#again i am not a poet (although the reassurance was very nice<3)

[vasilinaorlova]

letter insomniac

ever so unclear                                                              and imagine of all the questions I should wonder,                     this blue light why am I so cruel                                              and a fruit fly             if I am generous,                           traversing    and why am I generous                    the screen                            if I am cruel            appearing to be                       umlaut                                  a letter in the impossible                                          alphabet, a letter                                             which looks                                                   as if                                                      it                                                 has a very                                                 belongs                                            thin waist                                           to the Hebrew more than                                         to anything else        mayhap mad machine*        fossilized         I never knew such a sensual                             lizard                             enjoyment of reading.                          tail                               lol                                                                         jaw                                         schizophrenic writing?       and even                   claw                                   I don’t think so.                         if it is                       all lizard’s                                                                            what’s                        alphabet                                                            wrong (with you) unanswered words              do wonders

reassure                                enough is not fissure                                    enough, enough    susurrus                              is never sylphic syllogism                     enough, what are you talking about,   really                                       enough really                                       of this galimatias   yes   really                                       n o n s e n s e reel      all lyretailed                                             “Are we to blame if your skeleton cracks curtained                                             In our heavy, tender paws?”* alluded                                                                      Alexander Blok. 1918.

mansplain Derrida to me please. I badly need it. so you want me pleading at your feet? not going to happen

gaudeamus igitur                   detour

I rather admired your writings. they kept me marvelously sustained. “on the last day God found six crumbs” (or something) E.E. Cummings; naturally. glitter. a whole lot of things is going on in your rear mirror in this city, as opposed to the windshield. you fling me into empyrean realms

Europeans. Westerners. imagine themselves conquerors                                                                  subjugators

                                                                    pathetic notlongago withoutfurtherado                                                      I’ll show you my anger.                                                                                  you will be delighted.

sputtering fire

                         “It’s okay… I am easygoing,” she said and frowned. “I was a lawyer.” - “there are so many wasalawyers.” rude.

I know all (all) contemporary Russian poets, as you probably guessed, and although I translated mainly Vitaly Pukhanov, who is one of the greatest, and half a dozen of others, I think, the very greatest is Alina Vitukhnovskaya, whom I cannot translate

I’m underequipped.

she's immense.

I am reminded for some reason about my female friend, who on her birthday was forced to stay in bed for one more hour after she woke up in order to make it possible for your husband to bring her coffee, in the fulfillment of his idea “to serve” her on that day. what can bring you to despair quicker than inscription Texas Forever that your meandering sight unfortunately catches an eyeful of? I.1. “I had lived in the twentieth century twenty years.” Denis Karasyov (translation is mine).                                                                    so you quit smoking. I.2. To rework books read into texts is an honorable duty of every sleepless worm I.3 Unsafe and insane. I.4 But should you ask them “why?”, they would tell you that henceforward they are to live according to the Moscow time, and never diverge, no matter where they find themselves on the planet. I.5 No, I don’t think I can count like that. It won’t work. Tudor. infant. elephantine. elephant inexplicable. the birth of labyrinth daydreaming about your many tongues. a difficult bird to catch: red tuff, nimb body, long wings. I am rather undead this morning. pleasantly undead. a cadaver. palaver. glory, see me. gore. may I be allowed to despair? in a cantankerous voice, what despair? thin-legged birds ingratiating themselves to the caretaker. bowing smart heads with glistening round unblinking eyes, and tying their necks into intricate knots. ravenous creatures sustaining themselves on fish ossifized pinkish tissues. Achoo! tobacco crumbs. the swan locked in chains, with a neck tied in a knot, served to alchemists as an expression of the common place–the double-edged impossibility of the statement: interior and exterior, inner and outer, begotten both by the inward and the outward (rotating and unfolding); the statement precluded by the self and forbidden by others.                                                              compelled to claim you. perhaps I decided to abort my “jet stream” prematurely. the thought of what I am going to write now, after it, is a thought of a desperation of kinds. I just allowed myself to write, must I chuck it out like that?on the other hand, should I continue, what would I produce? pages and pages of unpublishable / unreadable stuff. I am already beyond one hundred pages.I envy poets who have a strong voice of discipline in them. it is always poetry, and recognizable too. a beauty of endlessly perfected form. a snail going in and out of its spiral. and after it dies, a treasure is ready. clean it a bit from dried specter of weed and put on a shelf. is not it nice?                                                                    oh the Berlin wall. bricks falling out travel into the language. yes venture                                                         betraying immediacy of speech. blurt it out and then collect yourself.whatever the language is, speech precedes it, Sausseur says (like syntax a system follows syntax an occasion, probably). the best actress in the world. interesting. phantom poem. you know you saw it but it’s no longer there. he asked me: “do you have a claustrophobia during fogs?” actually, he:

1) had a writing “I will learn to communicate my needs,” one phrase, over and over again, produced in a brisk, accurate, elegant handwriting, on several pages:

I will learn to communicate my needs I will learn to communicate my needs his right hand was sore. (some senseless bitch made him do it);

2) sent an erotic novel to a wrong email address due to a typo; 3) fell asleep listening to the recording of rain in Austin. tropical storm in fact. whereas, she: 1) watched the burlesque “The Devil and the Virgin” not lowering her fan for a second, and then said: “somehow one knows that the lady is not a virgin but the devil herself.” 

2) marble statue, she produced for a writing marble inscriptions mostly. fading away ancient fragments.   3) teasing the beast for years, she has never been seriously threatened, she confided in me with a note of hushed disappointment in her fading voice.  I can’t take it any longer.                                                                     reduced to handwriting

_________________________________ *I am a machine, a robot programmed to update half a dozen social platforms at a rate once half an hour by the very least. if I fail, I am punished by demons at night. why is this that you wish to touch hearts? what is the goal of such endeavour, if I am allowed to ask? do you wish to transform hearts / wound hearts / heal them (that’s naive) / make them alert to your existence / make them more aware of their own existence perhaps? I wonder. **two lines out of the poem entitled "Scynthians." by “us” Alexander Blok meant “Asians” (Russians). a very interesting poem. for Blok. who was about as European as a Russian could be. and who extremely rarely (although with great results) yielded to the nightmarish feeling of one’s own unwarranted grandeur, the feeling also known as “patriotism.” the poem “Scythians” (and a sweet threat to smother in (veritably clawed) paws) is directed at “the West” (in its European incarnation).

#stream of consciousness #prose #poetry #jet stream