Monthly Archives: Septembrie 2012

poezie de dragoste

tu adă-mi femeie
o lingură plină
și cea mai mare
cu heroină
să ne ducă
în cartea recordurilor


efectul de dubstep

Black Glass Soliloquy
Ben Mirov

There is nothing in my head today.
I think about you everyday.
My head full of blckkk glsss

My head full of bllllk sound.
I think about you every day.
I travel in my love for you.

An outline in the blckkk glsss.
Living in the blllckk glasss.
Time travels in my sound for you.

There is nothing in my head today.
Echo echo bl@@@k gl@{{.
To whom do I deliver sound.

To whom does the shudder render.
I think about you everyday.
I hang you in the B[][][][][] G[][][][][]

I hang you in my head today.
A ravel in the blccckkkkk soundd.
I think about you everyday.

My love for you is bla888888ck s####nd.
Echo echo bl&kk s(((((())))))d.
I travel in my love for you.

I ravel in my love for you.
A bl>>>>K $(0)nd in my love for you.
I think about you every day.

There is nothing in my head today.
I hang you in my bLL^^CC// S______–
][ ravel in the B&&&&& S))))))))d

I go out in the b::::::::::K G::::::::::ss
to see you in the <*++*> gIIIIIIIs.
I hang you in my head today.

I ravel through the << >> {oun}
Are you in my $[%&]d today?
An echo in my head today.

I think about you everyday.
An echo in the black sound.
An outline in the black glass.

Roadside Attractions with the Dogs of America

*un poem de Ada Limon

It’s a day when all the dogs of all
the borrowed houses are angel footing
down the hard hardwood of middle-America’s
newly loaned-up renovated kitchen floors,
and the world’s nicest pie I know
is somewhere waiting for the right
time to offer itself to the wayward
and the word-weary. How come the road
goes coast to coast and never just
dumps us in the water, clean and
come clean, like a fish slipped out
of the national net of „longing for joy.”
How come it doesn’t? Once, on a road trip
through the country, a waitress walked
in the train’s diner car and swished
her non-aproned end and said,
„Hot stuff and food too.” My family
still says it, when the food is hot,
and the mood is good inside the open windows.
I’d like to wear an apron for you
and come over with non-church sanctioned
knee-highs and the prettiest pie of birds
and ocean water and grief. I’d like
to be younger when I do this, like the country
before Mr. Meriwether rowed the river
and then let the country fill him up
till it killed him hard by his own hand.
I’d like to be that dog they took with them,
large and dark and silent and un-blamable.
Or I’d like to be Emily Dickinson’s dog, Carlo,
and go on loving the rare un-loveable puzzle
of woman and human and mind. But, I bet I’m more
the house beagle and the howl and the obedient
eyes of everyone wanting to make their own kind
of America, but still be America, too. The road
is long and all the dogs don’t care too much about
roadside concrete history and postcards of state
treasures, they just want their head out the window,
and the speeding air to make them feel faster
and younger, and newer than all the dogs
that went before them, they want to be your only dog,
your best-loved dog, for this good dog of today
to be the only beast that matters.