The World Is Beautiful

The world is beautiful with its splendor of all shades of green and the chirping of black-robed  birds groping about and  sun and moderately cool air, the inconspicuous pedestrians, meek traffickers of tobacco and booze. After we make love she must get pretty again while I prepare dinner. We have it with candles and strings that sing us into a warm and mild night. Other times we go to the theater, opera, concert, café, end up in bars and into her dreams I tell her the night. What I have to offer to her is stolen from books she could read herself if so inclined. How, I think, can anyone stand the boredom of life undrunk?  She bites my ear, but for how long can she play this game? Along my voice reading her novels she glides over posh and fine accents into dreamlands I hum to her and when she awakes again and again she expects from her lover to tell her the world is a beautiful place.

That’s easy for me, as easy as clouds rain down and bees fill their honeycombs and inside warm smiles I nakedly linger into our days. We feed us new life and do not fear death but rather what will make us die. We hurt one another but  we do not abandon us. Together we stay until cosmic symmetries break and make the world whole. As if we as lovers never existed. Your scent on my linen sails away into and out of this beautiful world.

Copyright the author writing as Serge Gurkski

Translation to English by Serge Gurkski

Die Welt ist schön…FÜR HOLLY RENE HUNTER)

Die Welt ist schön, sei schön mit ihrem vielerlei Grün, umhertastendem Getschilp der schwarzkuttigen Amseln, ihrer Sonne, ihrem mäßig kühlem Wind, unauffälligen Fußgängern, devoten Schnaps- und Tabakverkäufern. Schön auch wegen der vollen Brüste meiner Geliebten und ihrer Geilheit. Danach muss sie erst wieder schön werden. Ich koche, wir essen, Kerze, Violinen, laue Nacht. Oder: Theater, Oper, Konzert, Café, Kneipe. Ich erkläre, sie träumt, laue Nacht. Es steht, was ich ihr sage, in Büchern. Sie kann lesen, kann Bücher lesen. Könnte. Wie kann man, frag‘ ich mich, ohne Schnaps in dieser schönen Welt ohne Langeweile existieren? Sie beißt mich ins Ohr. Aber wie lange kann sie das durchhalten? In die Nacht gleitet sie an meiner Stimme, die leise aber akzentuiert Schönes, eben: belles lettres, in sie summt, damit sie auf Schallschwingen in ihren Traum schwebt. Und immer erwacht sie und hofft sie, mein schöner Spiegel, dass ich ihr die schöne Welt noch einmal mehr zeige.
Das kann ich wie Wolken regnen und so leicht, wie Bienen Honig in Waben füllen. In ihrer lächelnden Wärme liege ich nackt in den Tag. Wir füttern uns Leben. Zu Scharfes wird nicht serviert. Nicht den Tod, aber was dazu führt ersparen wir uns. Wir muten uns ständig Schmerz zu aber nicht den großen, den Abschied, bis plötzlich ex nihilo Symmetriebrüche die Welt wieder werden ließen. Als wären wir nicht gewesen. Es hing noch ein Geruch von dir und mir im unvertäuten Laken. Das schwob davon. Die Welt ist schön.

copyright the author writing as Serge Gurkski


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Whiskey Tales and Spells

I write to let my emotions slowly escape
A drop or two of blood of heartbreak
A sigh of a memory
A whisper of bound desire
A tear of remorse
A caress of lovers’ passions
A blink of anger
A kiss of overwhelming grief
A sip of fear
I write to connect to you, without drowning you
We can feel heartbreak without bleeding
We can remember without hurting
We can desire without sinning
We can regret without crying
We can make love without regretting
We can be angry without violence
We can grieve without losing
We can be afraid without reason
I write to live, without living

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Brilliant, passionate, mysterious…. Gigi.

Rethinking Life

Painted, Argentina, Advertisement, Tango

he sat in the small dark bar
watching her dance the tango
passion played out
on an ancient wooden floor
the man holding her
was pressed tightly
against her long lean body
she was beautiful
and moved with confidence and ease
her black dress clinging to her curves
her black heels making noise
only when she wanted them to do so
the man was madly in love with her
anyone could see that
but she hardly seemed to notice
so lost in the music
and the moment
unaware of anything else
if he could dance
he would walk onto the floor
and tear her away from him
take her for himself
he blinked
horrified by his own thoughts
when he looked up
she was staring at him
as if she had read his mind
he couldn’t move
she laughed into the man’s shoulder
and looked away
his heart was…

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Concrete Box

Dennis Cardiff


I work in a corporate, concrete box;
no windows, only a computer terminal
to link me to the outside world.
Only second-hand accounts
of weather, traffic,
whether it is day or night.

I sometimes go to work in darkness,
return in darkness.
I don’t know if the sun
remembered to rise at all.
Like the light in a refrigerator.
Does it really turn off
when I close the door?

At a keyboard, my fingers type numbers,
millions of numbers.
My mind wanders woodland paths.
I watch birds flitting from limb to limb,
chipmunks scurrying, stopping,
looking around, then scurrying again.

My mind plays tricks on me.
I imagine that just 26 floors down
I could exit on Beale or Bourbon Street.
Hear sounds of the South,
guitars, saxophones and raspy voices
that rule the rhythm of my body and soul.

Take me on a blues ride.
Let me wander with…

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Blind Eye – Poem #3- toritto

If our government continues to engage in massive deportations, our agricultural system will collapse according to the (AFBF) American Farm Bureau Federation.

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Young Mexican picker man
rises from a mattress on the floor
of a dilapidated trailer
shared with nine other mattresses

buys a chicken bag lunch
from the local seller of chicken bag lunches
climbs on board the contractor bus
with contractor boss man.

Young Mexican picker man
plucks tomatoes to fill his basket
under the blazing Florida sun
his sweat anointing our Florida earth.

Piece work at forty five cents a bucket
thirty two pounds of tomatoes
less than penny and a half a pound;
it is cheaper to rent slaves than to own them.

Picker man wants a tiny house
para su familia
and so he toils with his woman and son
in plain sight yet sight unseen
for all of us the blind eye turn.

Behind the gates of Mar-a-Lago
in the county of the picker man
amid the laughter
a black tie ball.

Christ in the Eucharist

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