islam

your morning begins with islam
with beads sewn into women’s skin
and gold dusk in the still lagoons of apartments
with frozen spines of fish
a woman bent over them
weekdays of the republic
tea flecks on topographic maps
warm mainland weather setting
above a liberated territory
islam of heaven
islam of street-flushing trucks
yellow breathless islam

this country has islam under its finger nails
one hundred and twenty volts in sleeper trains
the fatherland was fucked up for a long time
it’s impossible to wash out these slogans, inscriptions and cryptograms—
here they are—strong men’s hands
sallow tattoos on strong men’s torsos
slogans of struggle  traces of communal whoring

islam pollen constitution day
each time something’s left unsaid
stay where you grew up    where you are now
leave everything behind
except for a few things—
school-hidden porno videos
graduating class of 1991
jewish houses inhabited by bolsheviks
your teachers don’t know what else to teach you
knowledge slowly evaporates like wine
leaving behind only alcohol’s dye
friends with whom you slept and loved
have new keys made

this islam flaps like a flag in the wind
under the growl of a silencer
under the whisper of angels who are tired of singing carols
playing german harmonicas
that adolescent islam of stolen hallucinogens
this chill islam of bracelets    black islam of hidden profits
islam of classified blankets and xeroxes
airy islam of ammonia    iron islam
of bus routes of night transmitters of lit apparitions
disrupted and compressed   spleenful islam
unconquered impassable high-explosive

when a town wakes up on a july night
acidic posters
begin their work at first daylight
cruel and tubercular
hear the sun drift in a green sky
hear how it moves like swimmers in a bath
islam of injections under skin
islam of closed passages
left-bank islam of victories

this victory like leprosy from early childhood
as if you were growing old in a forsaken airport
sewing coveralls out of old parachutes
making charms out of bullet shells
so the motherland grants the right to struggle
to remember from early childhood:

the winner’s army is preparing in camp trains
begins to move out of the railway station
crossing broken border lines
victory that smells of heavy officer’s boots
stigmas of trophy syphilis
infantry lifted like jellyfish from trenches

the winner’s army gets tobacco and clothing
soldiers returning on liberated territory
saying what a fucking territory we liberated
but victory can be rinsed off film, disappears
so children return to families where they’re not loved
to families who no longer remember them
because there is nothing to remember

the army disintegrates
passing on its military spirit
like knowledge, in order not to share or forget it
till death is this black poetry of sorrow
gastric diseases   heavy vaginal love
a general’s cigarette-holder with tart men’s tang

so that every year in every generation
there will be human intestines—filled with ukrainian black soil
their soldiers reading poetry in fake leather book binders
commissar of syllabotonics
smiling ugric-finns
while they forced open the door
flew to heaven
withdrew armies from towns
like writing words neatly on a piece of paper
like cleaning oil from white clothes
and demons from ones head

because you can’t get rid of some things
both the bitter and the sweet
items from childhood
remain their victory and their faces
only a few things
for the rest of one’s life
soviet pops out of their late forties
new orleans jazz records
crumble like chocolate
the conquering army boards trains
moves in an eastern direction
to be lost in space
without ever being able to return
to the territory it liberated

there you have frozen fish under river’s skin
here you have childhood friends fucked by independence
every time after the meal
there’s a training site near the windows of our elementary school
together we grew up   outlasted the fatherland
where we were born
virile teens who shaved wet temples
equipment in gym-halls
smell of dining rooms and children’s clothing
do you remember this joy
waking among morning silence
under an icy march rain
to recognize one another in darkness
yet we grew up together
trying to become adult after all
after meals once to run away
from the soviet work units and gym-halls

aren’t these sallow markings on your flesh
isn’t this how you got yellow markings on your flesh
vicious topography of the skin
till the very death?
do you not remember the beginning
tenacious proletarian street gangs of immoral komsomols
tine is not joy for you
it flows around you like water around carp
and the color of your eyes is only a sign
and every time after a meal you choke in dining room corridors
belch with black grist of fatherland

every time after a meal
every time after an attack
after every touch of silence
after meals   after beginnings
after collision and oblivion
some where on the boundary where childhood retreats
where you can forget your face
black sign of fucking around
black flag of old music-hall refrains
jerks under the wind in your yard
and all screws on piers
snap and fall into blankness
and all heavens fall like apples into your palms
you couldn’t drive away the yellow dye of madness from your blood
you couldn’t squeeze out the beads protruding in your skin
you didn’t learn – yet how often did they ask you –
to breathe every time
after a meal

