Newspapers
Papers sell worthy events
the kiss prince charming gave
princess wild
fold your heroes in pages
wrinkled and part ripped
packaged kilo of red mullets
secretly they rise your heroes
moistened by fish gills and scales
they ascend declaring to the kitchen
and to olive oil smoking in the pan
their innocence of youth
erased dreams and ambitions
ROMIOSINI
…Come you oh woman who broods on the golden
eggs of thunderbolts –
when an azure day comes you’ll take off the headscarf
and again take up arms
that May’s hailstorm will beat your forehead
that the sun will break a pomegranate in your cotton apron
that alone you will divide seed by seed
among your twelve orphans
that the shore will shine around you like the edge of a sword
and April’s snow
so that the crab will come out from the rocks to sunbathe
and cross its claws…
Imperishability
Words we never said, words with
the distant echo of the night, futile words
flowing emotions that followed
the body’s shape, passing women,
unfulfilled desires with no reciprocation,
perhaps with no desire to exist.
Many dead shells, petrified,
that slowly cover the tongue,
bronchus, lungs, the underwater
parts of this abandoned ship.
excerpt
FROZEN SALMON
…worst of all had occurred when a passenger couldn’t hold his or her
bowel and the cab would turn into a crapping space, which would
take two good hours of disinfecting and cleaning before one would
be allowed to take another fare. It happened to Costa once, when he not
only lost most of his shift, but he also had to do the cleaning, to boot.
The driver’s thoughts kept him busy as he travelled over the Granville
Street Bridge, and upon reaching Broadway, he turned to the right,
and after two miles of distance, he turned left on Blenheim Street, which
would take them to the reservation. He noticed that his customers were
half-asleep; yet the stench of their breathing forced him to open his
window to get some fresh air. Night had fallen when they arrived at the
Indian reservation community, although towards the west, there were
some bright gleams of the sunset that no one paid attention to. Such
romantic images weren’t important since his customers struggled as
they searched their pockets for the money to pay the fare.
“Where is your money?” the white man asked the Indian, who
pretended he didn’t follow his buddy’s question, and he started getting
out of the car.
“Where are you going?” the driver asked angrily, “Who’s paying
the fare? Eleven sixty…” he indicated to them, pointing at the meter.
They stared at each other. No word was spoken. No fart or any
other foul smell was detected. Then, the Indian showed his middle
finger, as if to say, you know what a man means when he raises his
middle finger to someone and now Costa was angry since the fare
turned into something dramatic. Nonetheless, he had not the slightest
inclination to forego his fare for these two assholes. Costa grabbed
the white man by the sleeve and yelled,
“Eleven dollars and sixty cents, or I call the cops.”
They both started searching their pockets again. No money was
found.
“I don’t have a dime…” the Indian said.
“I don’t…” the white guy said, “you knew I had nothing left, I
bought the last round, don’t you remember?” he said in a questioning
way, then he suggested, “Ask your wife for a twenty-dollar bill.”
Manolis Aligizakis 