Here or there
no difference all
I see
and feel
is a haunting past in every move stocked by solitude
and ghetto produced by Chernobyl and WWII, and
Moscow's flat, and Hebrew speaking great
grandma killing every essence of me in a carpet
surrounded small room with the essence of my
passport-no picture and a few lines as a mark of my existence.
Me-marked by a hotel of imaginary self-explanatory distortion.
And there she was-respect for beauty-sore eyes
surrounded by short black hair. No hair aligning itself
with eyebrows of sorrow. Eyelashes shooting desires
straight into the skies. New machine age.
Piece of shit vomited body-not so human-
more alive than Mr. or Mrs.-trigger resolving wishes.
There she stood-ribs shooting out there-killing
dead Eva-pinkies aligned with shoulders.
Devils in my head abnormally taking my muse for a ride
fucking her in the ass with a bottle of absinth.
Name it.
Call it despair.
She stood there naked hugging her vagina and thinking
no imagining what I imagined without intercourse.

It takes a man to say NO.
It takes an animal to shut up.
I've been told that she's good looking,
knowing that she's the best one-
presenting her pussy as an accordion to play with-
just note and push.
That's what life is about-push alive.
My life-is hunting-to kill-kill my past,
my father inside of me.
Killing (the past makes present and future alive).
Any day
I've made a killing
waiting to see it happen.