are
grateful to
him?
Tomaž Brejc said, what have you
been up to, youâre so refreshed, and weâre all rundown and
tired. Itâs true. I should have stood by Andraž back then
and trimmed his wings. Brothers canât sleep with each other.
TAVERNA
My bow of little rags doesnât symbolize
black ones. Bow of little rags?
âWhat do you mean by that?â Letâs say a
lasso, letâs say a net, that catches you and
makes you ask that question. As if you lit a smoke,
tunk, tunk, tunk, see how nicely it
burns. âThatâs cheap, dude,â
you donât need to invite anyone out to eat. Tak, tak,
yes, those are tiny little billfolds for communication.
A fishing pole for catching ones like you. Oops,
they fly off in the air and drop in the sea.
They smell of milk and of motherâs gel
and when you grow up, youâll also be a famous writer.
BREAKFAST WITH MY HOSTESS IN ALDEBOROUGH
A pig went to a trough,
ate three silent birches, and thatâs supposed to be kind?
It is. Itâs how we summon the muse
Â
on the farm. I eat the monkeyâs militias.
Kandahar is for appetite. In Moscow Vallejo
jumped into a fountain and burbled in the Neva, which heâd
Â
brought to Moscow to honor himself for the occasion.
No water, no life. My husband was vice governor
of Hong Kong, thatâs why weâre drawn there to this
Â
day. And whoâs sitting at the table?
Chris Reid! Thatâs right, Beletrinaâs slippers, here in
Aldeborough, just like the ones Peter has in Somerville,
Â
they hide them from me in Slovenia.
I wander the world and put on your
slippers, did you plan this?
Â
The ladyâs plan: to sail into St. Petersburg on her
yacht. She likes the way a city
opens itself to view from the sea. In Venice I met
Â
Arne. He had also sailed into Venice with his
boat. I only saw mine once Iâd
sold it and so managed to cling by my claws
Â
above the abyss of poverty. My helpers in that
were Arne and both Japec brothers and here I declare
my gratitude, and let this all be recorded.
Â
The boatâs name was Nike and it was a sleek
Jeanneau. My kids have sailed in it several
times, knowing nothing about its owner.
SKATERS
I have no idea, some seventeen colors will
flood me, seventeen lego blocks of lime, shots.
Just listen and you see the smoke, you donât see the smoke,
Â
the smoke is in your head (classic terra cotta)
the influence of my panna cotta for supper, I mean
you donât see the smoke, weâve been here and I wanted
Â
to mention the hunters, for lo their shooting (the Bible),
verily their shooting (the Bible) can be heard here
even now, while I type, and there really are too many, they
Â
pop constantly, destroying the gentle creatures from Renaissance
pictures (disegno), while we, my I (unsettled)
go out, dividing up into beaters,
Â
some of us following grandpa and then he fritters
it all (Brueghel), but back then I didnât know him,
what did I know, LoÄje, Å entvid on Pesnica,
Â
Å Äavnica, the terrace that supported a bull and how
you werenât allowed to eat a single
grape if it wasnât served with a cup of water.
Â
Where did all those fishponds go, they were flooded
for power plants and wigwams and ducks that swam around
the Peopleâs Park, all those clerics dining at
Â
liberal tables (they got everything back,
doppio
),
and Iâve gone nowhere, slid no place, just that
lime that brought it up. Gundula stayed on the
Â
surface, scarves flapped while we, whoosh, whoosh,
played on the frozen Rinza. That pheasant on Sovreâs
table wasnât shot in winter. Never.
PRADA, MONTEVARCHI, BEFORE CÃZANNE
Plunge into the Drava, braggart. Your dainty gooselike fingers
will describe the arcs of living bodies falling from the bridge.
He crunches on the gravel. He swims and swims, canât swim across.
His shorts were torn off by a branch, heâs bashful and