nothing new in old journeys

And this moment feels so great. It’s a part of the universal conscious, as most people say these days without really being conscious. I left my hometown penniless, searching for the undercover truth which most of the time stretches just in front of us.  Jazz is what I like because it brings the dream and breaks it in a high tone while one lingers among uncommon situations. Hate is the answer to your love brother. Stop your quest and stay where your god seated you. In this morning I went out walking. There I realized what I stand for now. I am the unholy piece from the eternal mechanism that runs around for many years now. That broken piece.

I leave my wallet on the counter as I stand next to the bar stool. My finger points at the waitress that passes by like a tornado, fiercely approaching the tip left on table number one. She grabs the money without hesitation and with a dexterous move she dips it into her bra. I explore this image, contemplating over the impossibility of mankind to disrupt the course. This time she turns back at me with a demonized smile and asks if she can be of any service. 

Two beers, one whiskey with two cubes, and a glass of water! I shout as the band starts playing. The boys start in a fast tempo, picking up bits of Gillespie’s harmonic structure as they continue improvising, I grab my first beer. My foot starts tapping on the rhythm as I encompass the atmosphere of the surroundings in a quick glance. After gulping away the first bottle I take the second and enter my humming mode. After all, don’t need approvals as the band is a bebop feature of the bar and my face is well known here. My moods are also known in the same measure. But the new lady doesn’t know much about anything. I guess observing how she gapes at my shouts of “Re-Bop!” after every number finishes. I take my coat after soaking the glass of whisky and step outside without hesitation. The suffocating atmosphere grabs my lungs and my breath enters into an impasse.

The narrow streets soured me and I can’t smile anymore. “Mircea!” A drunken demon shouts. I look at him and there he stands, on the sea front waving at my presence. “Is he real?” I wonder approaching the imagery. I collapse underneath society like a snail caught by the patrician’s shoe.

I wonder whether or not, to continue without my shell. I feel discovered as they call my name. The sacred thing you get as a new-born. That’s another reason for not telling them my real name. But somehow they found out. “Mircea!” they shout from their backyard. “Mircea!” they shout from the narrow streets. With one step I follow with the other I go back. Need to change things.

I am traveling from Bucharest with a low speed train. The night is smiling through the window glass. My arms are covered by different scars as my body is weakened from yesterday’s parties. In the same compartment the girl sitting next to me is devouring a dead rabbit. The locomotive mechanic is very drunk from consuming large quantities of alcohol because Christmas is close. Thousands of blooded rabbits are struggling under the wheels of steel. But no one is interested in this maybe just the wolf or the fox waiting in the bushes for the train to disappear into the darkness.The rabbit-eating lady offers me a piece of dead meat. I decline. On the next station an old couple enters. The man is drunk. The woman is a grey mare full of proverbs and advices. The drunken man goggles towards the fox-head lady while she smiled unveiling her blooded teeth. They start feasting together on the dead animal. The wind blows towards the locomotive’s headlights.

 From the right side snowballs hit the window with power. I am thinking of my shadow as I leave it behind. Farewell!