don’t cry, don’t cry, morning has broken
poplar down sticks to the cinema screens
chronicles of resistance
why are you scared of getting old
we were growing old together
with labels on our pajamas
made in ukraine

old age is always a defeat
it isn’t even loss
but rather  owning something that quickly loses its value
step by step the staging of the soul glows and settles off
linen whitens bridges    supports are caving in
velvet is torn on the frame of a hot heart

old age hides underground like a deserter
sews on its skin
is whispered with prayers

an old parishioner gets to see the pope
who wipes his green contact lenses with a kleenex
the pope has black split nails from gardening
the pope says the point is
one has to live until judgement day
the point is that neither you nor I
have anywhere to come back to
old age and despair stay put under a cool sky
the fatherland is without value and the pope says that’s the point

fish will rise to the surface to see the sun
butterflies will faint away
abandoned butchers will hold in their hands
the large hearts of animals
there are only a few things left for us
and there will be nothing more or nothing less
the pope slaps his knee determinedly
and gets back to his gardening

between you and me
only green comets remain
angels in gray Arab shawls
burn flags, beat on drums
colored brooklyn angels, both good and fearsome beings
sing in monotone, allow you to remember

music that covered a retina
thinly coated teeth, dirt on cloth
eternal histories of psychedelic struggle
during a concert a heavy rose flies across the hall
falls down like fougasse on stage
its thorn piercing the flutist’s eye
the flute falls on the floor
rolling like a cage with a bird
under musicians’ feet
the flutist picks up the rose
blood flowing down his face

his eye filled with blood and tears
the eye that constantly searches over you
the eye of the old mad culture
sun that drifts in summer twilight
a music beginning only once
never ending

and now

buenos dias pako
barbara etches into an elevator wall with a yellow key
buenos dias there will be no more music today
We got out okay  paid all the municipal tariffs
you can install your new locks

buenos dias pako
I wish you a good breakfast friend
what will bring us together in this world—
as green as tea from krasnodar
water of green rivers and leaves of green grass
restless islam of constitution
sun drifts under our women’s skin

buenos dias pako
we’ll all see in hell
faded colors of our children’s photo art
I wish you dreams about fragrant oranges
that all of your field commanders
be strong and as viable as house plants

labas vacaras pako
your house is filled with grass and guide-books
falling asleep under a green sky
a good sea is a dead sea
jesus says and stands on waves
to quiet the harbors of your dreams
a north korean army is marching

the morning begins with the weather forecast
they hesitate to read their report
it could be their own weather
is like a whisper or a look
here is a woman who enters into the rain from one side
intending to go out the other side
these fans
heavy birds in her room
forever cleaning their feathers
forever showing themselves to random guests
or tired passers-by in this dwelling of joy
here you keep
her breath
something real between her mouth and the air
as she bends over you
she throws a crucifix on her back
in a mirror her pregnancy recalls
an old engraving
she pulls pieces of lemon from her tea
like yellow souls of those drowned

the sun crumbles the mainland
when she rinses her mouth  spits in the morning
water tickles the skin and like a fish on a fishing tackle
beating it tail on its gums, leaps out
during the night   angels nest in her throat
angels of twilight plant hearts in children like potatoes
anticipating a good crop
but what can grow on such soil

stone on stone desert islam
cloudless season, only somewhere brief rainfall
and those places come by us
everything comes by us
only a few things
stay like heritage like wealth
to show when one asks

here are oh lord my topographic maps
here are plans of all my attacks
everything that you asked for
here are my metrics and all my membership dues oh Lord
all my cartridges   all my scars
all my domestic gonorrhea
here are my friends who succeeded in getting old
friends I slept with and loved
all ukrainian youth for christ

woman bending over the water
the water is as warm as Xerox powder
fishes like stars hang over there
jesus walks over the mine fields as though on waves
fishermen abandon their boats

for those who survived in this vastness
for those who at last came out surrounded
for those who didn’t surrender the regime, the hostile dormitory superintendent
there is great joy

in tuning an old transistor radio held together with scotch tape
switching off the radio when social defense programs begin
sitting with the angels somewhere on the beach
quietly discussing something
after smoking

ISLAM