
Let it wash over me — soothing, calming. In the distant background there is only self.
Silence.
It creeps, rooting its way into my spine, arching it backwards and stretching vertebrae. I feel it enter my mouth and settle between my teeth, rest there beneath my jaw.
My Mom’s Wedding
Down the hill he went, then he took a turn,
into the verdant fields my father descended.
Twenty years now I wait for his return
and for twenty years mom is getting married.