To chop up cotton and read through a cookbook.
To be running behind and hang from your lower jaw.
I’m free to drink bottoms up. Ganymede
gets stuck in a summerhouse. And oh how flowers grew by the
pathways. Do you see how I lopped off their heads?
Do you see how I step on his scalp as an officer?
They poured streams of hot water on me to harden my
mustache. They peeled the enamel off Cassandra’s tooth.
By god, she marches over purple plums. She salutes and
keeps marching on the purple plums. A washed pot, if
you shine a deer in it, vomits craquellures back in your
mouth and eyes. King of the news, hitch up your sleigh, trample the taffeta
and yarrow. There are petals in the cups. They beckon to a feast
of the moon. Elongated horses are the hairstyle around
the moon. Giants fight over cards. The giants rake
leaves. The rakes may go, the sand remains, the rakes
may go, the earth remains. Bang! goes a rake handle, and hits
a giant in the head, because somebody stepped on the
rake tines. Doves are the tiles between cathedrals. Woodsmen
bend down, get up, bend down, the town hall is split on its
peak. A peacock takes pity on a lake. Replace
tooth with fake gemstone, woodsman with wooden
boat. Mists rampage in the comics. The horse is fond
of white. A beggar banging with a stick on the edge of
a bell has sand and rain pouring from his hat.
Gums are a cozy nest. Draw little jugs out of the clay. The Turks
made off with Srebrna while she drank at a well.
HONEY AND HOLOFERNES
I’ve invented a machine that, as soon as a goldfinch opens
its throat, starts dumping bags of concrete inside. Who licked the candies
into concrete, we don’t know. Who then brought
the concrete to life, we don’t know. The goldfinch sails. The goldfinch
sings. Where are you, Eugenijus? Racing across, opening
a hollow with your fingernails. You the pain of the contour, me
that of the train. Linda Bierds drives a car that comes
from the Tatras. The condor ripens the bird. My trousers smell like
gasoline. Do you see the pool? Do you see the pool? Do you see
the angel’s elbow? It led me to those cliffs arrayed
like Vikings. Zebras have scraped eyes.
Ibrahim, Drago and Miklavž are great guys.
Iodine boils a bird’s head. It dies in the mud. I
swallow bread. What did you see in the inner
darkness to earn it? A bifurcation for
both and the bent, silver-plated head of a
walking stick? Boxes of honey delivered
by parachute, which deer antlers
provided? Pythagoras is plunder. A cat licks
his ears all summer and winter. Pins directed
the blood flow of saints. Stones erode
on the shoals. I shove Diran’s head away from
the table. This clump is a tombolo. And that
pigeon on the plate. Mother of pearl. Gray head.
SAN PIETRO A CASCIA WITH MASACCIO
Radiant white pipe laughing deep down
in Jesus’s eyes, the glow is astonished, returns. Wet
bandage wrapped around your head, does it hurt? Fra Angelico’s
tongue is tin. The ants on it are the hills of
Tuscany. What was it that soaked Fra Angelico, nobody
before him had gotten so soaked. Lily pads grow out of the water.
Goat legs erase the copy. To flip, to stop, to drench
violence. To insert. To back up. To set down the toes, then the
heel. Not to look. To observe. To love the sun. Where is
the green from? Isn’t the light from the windows? Fra Angelico had
suede shoes, a suede arm. A butterfly swimming from the blueness of the sky,
a flower doesn’t tuck in its legs, only people
tuck in their legs. People sink into my heart
and are free. Fra Angelico poured the bucket on himself.
SCRUBBED SLAB, DARK SCREEN
What sort of icons? What sort of Rigas? What sort
of stelae? What sort of sheaf of trees? When does the oral cavity
consider where north is? When does it return
mittens? What comes between evaporation and
overheating? And what can we divide with a
tractor? The shooting of an arrow to its target? Can we
restore the gentleman who’s sixty
feet tall, displaying his bones at
O’Hare? We travelers provided the slabs of flesh.
Memory is made of reeds. Handbags never
rot. Lakes are leaned up on your chest. Otters
like statues stowed before birth. Fine. Heels
in the sand, but I see. It started with Popeye and a
furious Olive Oyle. Persepolis was already washed by Disney.
SO WE DON’T LOSE OUR VIRGINITY
Clay of silent diasporas, is water yellow
when the oar hits it flat? Where does
all the wool on the cliffs come from? Does the moon
send a compass? The color of feathers, of fur,
of skin and the heart’s rumbling under volcanoes
all depend on the place where its point is
set in. The court imitates of the river. Terry
had a sixty-foot-long tapeworm inside her.
That time the court won. We cut the tapeworm to pieces.
The pumpkin, the vessel, or more coarsely put, the body
was put together like a babushka--one cell
inside the other. The points of the seams smelled like
lemon. Then a hand began to stroke
the nipple. And side passages were opened
for the cavalries underground. That’s how
we discovered the field of torches, which
began mating with sagas. There was no more Captain
Bada. Suddenly we had the word
anitra. The innocents made themselves a necklace.
And so we lived. Once again the cooking
was done by Cassandras, lovely
apelike monsters from the Carpathians. A horse
kissed me in vitro. Giudita offers me
her neck. I’ve stopped making eights with my bike.
TRANS-SIBERIA
Every ball is a bloody, beautiful mask of powerful people.
We make up pretzels.
I always did like chickens.
O, slender fez, mildew perching on its fur.
The poet is an oafish celeb on a hood.
Of every wondrous power. On a hood.
I glance over my right shoulder and see
a lake with the canon bathing in it.
The marmots that shot past me weren’t
marmots. Come on, god, sail off to abstraction.
Stepfather! Your mouthful eats soup, you only see it.
Nem Keckeget arrives in Japan and jumps down.
Us Us darns stockings. Here are the teeth of the
iron comb that still remembers the station
and steam, but for Cendrars no longer matters.
The only thing now is that you can’t just
pleasantly say, »if you’d take off that shirt,
too,« the way Marci and Hudi said it to me.
WORD TO THE HUNTERS
How the birdsong volleys!
I walk on a stroller.
»Selfish little beast, writing your own
stuff, who do you think you are?«
Calma, calma,
non sono un cinghiale,
don’t shoot me.
Translated from the Slovenian by Michael Biggins with the author
