Windows are dark in Prague at this hour as post-election hangovers commence
Euphoria is a funny thing in this weird time when nothing, not even my poems, make any sense
More temporary than infatuation, with a dash of whimsy mixed into the goulash pot
But once the goulash is eaten – and it will be eaten fast – what is there left in Mala Strana lacking any rot
A crossroads lies before the Czechs; both paths into the forests have their shadows
I hope their hearts are their lanterns: too much outside the army is shrouded in cameo.
When penning poems on the train a poet turns mobile like Papusza, our much loved Gypsy bardess in Poland
Now, like her end destination of Gorzów, I am stationary; instead of flowing poems, I orate a command
Is a poem truly stationary, or must we be Romanian word gymnasts training nonstop in the sweaty gym of the world?
If that’s so true, then where are all the great epics now that we are exercising nonstop, flexible and unfurled
Poetry doesn’t come from muscle, say the creative indoctrinators, it is a muscle; where then, does the difference lie in its big, oak coffin?
I should take a walk now and see the results: even so, what’s the point of a horse when one needs a griffin?
Here I sit with a 12° ležák, hapless without a Trezor wallet as my fiat currency needs Tony to fix it again
No matter how much crypto I purchase, I can buy more beer but it won’t fix a broken Big Ben
And I sure don’t trust Tony; from hustlers to housewives, who trusts a fixer to fix things a second time?
Illusions flickers at my eyelids, but not the one suggesting that inabilities to fix things don’t lead to crime
Love renders me romantic; drinks squeeze the holy spirit out of my spirit until I can get no drunker
That way I need not pretend I can fix anything, as souls and romantics are unfixable, fit only for the junker
Pink rays of light are called the girly color in school, but nothing about the pink sky is girly today
The farms seem fertile enough from the window, but not once have I heard a donkey bray
A sunrise of WiFi rays dispel all mysteries: now there will be none left to dissect even from a frog
Distressed by this, we ready our civilization to find the way back into the tremulous bog
Where mosquitoes bite us day in and day out, and we aren’t burdened with the weight of knowing why
The misty veils of the morning dissipate: the calcification of the world will soon be laid to dry.
I’m sick of hearing the “feel like a misfit” song on hit radio stations blasting through a less magic Prague
I do not need the Dionysians to build a fire beneath my angry head and boil my blood into grog
“Do you ever feel like a misconception” – I want to ask this algorithmic female a question like that
The postmodern lie might permit a slew of hasty evasions, if the weight of her bs had no fat
Wait until the cold isolation of nothingness – the true invisiblity superpower – is smeared across your skin
Wait until the sin of willful ignorance settles upon the mundane minds of your closest and farthest kin
Wait until the opposite sex deletes you like Mark Zuckerburg vaporizes an uncouth, nonconformist Facebook post
Wait until your adventurous intellect is punished for its fruity transgressions, an edible Pacman ghost
Wait until a world of judgment melts the witches of meaningfulness, and dubs it a partition of progress
Wait until your collective castigates you into the lifeless aether with Záviš Kalandra, in the name of regress
Only then come back and sing that gushy song about misfits right to my bearded face
Life isn’t a sappy novel: we misfits can transmogrify much into strength, yet still remain an international disgrace.
An election staves disaster; so which is more evil?
Can a tome expand minds? Though slow as a weevil;
Potato…potato…which legume projects the truth?
Can I touch you one day, dear? I’m done acting the sleuth!
How many of our lives stretch from War all the way to Peace?
Or are we all Orkeny stories, fleeting as they cease?
If I make my poems questions, will some reader then think twice?
An election staves disaster; but no one takes that advice.
Grapes line the press but today, all the Czechs are drinking brew made of hops
The emigrants despair, but do not drink because they want to avoid the fucking cops
“Don’t be vulgar on this day, Felix,” dictate the holiest among us after all the groves are shorn
“What would Wenceslas have said?” I ask these porous revenants as Boleslav the Bad browses porn
What world have we here where the atheists remember all the saints and the pious forget?
Is there anything left in this world, save for Svaty Vaclavs’ brew, that can still be called legit?
- Prague, St. Wenceslas Day, 2021
- For Jasmin, From Munster, DE
The German dancer followed me through the metro:
Missing smartphone, so she sniffed out someone retro
Green eyes met green eyes, so the task was no challenge
Unintimately, we spoke Stonehenges’ language
And never again will English be intimate
Everyone can hear what I say and intuit;
There was nothing more said; there was nothing more taught;
Some hesitation won, some hesitation naught.
The demons lie low on St. Vaclav Eve
It’s too late in time to simply Ask Jeeves
About where they hid, even as shadows creep
Doesn’t matter how thick the bush, nor how deep
Cool pilsner soothes the pain that never breaks free
Selfishness is overblown: but tonight, I can be me.
When computers break down, ancient visions emerge
Hammurabi and his knife, utilitarian concerns
Breathe slowly, nice and easy, one breath at a time;
Don’t look down at those red stumps: your hands were there, now they are fine.