After a seven hour journey I arrive in my hometown. It’s snowing. On the platform some dogs welcome me with enchanting barks. I salute the happy family and enter the city through the side stage. As a child I left behind an unfinished snowman. I forgot to offer him the char eyes to manage in life. It’s a pity for now he’s probably wandering around, searching for his creator. As I insert the key into the door lock a strange sentiment covers my existence. I’m back, I tell myself as I push the old creaking wooden door. A dead air breaks my nose. The lights are brought on by the electrical commutator. As I wonder through the rooms I stumble upon a tent in the dorm. I enter. There, paper sheets are thrown together with books, socks, a sleeping bag and other objects placed in a disorderly order. The image brings concerns over the lone inhabitant. A fight against yourself is the hardest battle; to defeat yourself is the most glorious victory. The words are laid down on a piece of paper. I also lie down in the tent. I embrace the papers, the books and the socks. It all becomes a part of my current state as my spirit molds onto the energy beamed by the tent.  I remain two hours in a contemplating state until my stomach howls after his pleasures. I have to enter the food laboratory and prepare a magical potion for it. But then I see the unplugged fridge. Food is scarce in this house as no one is here to provide. In the North parts you have to become one of the predators. Therefore I exit the apartment in search for a midnight snack. The street of my childhood welcomes me with snow-drifts. My feet plunge into the fluffy snow and leave marks for the other passers. In this time my mind is drifting as a car on icy roads. I abolish all sinister thoughts and keep walking towards the 24hour booze/food-serving entity that I knew well enough as an adolescent. Though I still wonder where Leibniz might be. Since the one letter found in the tent indicated the peaks of the Carpathians. I assume he went there, pushed by angst and other devilish existentialist undetermined factors. A man should not be left alone with his fears; depression always follows and grips his soul. I find the place and enter without knocking on heaven’s door. The same woman stands behind the counter. She smiles as she reminds my visage. I order my usual sauerkraut with sausage. It tastes the same after all this time. Nothing changed at least for the recipe and the woman behind the magic. She also throws in a full pint of beer on the house as she is really fond of arriving well and healthy back to her little establishment. “Love, people are mean these days. I am really glad to see ya. The big city can be very dangerous. I’ve heard many stories you know.” She keeps me company as I am the only one in the late hour. I finish my doings and leave her happy, sticking the money deep in her own personal piggy-bank. She is happy, another client, some more currency.

When I exit the prestigious food providing entity I think of where to go. My steps guide me to the river side. On the banks of the river I was always feeling speculative over society’s demands, a place where dreams collapsed on the wall of reality and provided answers for my doubtful questions. I fly away like a butterfly in a dreamy atmosphere neglecting winter’s cold.  There, I could grind the grains of truth away from life’s broken mill. I am looking to strain a purely quantity of good and evil. Only then I will discover enough to understand. Dawn comes out naked in the distance, as nymph appearances dance on chirping noises coming from the field birds.  Not far from where I stand, a hut rises majestically between willows and a dogberry. The entrance is guarded by a great white dog that looks after the girls’ dance. I must go inside the hut. I invoke my willpower and step closer to the animal. I cover my body with flowers and approach the beast. Only to realize after awhile my frozen flesh under a snow bank, and above my childhood snowman waving at me and laughing without a mouth. He says he changed it for a twosome of eyes and blames me for his past handicap. I hope on a case of sever hallucinations provoked by my tent discoveries combined with a series of vodka doubles on my way to the river. Just to get the chill out of my bones. But this? This went too far. I try to whisk the heavy weight, to recover slightly from snowman visions and penetrate reality with protruding eyes.

I get together with the sun and follow my previous snow marks. I enter my room where I keep the treasure. There, other papers fly under my eyes. Words fuse on a paper. “I can not forgive you ... I hate that you have no power to say no, analyze your moods and feelings, you get lost in so many words and decisions.You are lost in your  foggy thoughts.”

As the old river flows, my eyes are filled with watery memories of those who were and now they’re not. As the old bridge articulates under the weight of the passers, my legs start to shake as I watch me old clique chanting on the other bank. And this moment will be washed away like everything that flows and strays. 

exist for

 the one who seeks happiness will

only find illusions of well

usually painted to feel

a common sense for

being alone.

standing in lines for what is real

in others' perceptions as if

your own exists as an exception

to the common riff.

and if you argue time

laws will oblige

your body to climb

and call off the search

the emphatic industries provide

fresh surrogates because

there is a clause

 behind the laughs and fortune kit

as money pays worldwide

 for one’s life permit.

confusing times

there are signs which reveal in time

and times call for undetermined patience with no great expectations

small steps bogged in society’s sludge

and societies judge the poor and the ill;

regulations sets morality’s fake standards

tangled up in a virtual reality where all can see the social drama

but no one acts.

hymns for lucifers sharply dressed and carrying suitcases,

hunting souls for cash to buy their women dresses;

the all good rulers adored for no reasons and elected every season.

and those signs fail to reveal

in what time?

