LAZINESS
I do not care to work today
for laziness has defeated me again
and I sit upon my mattress
and feel my body’s heaviness
as if the whole wide earth
cannot contain me
nor ever can the sky.
I perceive the good as evil
and glance down once
and then towards the sky.
Despite this stupid world I live in,
I wish I could just once
live fully and never die.
Suspicion
Therefore, you have to get used to it, he was saying,
to always find new excuses
not to deny anything. Your denial
would be, first of all, denial of yourself,
and they’re very careful with your mistakes.
They even suspect your approval
and your enthusiasm or your serenity.
Then, what could we do? He asked, ah, yes,
to occupy the least possible space. Then, again,
they see our moderation as secrecy,
they find some conspiracy in the afternoon reverie,
when you smile to a star that believes in you
when you stand firm behind a certain memory or
this chair, where love was sitting moments ago,
and you caress the back of the chair. What could
we do, he said, and hid his whole face behind
the newspaper.
Labyrinth
The air smelled of spring
in the flowery thicket
I sauntered
and your image came to my mind
undulating soft bed-sheet
followed the curves of your body
when suddenly the wind perked up
and the sheet was lifted up
revealing Eros spread on your skin
and between your legs
where the summer heat
doubled the heat of your body
turning it into conflagration
image that took my mind captive
into the labyrinth of lust
where I enter firm
and always come out pale
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The king passed and asked them
“why you cry, you two slaves?”
“For our precious son, the
sun of every dawn
we cry for our precious son
who sold us for some coins
who exchanged us for gold
which you gave him oh king
and he hasn’t come since then
our only joy and resolve”
and the king orders
“bring the boy in front of me”
“You’re the destruction’s son
and the ruin of your parents
and you’re riding a horse
and you’re dressed in all fanfare
tears you spread all over
tears you never had,” “yes”
he answers and the king
writes an edict “noble son
take this edict and go away
become a lightning bolt and
for ten days and ten nights
don’t you ever dare stop
Like a Film
My homeland is the flowing
moment that always was
and touched the farewell
the passing of the flowing river
and left fantastic years
roles that are passed over
under constellations
kites of our origin
innocence that travels in darkness.
I was a path once
a piece of infinity
divided heart, a secret departure
I smuggled away utopia
searching for the forefather of a dream
so, I could return
the wild wind gleaming and flowing spring
insubordinate poem deep footprint
and as everything ages
I shall move ahead
irreversibly
into the mined wave.
Snow
He was the only one I had, although I couldn’t recognize him.
He went away and came back. “Someday you’ll also return.”
He said, “But no one will be here,” then he talked to me of his
mother’s green dress, and he emphasized the word green as if
he defended the whole world; other times, he kneeled and asked
for the forgiveness of the centuries of grief and the women who later
descended to do the laundry were forgotten in a great shine and
as it started snowing, I opened the Gospel
but it was snowing in it as well.
Diner Cook
Eons behind the counter, the years
he has spent in this diner, side of
the highway where truckers stop
to rest, to eat something fast, to
relieve themselves and to resume
their fast-trucking way towards
their destination to earn their
living just like the diner cook who
stands behind the counter and cooks
hamburgers, a matter of two minutes
each side, which along with a handful
of fried potatoes make up the regular
meal, straight French cuisine, one
might muse, food meant to be digested
as the driver sits in his seat focusing
on the next bend of the road, the faraway
depot where he’ll get paid, he too
has done as others did before him
he too has lived the donkey’s life
just as others did before him
excerpt
…flowing in his veins. Marcus knew well he could graduate from
this school tonight he could take his diploma tonight he could
put the Kamloops Indian Residential School behind him and
behind his sister by just learning how to kill. This was the lesson
he had to learn tonight and the power of such a lesson kept him
quiet in the closet just behind Sister Gladys’ desk.
