Sublimation

In a room for everyone

on a barstool my bones 

connect to muscles and nerves
connected to my skin in these jeans
connected to a leather seat of a chair firmly
connecting the shiny floor to walls stretching to
connect corners with the inside here to the outside there 
while summer-like weather exhales through the door.
The particles blend with each breath of new air
from all lungs and I fall asleep
traveling further and further amongst trees toward the sky
like a patch of fading smoke parting from the tip of a burning incense

into a vast unknown universe and I dream of

a bloody rose bursting into bloom from my open gut.

Daylight on the ledge of a

dream – I make my bed and some pancakes for breakfast.
Doors open to another day in the usual manner, motion and speed,
the water is boiling on the stove. 

I walk into an open suitcase left on the floor,

yawning and stretching, 

the mirror is a reflection of me on an average morning
of just another day.

At the Coffee-shop on a Wednesday

What was that thought that I had ... last night before I went to sleep...

The one I was sure to remember in the morning...

It’s always the same.

Drawing circles in the sand with a stick.

Eccentric circles.

The Witch and the Lion – outside the wardrobe.

Questions.

Sometimes,

there are no questions.

No answers.

Chances are.

There is too much anger!

I want to dance...

There is too much darkness.

I want to dance!

Oh, but the density of silence...

Secrets?

Some people are too fat for

their miniskirts...

Her underwear is actually pink.

That’s great.

A black temple-cat against white walls

suddenly stops, looks around

and looks at me.

Sits for a while, then leaves.

What’s that cat going on about all day long?

It’s too sunny for umbrellas.

I’m hot –

a tarred road on a suffocating day,

heading for a meltdown.

I don’t know what time it is.

Feels like it’s time to go.

I don’t know what the time is.

The Universe provides.

Feels like it’s time for a drive!

I don’t know what Time is.

I can see road-signs.

Never an airbag.




2013 Summer, Wednesday

Corporate Silence

Like a piece of shedding skin,

the scarf around my neck

is a smoky-grey cheetah-impression

of a sewing machine carpe diem

of a woman at fifty cents an hour.

Stitches, and dyes.

Life fell under the harvest moon

where I stood like a tree.

In the sky,

there was nothing but clouds

in a perfect fit.

There was more to it.

There were dogs.

I wished they were wolves

howling at the fiery eyeball

in the bruised billow.

I wished she was as strong as a silent tree.

I wished she could scream like dogs howl.

I wished it right there.

She wanted nothing.

I wanted everything and all the time.

Voices of a choir in my silence,

I wanted a prayer,

a dancing wind,

a muse,

an invisible touch,

Bukowski’s soul,

Thoreau’s mind to find

A thread of thought and time.

I wanted to rest in this illusion.





Published at http://www.counterpunch.org/2014/07/18/romero-and-vongsaravanh/


 

                  

The Challenge

when the moon is craving its own light
when the sun is praying for cloudy skies to hide
when birds are featherless but want to fly
when wet paint dries
when nature is framed for a wall
when saints fuck prophets
when the window is open and everyone watches
when the eyes are shut and see it all
when words are voiceless
when the floor is softest
when a song is on repeat
when paper planes fly and land on a lake
when ice seems thick enough to skate
when the falling snow rushes into a breath
when the knees crack
when time is a desert
when the clock won’t stop
when dust sits on tall wine glasses
when candles burn 

stay in the present

www.iconklub.com

The Roundtrip

The night-street became one flat shiny mass of asphalt.

Bus wheels, tricycles and bicycles balancing at eye-height.

 

What if time stopped? -  Passers-by wouldn't be passing by.

That vendor would have to bear with the iron on his shoulder.

Buses wouldn’t go past.

Fingers would be stuck inside vaginas, a nose, or an ear, forever.

Time never stops.

I know nothing more here,

on this muddy curb.  

My friend starts up her bike.

We drive through too many flickering streetlights,

eat through boulders of potatoes, fly with Buffalo-wings spread wide on a platter.

Margaritas feed the senses, voices amongst voices fill the air in an upside-down world,

where refugees recite poetry, to re-connect their breath with the breath of the motherland

for peace.

Children are being raped in remote villages finding refuge at schools.

They will tell their stories later.

  

Time will never stop.

The morning smells of roasted coffee beans.

The dusty roadside chases the monkeys on, and me-

wandering amongst random stones- I arch over a vision.

Ancient stone faces come alive, watching their new queen

at leisure from traffic and time, from bored eyes, from broken vows.

Dragonfly-looking butterflies chasing sunshine all the way

onto the tip of a paintbrush  held by someone who isn’t there.

There is, however, an artist by the walls of reality,

making the exact replica of  a postcard. 

I’m too flattered with my own old face.

It’s time.

Checking in on another flight.

Someone yawns loudly into the back of my neck.

It’s all in the air...

The Nap

Music filled streets,

cloudy skies, chicken soup –

blended in a cup.

The night is approaching my eyelids

at mid-day.

Sovereign stars of the night

gather and swirl in my chest,

pulling my spine through an infinite space

where dreams are born,

and I pull them through the gateway

into this sodden world

where all dreams belong.

_________________________________

Pour Homme

Describe.
The stillness ...
The coolish morning in the winter
smells like spring but
it's not quite here yet.

I dissolve into latte, and
don't wish to look back
under the night-sheets where
under raw flesh remains
the invisible woman.


Lavender breath, vanilla skin
marinated in Irish cream
and ... nuts.


Sometimes, I want to be a motorcycle -
polished and loved,
fixed and reassembled
down to the last screw ... but

I'm 

only 

a woman.

Published also by POETS' BASEMENT 

http://www.counterpunch.org/2013/04/05/klimenko-chatterjee-and-vongsaravanh/

____________________________________________