if the distance is a bottomless hole

where there’s no sound from pouring time

and no profound effect on this strange ground.

nothing counts when time fails to reveal

from where it was dropped

and one’s mind might be stopped

in a rhyme with nature and feel the wind

that blows over the vineyards, a childhood addiction

to white and red grapes, to magical shapes touched by the sun

and fed by the rain

roots spread through the fresh soil and there is no harm

to the soul as long as you plant a tree or more

and stream some magical time

in a conflict free place

in your mind.

dazed

The questions generated by dazed thoughts have no value for all realities. ‘Cause all thoughts generate a self inflicted interview. And you’ll end up hiring different, suspicious personas which will act as you. These questions born from downfalls are useless when asked too late. That desired knowledge must be searched beforehand.  But we are just humans and we don’t know shit. We keep on hiring until when we truly think we found the one that should have got the job all along. For many it could be that the vacancy will remain open to the end. We don’t know shit. There is this powerful sorcerer which acts without our consent.  This guy is closely related to time and uncertainty. Time, time is what we need and we despise so much when the hill is too high. In the beginning, one’s measure is characterized by optimistic presumptions. Up the hill, feet start squealing and time stretches in every muscle and bone, minutes turned in hours.  And the road gets narrower as one tends to the top. Not all plans conclude with the desired situation. Keep on fighting they say, keep on banging your head to the door. No answers. Just these evanescent questions popped in dazed and confused heads, all lead to an unsatisfactory state full of disgust. If there’ll be a place with greenery and pace, a place of tranquility and contentedness, in a short time people will destroy it. We don’t know shit.  

liquid options

heavy clouds over the northern territory

the wind blows empty cans down a stream of pissed drunks

which turns left when the devilish morning light strikes their bloodied eyes

and again one has to climb a pile of bottles

in search for easy fluid options.

bodies anchored in a sole reality

another question flies the basket

Do monkeys stumble on life’s dimensionality?

let’s say the same wind blows

your sanity, no crime;

it’s just the dime one pays for all those

adventurous ways of experiencing with needles in the hay.

a brutal crowd shouts its vanity in the darkened streets

mornings are for peace and sleepless creators

could one survive in one dimension?  

with nothing but the simple acts, scenes of the normal

the lifeless mediocrity of the working man

in vain we plan sustainable developments of our domain

‘cause future kids have a inbred fear of nature

they stand for the new human generation

kill your dimension, kill your future

new paths will unfold and there’ll be no shame

in straying or praying to the green goddess

symbolic structures will serve for guidance

and one will no longer be a novice.

and where are we, when one takes it all back

All those options and all those strings,

It’s you that takes the blame!- the choir shouts in despair!

Down with the agitator clown, your nose is white and your skin is red

You’re on your way around the bend!

all our sins incensed with a smooth flagrance of fear

one must live 7 lives in one year, optimized spaces of truth

drained of lies our heads will grow invisible antennas

and then we’ll see the crossroad in a dead end of

monkey times

The hungry time bites on reality

With angry minutes devouring life

And hour drops of metal hit the ear        

The sound of rolling coins

Melt in the far away

Cigarette smoke makes it clear

And the banjo plays for a blossom May;

The drums announce an ancient rite

There’s no trust among those in the animal kingdom

A troubled life, fear glued to its master

In the northern morning chill when the guitar falls asleep

And the beer is stale, thrown out of the bar

 With the delusion and frustration of the early drunk

Another night, another reality

Swept away by a dizzy time

Induced insanity, called upon humanity

No answer

The sound of seagulls mating on the pier

Images of the past gushed from a fading memory

At last the monkey has collapsed under possibilities

Unexplored roads and bottomless holes

Too many half journeys through the luxuriant jungle
Left alone with one time, one banana tree

The monkey has to adapt to one possibility

Unless Jack and Jim won’t pair up with Hector

And influence the being of a poor primate

Unless the unholy world will unfold again

Creating crossroads of endless options;

Disturbing the animal kingdom

The monkey will try to fly again.