Suddenly footsteps were heard. A door opened and a man
walked along the long hallway going towards the sleeping quarters
of the girls. Marcus moved the closet door a bit open enough to
discern Father Thomas going his regular direction. Marcus walked
out of the closet and twelve steps further he hid behind the door
leading upstairs to the rooms of the priests and nuns. Moments
passed, moments that felt like eons when suddenly Marcus stopped
even his heartbeats as he felt on his body the back of the door opening
slowly. Two persons entered: a girl, his sister Deborah, held by
the hand by Father Thomas who was right next to her.
Marcus charged like a thunder and before the priest turned
to look he had wielded the knife twice up and down striking the
back of the priest in two places. The priest, struck by surprise,
tried to turn and look who was doing the killing when he received
two more strikes on his chest. With a loud cry Father Thomas
stepped backwards and losing his balance he fell on his back and
his head hit the wooden post of the stairs and with a noisy thud
he collapsed on the floor.
“Let’s go,” Marcus said to his sister and taking her by
the hand the priest was holding a few seconds earlier he led her
towards the main entrance door which they found locked. They
ran to the basement and to the carpentry shop, Marcus climbed
on a short ladder and opened one of the two windows. Deborah
first then Marcus crawled out of the building and, running as fast
as they could distanced themselves from the mausoleum.
THE DEAD HOUSE
We didn’t mention it to the adults because as soon as
the kitchen window opened the cloud of smoke rose
sideways and stayed over the hallway, high cloud,
threatening, with a glass helmet with a hanging horse
tail; a lone, aromatic cloud, beastly and fleshless,
with no bones yet powerful. Thus, we were listening
behind the doors up to midnight until a red, sparkling
sleep took over us). Yes, the soldiers were singing,
joking with the servant girls, sometimes they took off
their boots and rubbed their thick toes with their hands,
then they’d wipe the wine off their fleshy lips
or they scratched between their hairy legs
they’d grab the breasts of women accidentally
and they sand again (we opened to them even in
sleep), they sang with their faces covered in the
dirty hair, maintaining the rhythm with their barefoot
legs on the tiles or with their fingers on the water
pitcher or the glass or the flat wood they used
to mince meat on the table, in a low tone so
they wouldn’t be heard by the officers inside; then
their Adam’s apple went up and down like a knot
of a thick rope pulled by two opponents, like the knot
of a rope pulled from a deep water well, like a knot
in your viscera.
excerpt
Ivan Nikolaevich, the second rate agent. Still, she wanted the director to know that she had been correct in her suspicions.
“Da, da, yes, of course,” nodded the functionary, pawing through his desk drawer searching for something. The man’s an idiot, she thought. This is the quality of worker who stands guard over the country! Saints preserve us, as my old grandmother used to say. Finally, the man produced another form, this one on blue paper. “In order to use the official phone line, you must fill in this form.”
“Phone him now!” Natasha raised her voice in hopes that the supervisor would hear her and look out his door. “I’m not filling in one more form!”
The man’s expression did not change but this time he abandoned the new form, picked up the receiver and asked her for the number. After some dialling, waiting and dialling again, he announced that he could not get through. He replaced the receiver quietly. “The supervisor will attend to your complaint tomorrow,” he told her.
Natasha struggled to control her breathing. “Tomorrow WILL BE TOO LATE. She’s passing through the line now; I can see her from here.” Indeed, Lona had already slipped through the passport control while they had been on the phone. The young man’s face creased in a troubled frown. “Very well, comrade. I will take the name of the tourist and her flight number and pass it on to the customs officials myself.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, Natasha thought. “I’ll go with you,” she said aloud. She took a certain perverse pleasure in being in on the moment of discovery. Of course the poor fool Chopyk would be angry with her…
“I’m sorry, comrade, that will not be possible,” the guard replied. “It is not permitted to pass through that door into the airport again. You must leave by the fire exit.” He gestured at a door on the far side of the room. “It is a regulation. Thank you and good day.”
Natasha drew herself up to her full five feet, four inches, cast one more withering glare at the man, and stalked toward the fire exit and out of the lives of the tour group from Canada.
“Documents, please.” Jennifer watched as Lona, standing in front of her, tensed at the command. She could feel her own apprehensiveness growing as she waited, her toes behind the yellow line. This first barrier marked Passport Control was a preview to the inspection room.
Manolis Aligizakis 